The rocks pictured here are ‘happy’ rocks. They’ve had a pretty good life over the past billion or so years. Did some travelling, winding up on the beach at Charles Daley Park just west of St.Catharines. They sat there soaking up the sun for a millennium or so until I came along with Spot my bulldog when I picked them up and toted them home. There they sat in a warm room, catching the sun’s rays at certain times of the day, until the other day when they became canvases for three more fantastically fantastic SpotRockArt creations. They even look happier now.This rock, howev
er, has not had a happy life. Besides the trauma it went through during its evolution it has seen terrible things in these modern times. By far the worst it was witness to occurred on June 6, 1944, when Canadian infantry, tanks and artillery fought their way ashore on Juno Beach with the 3rd Canadian Division and our 2nd Armoured Brigade in their part in the liberation of France and North West Europe.What did this rock see? What could it tell us if it could talk? Did a boot worn from a young man from Winnipeg or Regina squash it further into the sand and stones? Did a lad wearing the kit of the Queen’s Own Rifles spill his blood on this rock? Or perhaps a tank from the Fort Gary Horse ran it over on its way to be destroyed by a German 88?
What did it hear? The screaming German shells coming in? The ensuing roar of the explosion? Our screaming shells ripping overhead? The ka-chunk, ka-chunk of the Lee-Enfield rifles? The stuttering of our Brens? The odd Sten gun? The cry of our wounded? The silence of our dead?
Did it see much of the carnage on that five mile strip of beach? Had it been churned over and over by German shells hitting the beach? Could it whisper the dying words of more than three hundred of our soldiers who didn’t make it through that fateful day?
My chum Jim McDonalds visited Juno Beach this past June 6; slipped the rock into his pocket and brought it to Canada; gave it to me. I am deeply moved.
I touch the rock. It is not a happy rock. It tells me a story. I will not paint this rock. It doesn’t need my help to tell its story.
What did it hear? The screaming German shells coming in? The ensuing roar of the explosion? Our screaming shells ripping overhead? The ka-chunk, ka-chunk of the Lee-Enfield rifles? The stuttering of our Brens? The odd Sten gun? The cry of our wounded? The silence of our dead?
Did it see much of the carnage on that five mile strip of beach? Had it been churned over and over by German shells hitting the beach? Could it whisper the dying words of more than three hundred of our soldiers who didn’t make it through that fateful day?
My chum Jim McDonalds visited Juno Beach this past June 6; slipped the rock into his pocket and brought it to Canada; gave it to me. I am deeply moved.
I touch the rock. It is not a happy rock. It tells me a story. I will not paint this rock. It doesn’t need my help to tell its story.
It spoke well, Jim. It spoke well.
ReplyDeleteRocks will tell us the stories. It is strange that something that is seen by most people in this world everyday is not given a second thought. There are places in this country that have rocks that are over 3.5 billion (thats BILLION) years old and that is pretty close to the time when magma, from the formation of this earth, cooled and became solid. Rocks will tell you stories and will happily be your friends. They make our 75+ yrs here seem insignificant and they beautify our lives with a myriad of designs and colour. ROCK ON!
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