Don and I in the back seat watched Dad lick rocks as he talked to the farmer about the weather. They finally got around to the reason we were there.  We’d heard from others in the rock club that there were great rocks on this guy’s land and if we asked and closed all gates the farmer would gladly gave us directions.

Everybody knows if you wet rocks you’ll see what they will look like when they’re polished. So like most all rock hounds, Dad licked and looked at many of the rocks that formed a loose wall around the farmer’s cottonwood tree.

Finally the guy talk was done and the directions given but as Dad was opening his car door the farmer said, “You know, all week my dog christens those rocks and every weekend you rock hounds come along and christen them too!”

The joy of licking rocks faded that day like jello sitting next to mashed potatoes on a Thanksgiving plate!  So when you see rock hounds in the desert thirsty but not drinking from their water bottles you’ll know they’ve probably learned not to lick prechristened rocks.  inancymauerman.com