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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
There’s a large rock in my front yard, totally out of place, definitely out of scale. Years ago when new water lines were installed, the city began tearing up the roads. Boulders and smaller rocks, Huronian glacial deposits, could be seen all over our area, wrenched up by cranes, then left for pickup later by work crews.
I decided I’d like one.
“You sure?” the foreman checked before his men began to manoeuvre the huge rock toward our lot. “Once in place, you won’t be able to move it.”
But I was young and foolish, ignoring my husband, watching from the front porch, shaking his head and mouthing, “No! No!”
“Which angle d’you want?” the foreman shouted.
“This way – no that – " I dithered too long, great claws gripped the rock, swung it up, set it down in the middle of our lawn and the crew moved off.
Almost four-feet high, the rock was massive, covered in sludge.
I knew instantly I’d made a mistake. “Maybe if we shoved it over to the side, to the left?” I gestured to my husband and son, who’d come to investigate and stood laughing in disbelief.
“Mom, are you kidding? that’s solid granite – gotta weigh at least two tons.”
We walked around it and pushed against it, knowing it wouldn’t budge. Three sides were rough, with craggy indentations, the fourth side, possibly scraped bare in a landslide, rose to a small flat peak. Varying layers of pink, green and grey strata could be seen under the dirt glistening in the sunlight but it was not a pretty rock.
“It was sheer impulse,” I said. “What’re we going to do?”
“Run down, and see if the guys’ll come back while they’re still in the area,” my husband suggested, though he sounded dubious. “Or we could phone the city and request a pickup. They’d probably charge us but it might be worth it.” Husband and son eyed me.
“It’s fine. I’ll plant good old petunias around it. They’ll dress it up.” No more discussion. The rock was here to stay.
Soon it became home base for children’s street games, a meeting place when school was out, the topic of conversations as folk ambled past, “Must be a memorial … guess they couldn’t afford the plaque.”
In the autumn our daughter went out to sketch it for an art class, unperturbed by passersby, offering opinions on her artistic ability or questioning the choice of the rock, “an eyesore” on the street. “No, it’s not against the city bylaws,” she defended my decision, “We didn’t buy it. It was under our sidewalk, part of our property.”
Our son scraped off bits of shale for a science project. “Might as well make use of It before the city decides it has to go.”
When the snow arrived that first year, the rock came into its own, majestic in its white mantle.
People stopped to admire it, parents loitered, humouring their snowsuited tots who plunged into the soft mounds accumulating around the rock and clambered laboriously up to its peak, then slid down the icy fourth side, squealing with delight.
“What have I done?” I remember saying when I saw our front yard becoming a winter playground. “That’s not what I intended. But I like it.”
“We all like it,” said my husband. “It adds a sense of security,” said our daughter. “You mean stability,” said our son.
Over the years, shrubs have grown up around the rock, a Manitoba maple has established permanent residence behind it and colourful stones and pebbles, meticulously placed by tiny children at its base, have grown and solidified until they resemble a mosaic.
It’s become a rite of passage for all the two and three year olds on our street to climb what’s known as “Mt. Everest.” After botched early attempts, they persevere until bigger and braver they stand triumphant, balancing on the peak.
Taxi drivers and delivery men all know “the house with the rock.”
But now, my children are gone, off to study and make homes of their own, and my husband too is gone, quietly and peacefully one night, over his books.
“What are you going to do?” friends asked. “You can’t stay there alone, not in that big house. Not at your age.”
“I have the rock,” I answered, which made no sense to anyone.
Along with the surges of grief and loneliness came the pandemic. All was quiet without and within. Little traffic, no construction noises or planes overhead, no street hockey or hopscotch on the pavement or neighbours stopping to chat. No going to concerts or movies when “stay home’” was the order. Masked delivery people brought food orders, holding out bills without speaking, pointing to where I was to sign my name. No more cheery dinner parties for a 90 year old with most of her friends in retirement homes or up in the wild blue yonder.
But as restrictions eased, I heard children outside, their voices raised in noisy confrontation in front of my house.
Slipping out, unobserved, I saw several youngsters urging on a small boy, probably a new arrival on the street, who was attempting to climb the rock. He was having difficulty and those dancing around him shouted suggestions that he vehemently rejected. He slipped, fell down, brushed himself off and started up again, digging his tiny red sneakers into crevices until he reached the peak. Then, carefully raising himself upright, he stood erect, holding out his arms, and shouted, “Yes!” And they all cheered.
And I cheered too, knowing that, in spite of wars and floods, fires and famines, life goes on, changing and challenging but still beautiful and wondrous.
Corinne Langston lives in Toronto.
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