The trails got busy midafternoon at Starved Rock. It was 60 degrees and sunny on March 1. It was a perfect day. I smiled at a couple sitting on a bench watching three kids play. The oldest was balancing, heel-toe heel-toe with airplane arms, on the trunk of a fallen tree right next to the trail. As I passed, I heard a younger child ask with a sweet little voice, “Do you want to ride this rock?”
“Do you want to ride this rock? Why yes, I do!” I thought as I kept walking. Memories flooded me, memories of early spring days, memories of make-believe and playful notions in which one could get lost for hours. A rock could be a car to drive or an ambulance to ride in. It could be a castle to defend or a dragon slain. It could be a sacrificial altar or a stage. A rock could be a turtle or a wild stallion. Or a stove. A rock could be anything. It’s a toy provided by nature.
When I was growing up, there was always a field, a forest, a lake or a millpond close by. We were lucky, my brother and I. We were expected home for the next meal or by nightfall; otherwise, we were free. Free to climb trees, eat apples, gather nuts, bike, swim and boat. We were free to explore our world. What a gift our childhood was. I doubt children today have the luxury of playing in the woods freely. I applaud those parents along the trail. They sat patiently and let the kids be free. I respect the parents whose boys were running down the path with wooden swords too. I just stepped aside a bit, hoping I wasn’t their target.
I waded across a little stream to take this picture. I wasn’t ON the rock, just around it. As I returned to the trail, a guy ran toward me clomping and splashing. He was headed for the rock that illustrates this post. He jumped up on it and yelled, “Honey, take a picture of me!” His hiking partner did, as did I. I laughed. I laughed because I have proof that I am not the only adult that still wants to ride a rock.