Next to the yellow house, on the edge of the old field there was a boulder. One side of it was almost twenty feet above the ground. Situated on a hill, the other side was six feet up.

I remember being five years old. The rock was covered with children. There must have been hundreds there. Or perhaps I’m misremembering.

I yearned to be able to be like the older boys on top of the rock with their long feathered hair blowing in the wind.

They were all smoking Players light cigarettes.

When would it be my turn to be up there, smoking Players light cigarettes?

I never found out. A couple of years later, they paved the old dirt road. The field where my grandfather grew vegetables was now a gravel pit.

And the rock?

It ended up almost buried in sand, leftovers from the gravel pit.

One night, after some ‘campfire amusements’ my cousin and I went out in search of the rock.

We found a thicket.

I found the edge of the pit.

We both fell, laughing and rolling down the hill through the bushes.

I woke up with a sore back and sand in every crack and crevice.

It’s like the old saying goes:

For those about to rock, we salute you.