When I was a child my grandfather had a rock tumbler. It was a small, rotating drum similar to a clothes dryer. You put in some polishing agent, like jeweler’s rouge or grit, add a few rough stones, power it on, and wait. After an hour or so of listening to the clatter of the stones tumbling around the moving drum, you would open the door and find that the constant motion and abrasion had sanded away the rough edges, leaving your rocks smooth, and often exposing a beauty you hadn’t seen beneath the coarse exterior.
During a visit one summer day I decided to tumble some interesting rocks I had collected up on the farm, jagged chunks of varicolored granite the size of peach pits. I went out to the back porch and plugged in the tumbler, and did a pretty good job of following the instructions my grandfather had given me on its use. In went the grit, in went the rocks, and I flipped the switch to start the process of changing the plain stone into something smooth and interesting. I sat and waited, watched the birds in the backyard, poked the spiderwebs behind the old refrigerator, and was generally a bored pre-teen boy.
The tedium was broken when my mother called from inside the house: lunchtime. I ate a tuna sandwich and some potato chips and drank a root beer and then — bored by the adult conversation — wandered off into the bedroom to read comic books. At some point I went outside with my brother and we tried unsuccessfully to find something to do until supper.
At twilight we headed into the backyard to catch fireflies. Suddenly, I remembered the rock tumbler. It had been patiently rotating all day, bouncing my chunks of stone around, chipping the rough edges away. I rushed to the porch and switched it off, eager to see what was inside the unremarkable chunks of stone.
It was empty, save for the grit. I was furious that someone had stolen my rocks, and — predictably — accused my brother of having taken them. His denial seemed sincere, even after some judicious arm twisting. The arm-twisting attracted the adults, too, so I had to explain what had happened.
My grandfather asked how long I’d left the rocks in the tumbler. Since this morning, I said, so they would be extra-smooth. He sighed, and opened the little door again. “Your rocks are in there,” he explained, “but you left them in too long. They were ground away to nothing. There’s nothing left but rock dust.”
I peered into the drum, hoping to recognize a fragment of the stones I’d tried to polish, but I couldn’t see anything beyond the fine black grit. My grandfather said something about finding me some new rocks to tumble tomorrow, but I wasn’t really paying attention; I had wanted those rocks, and now they were gone.
…
One year ago today I walked out of my corporate office for the final time; for twelve months I’ve endured the daily humiliations and disappointments and frustrations of unemployment. But as a result of all that grinding I’m now clearer in character, my strengths more noticeable, my skills more refined; I am truer to myself than I was a year ago, and for that alone I am grateful.
Still, I think of the rocks that vanished, and I wonder what will be left once the tumbling stops.
{ 2 comments }
I have a little rock tumbler (somewhere in storage, now). I used it to polish some rough and ugly quartz crystals – an experiment, ya know, since they weren’t good for anything else. I left them in for DAYS. They came out slightly rounded, fogged and in need of time on a polishing wheel I don’t own.
Granite has quartz in it. The quartz gives the rock strength. Just think of yourself as quartz.
Sherri is cool. I was out of work for a year, too. Don’t despair.