Ya’ll are awesome. You really are. You answer my questions and give me yarn tips and read my ramblings and make my socks. Generally speaking, you are a wise and helpful bunch. But some among you have recently caused me to have some grave concerns.
You seem unnaturally interested in the stick I dragged home from some far-flung beach. I have come to terms with my odd fascination with rocks and sticks. It’s a long-standing affliction. The trunk of The Boy’s car usually has a few finds rattling around it. I expect better from you though.
You’ve asked for pictures. Do you have any idea how hard it is to take a decent picture of a stick? Really, without some sort of atmospheric backdrop, pictures of sticks aren’t all that interesting. This was the best I could do. The whole thing is just under two feet long, and the main part is about 5 inches across. That arm sticks up about 8 inches. The rock at the end is bigger than a soda can. There are about a dozen little rocks wedged in various spots all over the stick.
Upon arriving home, the stick was treated to a lengthy bake in the oven (to kill any wood-eating critters that may have stowed away in his crevices). It now adorns one of the bookcases in my living room. I’m considering naming it the household mascot and judging all future visitors to the house by whether they are smitten with or horrified by the stick.
It has also been brought to my attention that the stick may not actually be a stick. It could be a root. I’m not at all sure how you tell a stick from a root. I also find the word stick ever so much more satisfying to say, so I’m going to continue to call it so, comfortable in the knowledge that I could be totally wrong.