These smooth rocks punctuate my childhood. They mean summer is here and we are close to the cottage. As we drove down the 401 the gray outcroppings let us know we were almost there. The turn off at Picadilly Road, then that one-lane cottage road with crazy curves and inclines so steep that you could not see over the hood of the car to the road below, and drivers would honk to warn oncoming vehicles.
From the cottage we would go through cow pastures, avoiding Nipper, the horse with a tendency to bite (who once bit our car and chipped the paint), cow pies, thistle plants, and Killdeer nests, and climb all over the huge smooth rocks that became castles or forts, boats or houses. Once, walking along the road with my parents, my aunt Irma and the local farm-dog named Bear, we thought we could hide below a cliff-like rock and trick the dog, who liked to run on ahead. We waited and waited, giggling at our clever hiding place, until we started wondering why the dog was not coming back to look for us. Finally we looked up and there sat Bear on the top of the rock, looking down at us wondering what we were doing.
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