Our house was the last on the dirt road, so the morning school bus seemed to take forever to reach us. I was a junior in high school, but had wrecked our family car, so we waited. To pass the time my brother and I picked up a sharp rock or two and began to carve marble race tracks into the red, sandstone boulders on the side of the road. Marble races were just another way to pit ourselves against each other in a never-ending competition. We worked until our arms ached. After days on end, we eventually finished the track, so we shifted to leaving our mark by scratching our names into the crumbling faces.
My first masterpiece hung in there for a while. But by the time I came home from college, it had become so faint from the weathering of wind, ice, and blowing sand that you could barely see I had been there. So, I rummaged around in my dad’s shed for a better tool and took a screwdriver and hammer to the rock. In no time my name was etched bolder and deeper. I was satisfied that it was next to permanent.
In the years following our introduction to graffiti, our little sisters added their names. Once our fiancées became spouses, they were escorted down the lane from our house to “Thayne Rock” where their names were ceremoniously etched into place. Eventually dozens of grandkids came along and today we have to get creative to find room enough to record the great-grandkids.
We don’t boast about destination weddings in our family. Instead, our destination is home. When we gather at our childhood home, we make the trek to visit those rocks. If we don’t find a time to walk down there, we will at least slow our cars down on the way in or out of the lane, roll down the windows, and point out where our name is and when it was added to the monument. It has become a sacred space. Sadly, the house we built with our dad has reached the age where everything needs to be replaced. The fences need fixing and the sheds are leaning. But Thayne Rock remains a quiet, steady and loyal reminder that we belong.
– Tim Thayne
Tim Thayne is a marriage and family therapist, referred to as Dad by his five young adults and teens and as Pops by the grandkids. He pretends he’s still young by training wild mustangs and playing volleyball or corn hole with the young people in the neighborhood.