Crack!

I’ve always been a fan of throwing stuff at other stuff. Not only does it sharpen one’s accuracy, a skill that admittedly hasn’t yet been useful in my life but which I’m certain eventually will, but it also gives one an immense feeling of satisfaction when the target is hit, along with a jolt of excitement if that target is something that can throw stuff back.

The best thing about throwing stuff at other stuff is the variation, as stuff can refer to so many things. For example:

rocks at wooden posts
rocks at trees
baseballs at a strike zone
rocks at brothers
apples at brothers
rocks at lakes
dodgeballs at nerds
rocks at other rocks
rocks at seagulls when you’re at the county landfill with your dad as a kid, although you never come close to hitting one (seagulls, not dads)

As you can see, rocks typically make up at least half of the “stuff at stuff” equation, and so it makes perfect sense that hitting rocks with sticks would also be right up my alley. Surprisingly enough, however, there was a stretch in my life when that wasn’t the case. I call it the “Lost Era”. Here's how it finally ended:

A few years ago my friend Lurch and I were killing a day in Michigan’s Keweenaw County. Although I can’t say for sure, I have a sneaking suspicion that this included playing H-O-R-S-E in Eagle Harbor, along with possibly a game or two of horseshoes, which are both standard activities for us. However, Lurch had something extra up his sleeve, and at some point he suggested we climb a rock pile near Phoenix and hit rocks off of it with a stick.

Hitting rocks with a stick was something that I hadn’t done in many, many years, and I was initially skeptical. It just didn’t strike me as being that fun. My guess is that at the time I was going through a dreaded maturity spurt, and the idea of regressing back to an activity practiced most heavily by eight-year old boys seemed completely counter to that. Basically, my argument boiled down to three words: That’s kid stuff!

However, I reluctantly agree, and we scaled the rock pile. Jeff set out and found the branch he’d left leaning against a tree the last time he was there. With that accomplished, he started tossing up rocks and hitting them.

Crack!
Crack!
Crack!

Waitaminute….It looked kinda fun.

Crack!
Crack!
Crack!

Soon enough, I was doing the same. It was wonderful. There was the satisfaction of connecting perfectly and seeing how far the rock would go before it disappeared into the trees below. There was the duel hearty guffawing when either of us swung mightily and failed to connect, nearly swinging ourselves out of our shoes. There were the Ernie Harwell imitations as we called our own homeruns: “And that one is looooonnngggg gone!! ”

And so I learned a lesson that day about keeping it simple, stupid. Or at least, the lesson was reinforced, and I realized that if you can’t enjoy hitting rocks with sticks, then you’ve definitely got to reexamine your priorities in life. So, from that point on, every time I’ve had the chance to hit rocks with sticks, I’ve taken advantage of it. For example, in Sedona, Arizona a few years ago:

And most recently this past weekend, where Lurch and I again found ourselves in Keweenaw County, and this time it was me who suggested we go back to the same rock pile. The results were the same. Crack! Crack! Crack! I was a few years older, but it was just as fun. Take that maturity spurts! I may have a job and an ID badge and a responsibility to attend boring meetings where nothing is accomplished, but you can’t take my spirit! (In fact, on the day I turn eighty, I’d like to go somewhere and hit rocks with sticks. The only problem will be if some of the cracks are my hips, but it’d still be worth it.)

This past Sunday I was walking to my car after church. I was parked near the very edge of the lot, and as I neared, I saw three boys, probably all about age eight. They were hitting rocks with sticks into the trees. I laughed and hoped that in twenty years they knew what I’ve come to know: You can’t always be immature, but you sure as heck don’t have to always be mature.