TRIBAL

I don’t care much for traditions, they may be alright if they do no harm but for the most part they just strengthen tribal bonds and the status quo. We (people) are tribal creatures, even if in the last two or three thousand years, civilization lets us individualize more and conform less. I love my own personal individuality but I don’t think the shift away from Greater Good serves our long range best interests; sort of like drug addiction. In spite of all that, my family is three generations into a ‘Nick Name’ tradition. Everything in our house, our animals, machines and inanimate objects; they had unique names, lots of nick names. Everybody has a pet name, every pet, vehicle, toy, even furniture has several unauthorized names. I have a house and a yard but the place goes by ‘The Woods’ in recognition of the trees I’ve planted. 

When I started telling story I needed a name. My given name is dreadfully forgettable so, mindful of my tree fixation, SycamroeStory has more class and is easy to remember. I am also a geology amateur; something about picking up stones, throwing them at first but eventually it enveloped the big one, the really big rock; 3rd rock from the sun. On canoe trips in South Missouri a friend kept picking up stones from gravel bars and stream beds, asking what they were. Chert is a stage in the transition of limestone that is very hard, fractures easily and comes in any number of colors. The streams we canoed had rocky sections where the stream bottoms were nothing but pieces of chert. So my answer was predictable. Rock samples were fractured and eroded into different shapes, different colors, she thought I was making fun of her but I wasn’t. She started calling me, “Chert man” or “Chert” for short. When I formalized my writings the name, Chert Journal was the name that stuck. 

In 2012 I started a blog that kept friends and family informed as to my travels and location. Naturally, it needed a name. Backstory: In the first grade, I went to a little, 3 room school in what is now Kansas City. But in 1945 it was in the countryside, on a short, tree lined, dead end road with several houses, a small factory and our school. We had two playgrounds, one for the little kids on the hillside behind the building and another for the big kids on a flat section at the bottom of the hill. At the far, low corner of the “Flats”, there was a big culvert under the road that serviced a small stream. Beyond the creek there was a wooded hillside and a house at the end of the street. The culvert was big enough for us to stoop and walk through but going in there was forbidden. We were not to go inside the culvert. At water’s edge it was 6 or 7 feet up to the road  with a guard railing above that. 

One day several big boys coaxed me down onto the Flats, ending up over by the culvert. We were throwing stones, trying to hit the power pole on the other side of the road. A stone about the size of a small lemon left my hand on a perfect arc but it disappeared beyond the guard rail. The sound of impact was followed by screeching brakes. A car that I hadn’t seen crossed the culvert at exactly the same moment my stone let fly, cracking its windshield. I got in trouble, was banned from The Flats for the next 3 years. My parents did not beat me or get overly angry, just wanted an explanation. I guess my story was acceptable, a precursor to many more to follow. I’m sure my mother was the cooler head and my dad did his cursing out of my earshot. How much it cost to replace the broken glass I never knew, never asked but the whole experience did nothing to curb my attraction to stones and the throwing thereof.

In 2008 I was in Seward, Alaska, interviewing for a Volunteer position at Kenai Fjord National Park for the next season. It was winter and the park was closed to the public. C.J. Rea was Dir. of Education, a pleasant, witty, wiry, thirtyish woman. After a casual introduction in her office she invited me to lunch. She lived only a few blocks away and had clam chowder in the crockpot. The interview was informal, sharing food across her kitchen counter. We had so many things in common I couldn’t fail if I tried. At one point she asked, did I know anyone who carries rocks around in their pockets. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a flat, black, heart shaped rock. She was Director of Education after all. Graywacke is a form of sandstone that has morphed into something else, on its transition to shale. It came from a beach on Fox Island, in Resurrection Bay (Seward, AK) that is loaded with heart shaped,  graywacke stones, just right to fit in your hand or your pocket. She pulled several other rocks from her pocket, each with its own story. All I could do was pay attention. The stones were awesome and she was cool. 

She was surprised when I stood up and begged pardon. She must have thought I needed to go to the necessary room. But I reached into my own pocket and pulled out a Petosky Stone, the state rock of Michigan. Petosky stones are the remnants of coral that grew in shallow seas some 350 million years ago. Tourists and locals alike spend hours upon hours sifting through the sand on Lake Michigan’s shores, looking for these little treasures. The hexagon shape matrix is special, not only for good luck but something spiritual for closet pagans. C.J. Rea and Frank talked a lot more about rocks and their travels than about National Parks or job descriptions.      

Back to the 2012 creation of my blog: it needed a name. The first thing that came to mind was the nature of kindred spirits, to C.J. and the rocks we carry in our pockets. Stones In The Road might suggest obstacles to be avoided but that would only appeal to someone who only cares about getting where they’re going. Every stone I turn over is like setting a bird free from its cage, like being there for the first story’s first breath.  This blog serves me like a hungry ear. Story is what separates us from all the other creatures, the only animal that combines experience and imagination, we use language to frame a narrative and a deep vocabulary to detail the story, for anybody who will listen, anyone who can read. I suppose one could think of our family nick-name thing and the stories that are stitched together there as a tradition. My family, all of them, they can tell story. You should hear what unfolds when they all gather ‘round their mother’s kitchen table. Maybe I should embrace that tribal tradition a little more and just let it feel good.