A Man and His Rocks

Mistah is a lover of rocks.

I mean, who can blame him? Rocks are rock-solid. Rocks are rock stars. Rocks rock. Rocks rock on.

Rocks are solid like a rock.

You know who else loves rocks? And whom Mistah somehow shanghaied into coming over on Sunday to help him?

Louis.

Which is why when I looked up yesterday morning I saw a dumptruck full of rocks driving into our yard.

A dumptruck full of rocks is a whole lotta rocks.

Remember Louis, from our boulders?

I love our boulders.

And I love our new rocks, too.

We missed Jerry, though.

But we had Louie.

I also love a dump truck.

Heave Ho!

And  . . . Boom.

I rode my bike over to join the fellas for their second run . . .

. . . and our friend Tidge seemed quite delighted that somebody, finally, was getting the rocks out of her yard for her.

Those rocks have been in her yard, next to her newly-built and delightful rock wall, for approximately one million years.

Thumbs up is right, Tidgie.

We brought cans of Modelo because, for godssake people, we are a civilized bunch.

I call this one: "The Rocks, the Magnolia, the Fellas, and Me."

Back home during the second unload I got distracted by all the things that Sunday wanted me to do, but the second load got unloaded via wheelbarrow, weeds got pulled, beers got drunk, burritos got inhaled, Louis went home to his wife and his life, rain fell and fell and fell,  temperatures dropped, and we were left with . . .

. . . a man . . . 

. . . a happy man with a big pile of rocks.