When my son heard we were selling our house and moving to a new neighborhood he insisted he wouldn’t leave without his “thinking” rock. Turns out his idea of home was a quiet place to sit in the backyard and I suspect he thought if we couldn’t lift the rock he wouldn’t have to move.
A broken wheelbarrow, two sore backs and a hand truck later the thinking rock is settled in our new yard. It’s good to be home.

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