Rock and Roll

There are some things in life you can always count on. Take rocks for instance. A rock, unless disturbed, will stay in one spot. In the first century, Pubililus said that, “a rolling stone gathers no moss.” I have never kept up the chase of a rolling stone long enough to test that theory, but it does seem plausible, as I know the reverse to be true.

About twenty years ago I placed some large rocks along a fence line to keep some animals in and others out. A large rock, strategically placed, will thwart the efforts of most burrowing animals. However, the determined ones will keep their nose to the ground until their goal is reached and the fence is breached. As is often the case on our small farm things change, animals come and go, and a different corner of the farmyard becomes the new fenced-in area.

About a month ago we created what we thought to be a secure area for the chickens to cavort and cackle in the cool of the day. They could, whenever the mood suited them, walk freely from the barn and through a tunnel, much like a downtown Minneapolis skyway, but without the crowds and expensive parking. Once the chickens exited the confines of the tunnel they would be free to scratch at the ground and eat whatever was thrown to them, such as fresh cut grass or vegetables past their prime.

I used cattle panels to make the sides of the cage rigid and chicken wire to make them feel at home. The top was covered with plastic snow fence webbing to keep out the drifts and riff-raff. What I hadn’t counted on was an animal digging underneath the fence to gain the prize on the other side.

One night I decided to check on the barn and see how everyone was faring. As I approached I could see a black and white creature, fully illuminated by the barn light, digging by the fence. Getting closer I could see it was a skunk. Never one to interrupt another creature hard at work, I retreated to the house to procure a tool to persuade the skunk to cease and desist its efforts.

Before departing, the skunk did what skunks do. Fortunately, I had anticipated this and took up a position ninety degrees to the side of its rear. The powerful stench filled the air as I escorted the skunk through the darkness to the back of the property and over (not under) a fence, where I was certain coyotes would find nothing objectionable with a skunk.

The next day I talked over plans to secure the fence (again) with my wife.

I went back behind the barn to the big rocks I had put in place two decades ago. There they were, just as I had left them. The rocks, resigned to their fate, had settled in comfortably along the fence line. Weeds and grass had grown up around them; even the earth itself had begun to swallow them whole to reclaim them as its own.

I spent the better part of a Saturday digging them up and prying them loose from the soil that had enveloped them. Using the bucket of my tractor I transported them to their new home along the chicken pen and gave them a new purpose – keeping the varmints outs. After I had placed the last stationary stone I felt secure knowing that I could count on these rocks. They were not going anywhere; they would be there again when I needed them. Oh, to be like a rock, steadfast and dependable.