On Stones and Walls and Memories
I came upon this photo last week – stone garden walls in a misty rain. It brought to me to my childhood home, called Rock Springs, because of the rocks, I suppose. It also had a spring, but somehow that didn’t etch itself in my memory.
Rather, it was the granite, so much a part of Ellicott City, those stone walls, stone steps, rock gardens, that were such a part of my growing up.
Installed generations before we lived there, I took all for granted. Now I think of those who planned it, and, more so, those whose physical labor put it into place – a herculean task in the 1910s. And of the generations who enjoyed the fruits of that labor.
I left years ago, to be a city-dweller, I said, extolling the virtues of downtown living. Later, much later, Rock Springs was sold, too long after my mother could no longer take care of it, the house and grounds a sad dowager in need of a facelift and much tender loving care.
The family who bought it, in possession of a superabundance of earth-moving equipment, destroyed every wall they found. Who can say why?
And now, the property in more loving hands who seek to restore it. They found mountains of rocks piled high in the woods, those rocks that, over one hundred years ago, had been placed forever, or so it was thought.
I sent drawings, and best wishes that Rock Springs be loved as it once was.