My Dad gave me a rock…

… and that changed everything for me

My father was a true craftsman. He taught me the fun in building things and the value of doing your best work.

Most of those lessons were taught in his workshop in our basement, or in the old shed out back. Those two very special places were the real-life classroom and laboratory where I learned the fine art of “tinkering.”

Dad had many gifts. One of which was an ability to see extraordinary properties in common objects. He would often challenge me by saying, “Let’s see what we can make with this.”

He also had a fascination with gadgets, tools and of course, toys. What big boy doesn’t?

He taught me to look at the world differently… to see common everyday things in a way that others do not.

His workbench was fashioned from an old postal “case” which had been used for sorting mail at the local post office. He left the slots and cubbies intact to keep his inventory of nails, screws and fasteners close at hand.

Together, he taught me that we could figure out how to “fix” most anything by finding just the right part form his stash.

Hidden among the hardware in various boxes, jars and containers of all sorts, were other treasures that he had scavenged and curated over the years.

Conspicuously on display, in an almost front and center location, he kept this yellowish, dusty river rock. Oddly, it was one of his prized possessions. He would show it to me from time to time, explaining how it reminded him of an old catcher’s mitt.

“Nobody, sees it but me… maybe I’ll paint it someday. See that mound in the middle? I’ll paint that like it’s the ball. Do you see it?”

To be honest, I had to stretch my imagination a bit. A lot. Even with a six-year old’s imagination. But I told him, “Yeah, I guess.”

It resided on that same shelf in his workshop for years. I’d always see it there whenever I was working on a project or pretending to be MacGyver trying to rig something up.

But over time, the image gradually became clearer to me. Very clear, in fact.

Dad has passed on now… one day, my sisters and I were doing the necessary task of going through his treasures. My sister turns to me, rock in hand, asking “What’s this?”

That… is imagination.

That rock is now on a special shelf in the room where I write.

To this day, I credit the story of a rock and a baseball mitt in my father’s eye as the beginning of an imagination unlocked… and permission granted… to see what others may not.