A magnificent sunset, a perfect kiss, and a lot of rocks
After a day at Legoland, we start driving on the I-5 back to our hotel in San Juan Capistrano. My kids get hungry so we pull off the freeway in San Clemente and eat dinner at a taqueria (read about our unbelievably cheap and tasty meal in a past post). Afterward, we drive a few blocks to the San Clemente Pier that juts out from a white sandy beach lined with palm trees. It's the perfect Southern California setting.
The kids and I play a game of tag and then my son, Dante, notices the rocks on the beach. They're everywhere. He starts to collect them and then his sister, Paris, joins in. They create a big pile.
The sun starts to sink into the ocean. The sky is pink and orange. Photographers--their cameras carefully perched on tripods--are capturing a magnificent sunset. A group of teenagers drinking beers claps and hollers after the sun completely disappears. The sky darkens and I say to my kids, "It's time to go back to the hotel."
"What about our rocks?"
"Let's leave the rocks."
My kids aren't going to take no for an answer; they want to keep their new collection. We finally negotiate a deal that they can bring what they can carry. Paris and Dante stuff rocks into the pockets in their pants and jackets. My son's cords are weighted down past his bottom. They walk up a flight of stairs, all the way back to the car, and never complain once. They are determined to haul their rocks.
That night back at the hotel, the kids wash their rocks in the hotel sink. They scrub them with a toothbrush and the hotel shampoo. They are amazed by how the rocks turn a shiny black color when wet. They think this is because of magic.
The best part of this story occurs the next day when we are waiting for the train in San Juan Capistrano. We're taking Amtrak to San Diego. My daughter is toting her rocks around in a cloth bag and my son is still carrying them in his pants. (I insist on them carrying their own stuff.). Dante walks up to a bench where an older woman is sitting and starts to unload his rocks, placing them neatly next to her. The rocks keep coming and coming and the lady says, "My oh my, you have a lot of rocks." Dante, who loves to chitchat with people, tells this woman all about his stones and how he found them in "Clemente." He tells her how he washed them and how they turned shiny.
Then the lady opens up the rolling suitcase at her feet and it's full of rocks--and small bottles of paint and lots of brushes. She pulls out a rock and it's painted with a dragonfly. This woman is an artist and she paints rocks. My daughter breaks out her rocks and some markers and my kids begin decorating their stones with this woman who is probably in her early 70s.
As we're waiting for the train, we get to know this woman who paints rocks. She pet sits--watches people's dogs when they go away on vacation. She has a son who lives in San Francisco. She says that she didn't get to see him last year and her face becomes sorrowful. I begin to worry that she might be lonely. I worry that her son never visits her. I form a sad picture of her life in my mind--an old woman who walks through life alone pulling a heavy load of painted rocks.
The train comes and we say our goodbyes. On board we sit in front of an elderly couple. They're on their way to see their great-grandkids in San Diego. Dante strikes up a conversation with the couple and bonds with them. They get a kick out of his rolling Scooby-Doo suitcase shaped like a van. But Dante is more interested in showing them his rock collection that's spread out all over his seat. He reaches into his pocket and hands them a rock. "This is for you," he says. They laugh. The man says that he used to play with rocks as a kid.
The train stops in San Diego and Dante scrambles to collect his rocks. He stuffs them in his pockets, and his pants start sagging again. I continue to insist that he can only keep them if he carries them himself. We barely make it off the train.
We're dragging ourselves into the station, a gorgeous historic building that dates back to 1915. The kids are tired. They're hauling their own luggage--and rocks. Paris flops down onto the ground and screams "I can't do this!" And then I look over and there's that woman, the first one we met who paints rocks. An older man walks up to her and greets her. They start to kiss. A long kiss like you see in the movies. He grabs her rolling suitcase full of rocks from her, carries it for her, and they stroll off hand in hand.
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The kids and I play a game of tag and then my son, Dante, notices the rocks on the beach. They're everywhere. He starts to collect them and then his sister, Paris, joins in. They create a big pile. The sun starts to sink into the ocean. The sky is pink and orange. Photographers--their cameras carefully perched on tripods--are capturing a magnificent sunset. A group of teenagers drinking beers claps and hollers after the sun completely disappears. The sky darkens and I say to my kids, "It's time to go back to the hotel."
"What about our rocks?"
"Let's leave the rocks."
My kids aren't going to take no for an answer; they want to keep their new collection. We finally negotiate a deal that they can bring what they can carry. Paris and Dante stuff rocks into the pockets in their pants and jackets. My son's cords are weighted down past his bottom. They walk up a flight of stairs, all the way back to the car, and never complain once. They are determined to haul their rocks.
That night back at the hotel, the kids wash their rocks in the hotel sink. They scrub them with a toothbrush and the hotel shampoo. They are amazed by how the rocks turn a shiny black color when wet. They think this is because of magic.
The best part of this story occurs the next day when we are waiting for the train in San Juan Capistrano. We're taking Amtrak to San Diego. My daughter is toting her rocks around in a cloth bag and my son is still carrying them in his pants. (I insist on them carrying their own stuff.). Dante walks up to a bench where an older woman is sitting and starts to unload his rocks, placing them neatly next to her. The rocks keep coming and coming and the lady says, "My oh my, you have a lot of rocks." Dante, who loves to chitchat with people, tells this woman all about his stones and how he found them in "Clemente." He tells her how he washed them and how they turned shiny.
Then the lady opens up the rolling suitcase at her feet and it's full of rocks--and small bottles of paint and lots of brushes. She pulls out a rock and it's painted with a dragonfly. This woman is an artist and she paints rocks. My daughter breaks out her rocks and some markers and my kids begin decorating their stones with this woman who is probably in her early 70s.
As we're waiting for the train, we get to know this woman who paints rocks. She pet sits--watches people's dogs when they go away on vacation. She has a son who lives in San Francisco. She says that she didn't get to see him last year and her face becomes sorrowful. I begin to worry that she might be lonely. I worry that her son never visits her. I form a sad picture of her life in my mind--an old woman who walks through life alone pulling a heavy load of painted rocks.
The train comes and we say our goodbyes. On board we sit in front of an elderly couple. They're on their way to see their great-grandkids in San Diego. Dante strikes up a conversation with the couple and bonds with them. They get a kick out of his rolling Scooby-Doo suitcase shaped like a van. But Dante is more interested in showing them his rock collection that's spread out all over his seat. He reaches into his pocket and hands them a rock. "This is for you," he says. They laugh. The man says that he used to play with rocks as a kid.
The train stops in San Diego and Dante scrambles to collect his rocks. He stuffs them in his pockets, and his pants start sagging again. I continue to insist that he can only keep them if he carries them himself. We barely make it off the train.
We're dragging ourselves into the station, a gorgeous historic building that dates back to 1915. The kids are tired. They're hauling their own luggage--and rocks. Paris flops down onto the ground and screams "I can't do this!" And then I look over and there's that woman, the first one we met who paints rocks. An older man walks up to her and greets her. They start to kiss. A long kiss like you see in the movies. He grabs her rolling suitcase full of rocks from her, carries it for her, and they stroll off hand in hand.
