Rain Of Rocks

I know that in all good writing you need to make the reader feel like they are there. Give them sights and sounds and smells. I want to put you there with me as I tell this story - but I worry that putting you there with all the sights and smells and sounds might take a lot of words that would just muddle it up. So forgive me if I can't "put you there" and only just give you a glimpse.

We are all familiar with the sound of a bat hitting a ball. The crisp sound that is made when there is good contact. As an Indians fan, I am not as familiar with that sound as . . . say a Cardinals fan. But have you ever heard the sound of a bat hitting a rock. The sweet sound of the contact with a rock is far better than the sound of the ball. Maybe it is because when you are hitting a ball it is about hitting it out of the ball park, it is all about the ball. But with a rock it is about getting something out of yourself, it isn't about the rock at all. Talk to other rock hitters and they will tell you the same thing. It is about emotion rather than distance. It is about the sound of the rock, rather than the roar of the crowd. It is about the damage you cause that brings about some sense of healing. Ok, maybe it is about all of those things for just me and not other rock hitters, but just go with me on this. Today happened to be a rock hitting day. Don't ask me what constitutes a rock hitting day - maybe it was the week of tornadoes, maybe it was just that day based on the tilt of the earth on it's axis and how close it came to Pluto last week, who knows, it just was . . . "So be it." I watch as another rock hitter takes his turn. I listen to the crack of the bat and the rock, that moment when they make their destructive, yet healing union. I listen for the sound the rock makes as it flies through the air (I have heard some incredible noises in those flights), the impact on a tree or down into the creek. The temperature is perfect, the air has a slight breeze with the smell of wisteria. We are not bothered here when we hit rocks, people never hassle us. They usually laugh and start watching. Another crack, a good flight and a leafy finish by my fellow batter and it is my turn (I know it is my turn, because you have to end on a good note, and I can think of no better note to end on than that one). I hit a few, I miss a few, but it doesn't matter. I set myself up for another . . . good rock choice . . . nice stance. I toss it up and CRACK! The rest seemed to happen in slow motion. I made sweet contact, but instead of making a noise as it flew through the air it shattered into pieces, what came next was the most awesome 2 seconds. The main rock piece hit a tree splitting it again. Then the noise of rocks as they rained down from the sky. The pieces I made fell hitting leaves, branches, and the ground in the most beautiful symphony I have heard in a long time. I stood there for almost a minute just mesmerized by it - a smile bigger than any smile I have had on my face in a month came out. That is the way to end a rock hitting day.

I never said it would be a good story, but it does say something. I don't smile much anymore, but rock hitting makes me smile, that is why I keep doing it. Having chunks come out of my bat makes me happy. Knowing that in about a month I will have to buy a new bat because this one will no longer be usable makes me ecstatic. With each rock hit, each chunk taken out of the bat, I lose a bit of the hardness on my heart, the wall I have built around me, and the facade I have made to show others. You may think hitting rocks is juvenile, but for me it is more than that.