My Life as a Rock

A couple of weeks ago I shared a lesson on rocks and minerals at Farm Life School.  I emphasized that rocks never stop changing as long as they are in their natural surroundings.  They are subject to the forces of heat, cold, wind, rain, pressure, and so on.  I shared a story I wrote in 1991 that demonstrates events in the life of an imaginary rock.

My Life as a Rock



Dear Diary,

     I've been around a long time-- thousands of years, I guess.  But the last few years have been the most interesting of all.  Let me tell you about it from the beginning.  All I honestly remember is being really, really hot.  In a good way.  Then gradually cooling down.  And it was very, very dark.  The first few millenia were actually kind of boring, not much to tell.  I got pushed around by big, icy glaciers.  I've also rolled down a few mountainsides in my time.  And once, just for the sheer fun of it, I jumped straight off a cliff into the churning ocean waves.  Now that was a moving experience, let me tell you.  In just a week, I was already tired of being swept to and fro , pounded by those mighty waves.  But that was just tough.  It would be many more years before I finally got a good night's sleep again.  But finally, a high tide washed me so far up onto a beach that the reaching waves could never capture me again.  I didn't feel quite so rough around the edges after that.  And I felt cleaner than I'd ever felt before.

     So after getting over my dizziness, I thought I'd make the best of a bad situation and soak up some rays.  But after a few years of that I was no tanner than before.  However, I did have lots of time for thinking.  Thinking deep thoughts.  Like: "The sun rises.  The sun sets.  There is nothing new under the sun." I dreamed of the day rocks would write books.  I was full of ideas.

     Little did I know of the huge change my life was about to take.  I mean here I was, even older than Methuselah, and I thought I'd seen everything.  Then early one morning-- I hadn't even done my exercises yet-- when I felt myself being lifted up.  I was surrounded by the warm, firm touch of a man's large hand.  Well, that was different.  I mean, I had observed these strange creatures before, but I never really paid much attention to them.  I always thought of them as some kind of mutant palm trees that could walk.  But I never bothered them, and up until now, they hadn't seemed to notice me.

     Anyway, the next thing this guy did really took me by surprise.  He took this hammer thingy, and before I knew what hit me, whammo!  The character had split me in two!  I was furious.  And I had no super-glue.  What I did have was a headache supreme.  I was so steamed at this guy.  But as he held up my two halves in the early morning sunlight, I forgot my anger as I saw something I had never seen before-- and never could have seen before.  My insides were full of sparkly, glistening crystals.  So THAT'S what my guts look like, I thought.  I always thought I was a fine-looking specimen, but even I was impressed.

     The rest is history.  He brought me to his home and placed both my halves delicately in a padded case.  So this was what "the royal treatment" meant.  There were all kinds of beautiful rocks around me, but none just like me.  I was truly unique.  My life ever since that day has been a rock's dream.  All these nice friends, each with a story as compelling as mine.  And an owner who loves and appreciates me.  I've never felt prouder than when he takes to me to this place called a "school" and shows me off as the prize of his collection. 

     Best of all, with this life of leisure, I finally have a chance to be a writer.  So, my friends, if I have any advice for you, it would be: Have somebody take a hammer and crack you open; it could open up a whole new world for you!

    

Well, I hope you enjoyed this little tale.  For educators or parents, this is an example of how science and creative writing can be easily integrated.  As I typed the story today, I also did a lot of editing, particularly with word choice.  It was my practice as a teacher to write when my class wrote.  This communicated to them that writing was not just schoolwork or drudgery, but something I wanted to do.  How else would the ideas get out?  Over the years I collected a briefcase full of samples which I relied on for modeling to my students.

Many children in elementary school dread writing, especially formal assessments.  It takes every trick in the book to bring out the writer that can be in each child.  But it's not a trick if the topic is intrinsically interesting and the experience has come to be a positive one.  The icing on the cake for many students was to be allowed to read their product to the class (microphone and all) and receive the enthusiastic approval of their peers.  Teachers can't manufacture motivation that even compares to that.

In closing, here's a syllogism you might find useful:

What I think, I can say.

What I can say, I can write.

What I can write, I can read.