Rocks and Toes

Rocks and Toes

I always had an affinity towards throwing rocks as a child. Something about the combination of the availability of the rocks to throw, and the number of targets both moving and stationary that were available made it something that I would always end up doing on any boring summer day. Being that I have never been one to keep with tradition, I soon grew tired of merely throwing the rocks with my hands, and decided to try different ways to launch the driveway projectiles at my intended targets, or merely as far as I could get them to go.

Soon through extensive trial and error I grew quite adept at picking rocks up between my big toe and the pad of my foot and simultaneously kicking my foot while releasing the hold on the rock, therefore sending it flying forward at a sometimes alarming rate. Having spent some time teaching myself how to do this trick and having not hit anything of value with a rock yet I was quite confident in my ability to control my new skill and I was eager to show others what I could do.

One warm summer day on The Farm found the entirety of the male Blanchard population outside in the chute between the main barn and the jog track. My paternal grandparents were down visiting us from the county, and as it always happens and still continues to happen on sunny days in Thorndike, upon their first arrival my mother and grandmother moved into the house to chat while the boys went out to stand near the horse stalls and shoot the shit.

I'm told by many that my father has had the horse bug from an early age, and it appears this bug may have some dominant genealogical traits as my brother also seems to have developed the same illness. While my grandfather and I are no strangers to the equine world we both take a step back while in the presence of my father and brother; we let them argue and sometimes even agree about anything and everything that involves four legs, a tail, and a mane. As I grow older I have become better at dealing with taking a back seat in these discussions as I am out of my element, but as a youngster I had a hard time dealing with not having everyone's attention.

On this particular day, my father and brother were harnessing a horse to jog while my grandfather watched and I kicked at some dirt off to the side, wishing we could do something that my 10 year old self was interested in. With the horse fully harnessed my brother kicked his legs over the cross bar of the jog cart and made that signature sound that only he and my father seem to be able to make that spurs our horses to begin to mosey on their way toward the track. (I use the word mosey because believe there may be something about the water on The Farm that fosters a certain laziness into the majority of our horses, but that's a story for another time).

My grandfather and father walked behind Brian for about 30 yards and stopped as he and the horse picked up the pace as they headed for the jog path. Being completely disinterested in the proceedings of the afternoon thus far I only made it to the corner of the barn near the lamp post and watched from behind them as they paid all of their attention to the horse and my brother as they began their training trip. I was only able to feign interest in the horse and my brother going in circles for about a quarter of a mile or one go-round, and soon I began to look for other things to do that would better occupy my time.

Looking down at the ground I noticed that per usual I was shoeless, and that made it easy for me to start picking up rocks and throwing them a couple feet in front of me to pass the time. I lost all sense of where my grandfather and father were standing as I began to toss the rocks a little ways in front of myself. I was just happy that I had finally found something interesting to pass the time before I got to head inside and have whatever heavenly cuisine my grandmother had brought for lunch. If they were going to pay attention to the horse and my brother I could have my own fun, I thought to myself. I soon found that if I put the rock in between my big toe and my second toe as opposed to between my big toe and the bottom of my foot, I could effectively revolutionize the distance that I would be able to launch the rock. Excited at my discovery, I quickly went to work testing it out. The first one went a few feet like all the others I had been throwing and I was confident that it would work the same way mechanically as what I had been doing before. What I failed to recognize is that be increasing my hold on the rock I was increasing the chances that I wouldn't release it in time and it would go from being a throw of a few feet to a projectile that would fly a much further distance.

As soon as I let the second rock fly, I knew immediately that I had made a mistake. I was paralyzed by fear, unable to even say one word as the rock began to plummet towards my father's head. I hoped to god that it missed him, but of course the universe had a different plan for me. This was the universe providing for me the attention that I had wanted, even though if I could have a talk with the universe I'd love to ask it to not take that liberty again. The oblong, quarter sized rock promptly whacked my father in the back of his head, and I knew it was over for me. He grabbed his head and turned to see what had happened. Looking back I know he was probably hoping not to see me still standing there, and that somehow a bird had dropped something onto his head, but I also know he knew exactly who the culprit was. Having the unlucky combination of a lack of self-control and an over-active conscience, I couldn't make myself move until after he had seen me, and by then I knew it was too late. That is when I made my second mistake of the afternoon; I tried to run.

My father has and always will love me, so don't get the wrong impression from this story, but he was never shy to let my brother and I know that we had done wrong. I'm glad he didn't sugar coat my childhood. I look back now and see that I'm grateful that I wasn't raised like most of the insufferable brats I have had the pleasure of going to school with. That being said, I may have gotten two steps from where I had originally been standing when my father caught me, swiftly grabbing me by the ear. Now I do not know if someone has ever grabbed you by the ear, but trust me when I say that as a 10 year old, and even now that I'm twice as old, it is one of my least favorite feelings of all time. I would rank the time I got stung by a jellyfish as less painful than this, and that experience was no walk in the park. Not only was it physically excruciatingly painful but it only happened when I did something very wrong so it was a mixture of mental disappointment along with the physical punishment.

My father didn't say anything to me, and he didn't have to as I knew I had made a bad choice and now I had to live with it. That still didn't stop me from blubbering like any scolded 10 year old does, saying I was sorry as the tears began to well. He let me go a few steps from the house turned to return back to the barn. I took off like a shot for my room and my bed, the place I always went when I was upset as he called into the house to my mother that I was to stay inside.

A few hours later when everyone was inside and I was called from my room to come eat with everyone, I slinked up to the kitchen door frame to assess the situation. As a good amount of time had passed, and more importantly he was being fed, my father seemed to have cooled down and I quietly went in to accept my sandwich and keep as low a profile as possible.

Everyone was making amicable small talk while they ate, and I began to gain confidence as it seemed like the events of the last few hours were behind everyone.  Then my father looked up from his sandwich and simply asked, "What were you doing throwing rocks so close to us?" perfectly calm, taking another bite from his sandwich.

"I didn't mean to hit you I promise." I said back to him, hoping then that he didn't harbor a grudge. I know now that it wasn't a big deal but being a 10 year old it is hard to put things like that in perspective initially.

"Well I know that, but that wasn't a very good idea you know. How many times have I told you not to throw rocks" He said back to me, not scolding me anymore but trying to teach me a lesson calmly. He had indeed told me countless times not to throw rocks, so this wasn't new information to me.

"I didn't throw it though." I said back to him, mustering up all of my remaining courage.

"What do you mean you didn't throw it? What did your grandfather throw it?" He said with a chuckle, making my Grandpa smile.

"No, I kind of flicked it with my foot." I said.

"Say what now?" My father asked, forgetting about his sandwich for a moment as he gave me a puzzled look.

"I was putting rocks between my toes and throwing them and this one I gripped a bit too long and it went flying and accidentally hit you." I said to him, not expecting anyone to believe my story but sharing it anyways just in case I got lucky.

Almost immediately my grandfather started laughing his one of a kind laugh, which includes but is not limited to his face being scrunched up like he has just smelt a skunk while he sort of wheezes and laughs at the same time, tears sometimes streaming down his face. Soon my grandmother and the rest of my family followed suit and we were practically rolling on the floor of the kitchen as my grandfather asked through his laughter and ear to ear grin, "What are you a damn monkey?!"

When all was said and done, on that day learned two things that have helped me survive up to this day. First, true family members love you too much to ever stay mad at you for too long, no matter what you do. Second, and most important, If you're going to throw rocks with your feet, make sure you can use those same feet to out run anyone you may unintentionally hit.