My Dad, the Carver

Dad brought home a boulder that was almost the color of a ripe banana. He picked it up at the work site he was working on as a contracted electrician. Dad had found the boulder and asked if he could take it home and no one objected, so it sat in our yard near the garage. It was pretty but a solid color, not like most rocks or boulders that have veining or different colors that look like someone molded different materials together.

I had asked what kind of rock it was, and Dad didn’t seem to know. As we studied it, he poked around the boulder and some of the surface sloughed off.
“Hm, that’s weird.” Dad was puzzled, and that didn’t happen often.

“What do you think it is? It’s all one color and really doesn’t look like a rock.” I ran my fingers over it and more started to fall away.

“Don’t! I don’t want it to fall apart.” Dad was going to work it out. I could see the wheels turning in his mind. This rock or boulder was going to try him. But in the end, he’d prevail.

When he came home after his next shift, he brought another boulder. This one was like the first, but it had some deep brown flecks all over it and it was a lot smaller. When we studied both of the rocks together, dad ventured a guess.

“You know it looks like decomposed granite. Just like the driveway.” I looked over and it was the same color but the driveway was just like crumbled bread.

“How can that be the same as the driveway?”

“Well, I’ll see what happens with this smaller one.”

He took a hammer and taped the rock. Our eyes bugged out as the rock fell apart and seemed to dissolve into dust right in front of us.

“Well, it is decomposed granite.”

Dad picked up the bigger boulder and took it inside the garage to his workbench. With a grunt he hefted it onto the wood table top and rolled it around a bit. Nothing fell away and he smiled.

“What?” I asked.

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