I would like to think that my storytelling muscles are in fine shape, but the more I do this daily story-workout, the more I find that there are all kinds of new ways to flex and strengthen. Tonight, my husband asked if I would like to take this pile of stuff to the lake — or would I kindly like to find another place for it that is not under his feet on the patio.
There you go. A story. Shaped from a pile of rocks and shells.
These are geodes from a creek down in the “forks” of Kentucky. You can see some are open and full of quartz. Those are the ones we took from the creek to the roadside and threw ’em on the hardtop to crack ’em open and see what’s inside. The other ones are waiting for another day to hatch. The whelks are from Wilmington Beach, North Carolina. These bleached bones remind me every day — that’s not covered in snow — of my tar-heel roots and of my baby brother’s proud accomplishments as a marine scientist. (The four Virginias combed the beach while we were there for his graduation.)
The gray stones are from our honeymoon in Petoskey, Michigan. They’re not “real” Petoskey Stones, but they are stones from Petoskey. And I love ’em.
Bits ‘n’ pieces make me really happy.
ginnygram 