This Thursday, after an urgent dental procedure in Wilmette, I drove north down Sheridan Road through the ravines. A good way to unwind. I was also craving some beach time before starting my work day and knew I'd find a nice spot somewhere along the way. But first I was in need of soft food, which I found in the form of matzoh ball soup at a Once Upon A Bagel in Highland Park. I called my friend Randy as I headed east from the deli. Randy’s folks live in Highland Park and whenever I’m there I think of him. He lives out West now, where the weather is warm. He also lived on Maui for many years. Smart guy. I had not seen him in ages until this past summer (though our phone and FaceTime hours have been copious for the past several years). We met at Froggy’s French Cafe in Highwood for a meal, the French doors wide open on that temperate night, and a man named Brian quietly strummed his guitar by the bar.
"Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end."
— Shakespeare, Sonnet 60
As we chatted on the phone on Thursday I mentioned I was near Fort Sheridan with a free hour and a half. He heartily recommended that I drive to the lakefront at the end of the Fort, which I did. I snaked along a twisty road lined with condos and homes with big wraparound porches. Eventually, a meadow appeared on a hill over the lake. Tall prairie grasses lit up by the sun swayed in the breeze.
I parked, then headed through a patch of woods, passed a cannon perched on an overlook, and found the little bit of lakefront I could get to. (Most of the beach is closed to public access). I found a tiny pebbly patch at the end of a drainage pipe that fed into the lake for runoff.
Although I was wearing leather boots and a peacoat, I could not resist, and scrambled down a narrow patch of sand towards the water’s edge. Granite, lava rocks, fossils, man made concrete, lake glass and other treasures intermingled. There were giant boulders, one replete with fish skulls and crinoid stems from times of yore when Lake Michigan was a shallow Silurian sea over 400 million years ago.
I could have stayed there all day with the loud waves lapping and the deep blue expanse, a welcome respite from screens, cities, towns, and people.
An olive colored stone really caught my eye. I lay on my belly on the fossil boulder and stretched as far as I could. I anchored myself and managed not to slide into the watery soup of pebbles upon which the olive rock gleamed. Once in my hands I got a closer look at the vibrant but matte green and noticed a circular nodule exposing green and red sparkles.
I had the good fortune of becoming a rock hound the week I wrote this piece in late October. For what’s better than a new hobby that involves fresh air? There’s already a new rock tumbler going 24/7 on my front porch, tossing stones for a four-week grinding and polishing process. My current rock hound friends identified the green find as basalt, with what might be amygdales tucked inside. If it’s a rock full of them it will be an amygdaloidal. A real beauty. It might even have peridot or epidote inside. I plan to keep it intact for now.
My round, jolly Grandma’s name was Olive. I visited her at Rosehill Cemetery recently and hung out with the bucks keeping her and my Grandpa Carl company. I feel even closer to her with my sturdy geological find nestled into my little cottage with me. A way to feel connected even though she’s gone. I’ll be gone one day too, and will be sure to pass special finds like this down to special people.
Today I’ll open up the tumbler, rinse off what's left, and place them into the next level of grit. I say what’s left because I did not realize it’s prudent to check the hardness of rocks before tumbling, lest you end up with nothing but a bucketful of sand.
An olive colored stone really caught my eye. I lay on my belly on the fossil boulder and stretched as far as I could. I anchored myself and managed not to slide into the watery soup of pebbles upon which the olive rock gleamed. Once in my hands I got a closer look at the vibrant but matte green and noticed a circular nodule exposing green and red sparkles.
I had the good fortune of becoming a rock hound the week I wrote this piece in late October. For what’s better than a new hobby that involves fresh air? There’s already a new rock tumbler going 24/7 on my front porch, tossing stones for a four-week grinding and polishing process. My current rock hound friends identified the green find as basalt, with what might be amygdales tucked inside. If it’s a rock full of them it will be an amygdaloidal. A real beauty. It might even have peridot or epidote inside. I plan to keep it intact for now.
My round, jolly Grandma’s name was Olive. I visited her at Rosehill Cemetery recently and hung out with the bucks keeping her and my Grandpa Carl company. I feel even closer to her with my sturdy geological find nestled into my little cottage with me. A way to feel connected even though she’s gone. I’ll be gone one day too, and will be sure to pass special finds like this down to special people.
Today I’ll open up the tumbler, rinse off what's left, and place them into the next level of grit. I say what’s left because I did not realize it’s prudent to check the hardness of rocks before tumbling, lest you end up with nothing but a bucketful of sand.
“Talk of mysteries! — Think of our life in nature, — daily to be shown matter, to come in contact with it, — rocks, trees, wind on our cheeks! The solid earth! the actual world! the common sense! Contact! Contact! Who are we? where are we?”
— Henry David Thoreau, Maine Woods