Back in AZ. I remember going out on rock hunts with my parents. We would load up the truck bed with the perfect rocks. They had to be the right size, and it was always fun to find one that was different. The rocks were heavy and it would take most of a day to get enough for a load. I was proud that I helped get the rocks. I was happy to slip on huge gloves so I wouldn't get blisters. It was a lot of work. Then we would unload all of the rocks at home. We would pile them up in preparation for a wall. That wall was built, it wound its way around our home, adding character to our driveway. I remember helping dad place the rocks on the wet cement, and look back later and know which rocks I had placed. That rock wall was full of memories and pride for me. Even now when I drive by our old home, I admire that wall.
I knew this day would come, but a sadness goes along with it. From the day we moved into our home we have known we would have to tear down the wall that surrounded it. The rocks were crumbling loose, and caused quite a hazard to our kids. In the winter its gray made the house look more sterile and lifeless, and in the summer it blocked from view the flowers I so carefully planted. But even with that watching the wall come down has brought tears to my eyes. Its a landmark of sorts, the house with the rock wall. 100 year old sweat went into that wall. Someone loaded up those rocks and hauled them here. Someone wore gloves to protect their hands from blisters. Someone carefully placed each rock. Someone picked out the iron gate that hung there. Someone added character to the home that they loved. I'm sure it's been years since the builders have been by to admire their work, but I still feel the guilt of destroying someones hard work and efforts.