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While researching gifts for Gabe before Christmas, I made a call to the rock guy to ask about a rock tumbler. Gabe had so loved his pile of rocks he unearthed at the mine this fall, I knew he would love to be able to polish some up. The rock guy told me he was all out of tumblers, but assured me he would get some in before February.

As Gabe’s birthday approached, I knew I needed to travel about an hour and a half to visit the rock guy. I had initially planned to drive there on a Saturday, but Dale was home unexpectedly during the week and thinking he could pick up the kids from school and I had no other commitments, I drove off for my day on the rocks.

It is an inevitable fact of my life that if I lecture my children for spilling milk, I will spill milk soon after. So, I should have expected after making fun of my friend for forgetting to meet me the day after we agreed to meet, I would forget a meeting soon after. It was written on the calendar, I had repeated reminders, but it went right out of my head the minute I decided to go see the rock guy.

Thus began my day of travel happenstance. The Virginia Department of Transportation was preparing for the coming snowstorm and was spraying the interstate with deicer. I was near the front of a large group of vehicles following the deicing crew. We all traveled along down the interstate at thirty miles an hour. It was a bit like being in a parade: we were forced to all drive the same speed and at the proper distance.

When the deicing crew finally exited, my drive time had increased by 30 minutes. I then had the opportunity to pay a toll. I was not expecting this opportunity as toll roads are not very common in Virginia. I thought the lane I was driving in was both EZ pass and cash. I was wrong and because the EZ pass and cash lanes were now separated by a concrete barrier, I could not get over to the cash lanes. I glared at the camera.

For the next set of toll booths, I got as far right as possible and apologized profusely to the lady for not paying my toll. She simply handed me an envelope marked “unpaid toll department.” Apparently, I am not the only one who has gotten on the wrong side of the barrier.

I blamed this parade driving and unpaid toll all on the GPS, of course. I had failed to map my route and took the chance that I could trust it. I knew that was a mistake. Not only did it take me on a toll road, but it forced me to take a left where taking a left was ill advised. I made it to the rock shop, but the GPS got an earful.

If only it had an ear and not just a mouth.

Entering the rock shop was like entering another world. There were piles of rocks and bric-a-brac everywhere. Cases and cases full of rocks and jewelry, piles and piles of boxes. “This is what it would look like if Gabe had a shop,” I thought. It was a mess with only a small path to walk through.

At least it had the path. Gabe’s room usually doesn’t and you enter at your foot’s peril. Tim Hawkins tells a joke that he knows what kids are doing when they are really quiet. “They are sharpening their legos,” he says. That is why it really hurts when you step on them.

I asked the rock guy about the rock tumbler and he told me which type of tumbler to buy, how many rocks to put in, how to salvage the grit, when to wear a mask, how to tell if rocks were hard enough to tumble, what areas of the country/world each rock came from, which boxes were best for display…

I then attempted to buy jewelry for my sister’s birthday present. He introduced me to his nephew making jewelry in the back, he showed me all the jewelry making parts, he pointed out necklaces/rings/bracelets, he then tried to convince me to let him show me how to make jewelry so I could make her something myself…

The dawning realization that he really did not want to sell me anything and that he loved his collection more than he wanted a sale came over me. When his nephew, who I think genuinely wanted to make money, handed me a box of earrings that he had made, I did not let them go back out of my hand.

The rock guy continued to show me other items in his collection, but I would not relent. I was determined to buy the rock tumbler, some bags of rocks, the grit, and the earrings. I ignored his entreaties to stay to learn how to make jewelry. I was in there for an hour and a half and was only allowed to leave when I promised to return with my son and show him the polished rocks.

So, Gabe has his rock tumbler tumbling in the basement. The rocks must tumble with four different grits, each for a week. In a month, he’ll have something to show.

If, while walking about, you happen upon an interesting rock, send it Gabe’s way. All you Minnesotans, while up on the North Shore, pick up a few agates for him.

Hopefully, if we have enough polished rocks when we return to the rock guy, and we agree to take the jewelry making class, he may relent and let me buy something else.