We would harvest rocks about every July-and go all the way to Romulus, Mich., to do it, too. The ground there was rich with the product. Road trips to my grandfather's house were always long and cramped between two older sisters. It quickly got to a point where I just wanted to feel the road turn from pavement to the rumble of rubble. As soon as my father would make a left turn onto a gravel road, I would perk my head up from the depths of sibling solitary confinement and know my release was just a couple of minutes away. It's also when our blue, four-door Chevrolet Impala became a hard mineral combine, picking pebbles along the rural row. The plucking pinged the belly of our sedan relentlessly, and if there had been some kind of hopper system worked into the bottom frame of the car, I am sure we would have gathered enough aggregate to eventually start a business.
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