A guidebook to pine trees, a school bus, and a painted rock

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month's prompt is to write about a guidebook to pine trees, a school bus, and a painted rock.

Today's tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series.

 A guidebook to pine trees, a school bus, and a painted rock

 by Val Muller

We got off the bus to organized chaos. Piles of rocks were visible at the far side of the field, their red-and-blue or green-and-yellow hateful slogans illegible from the yellow school bus but still very present there in the sun. Near them, a vat of white paint. Only the adults, parents and troop leaders, would be dousing the hateful rocks in paint.

At the far end of the field, the press: cameras craving a look. Between the two, scouts and their friends gathering for the event. Some wore their uniforms and others wore white shirts, ready to be splotched in paint.

All along the field, troop leaders were setting up tables and paints, paintbrushes and reference photos. I led our small entourage to our troop's table, then opened the guide to pine trees. That was our theme. Pine trees in sunlight, pine trees in silhouette, pine trees blue in the light of the moon, and on the back of each rock a message of hope--a word, a phrase, something uplifting.

A man with a wheelbarrow stopped at our table with the first load of white painted rocks. "All dried and ready to go," he said. Each member of our troop came around from the table to choose three rocks to start out. All day the man would bring us white rocks from the pile. All day we would cover them in colors. At the end, we would package them up for distribution to whoever needed a smile.

Little Lilly was with us. Too young for scouts but old enough to participate. She attempted a pine tree, but it came out more like a smudge.

"Mom, she's ruining it," Allison said, frowning.

I looked down at Lilly's messy rock.

"Let that one dry," I said. "That can be the first layer. Lilly, we can paint over it again, but put less paint on the brush for the next one."

Lilly reached for another rock. "This one's already been painted," she said, pointing to some words that were starting to bleed through the white paint.

I reached for the rock, but Allison snatched it and studied it. "Mom, what's a--"

She started to read one of the hateful words bleeding through the white paint, but I snatched it from her hand.

"Nevermind," I said.

The national news was ridiculous, elevating even local politics to the divisive partisanship that had become our nation. The "Rock War," as we had been dubbed, had also made the national spotlight, with journalists traveling to see all the hateful painted rocks true grown adults had left all over the front yard at City Hall, all over a small town scandal that should have been a small hiccup in local history, nothing more. But the more the news hyped it up, the more people traveled from afar with rocks of their own, supporting one side or the other. Soon, the fight between the mayor and the police chief had risen to national ranks.

Local and regional scout troops had pooled money to have a day of painting, turning the hate rocks into something positive. It was a joyful idea, but it was so hard to be positive with all that was going on in the world. 

"But Mom, what does it mean?" Allison asked.

"Nevermind," I repeated. "It's just means we need another coat. What do you think? Dark blue? Starry sky?"

"You're avoiding my question."

Both sides were avoiding dialogue by throwing hate. That's what it boiled down to, to people refusing to have a dialogue. Like the rocks at City Hall. A thousand pieces of hate. How do you explain that to a child while reinforcing their faith in humanity? 

We agreed on a night sky with the aurora borealis behind a row of pine silhouettes. Allison turned Lilly's green mess into a blue-green sky. The sun dried the paint quickly, and it was time to write a message on the back. But Allison's accusation still hung in the air. I worried about my parenting. I had told them a little of the conflict, of the different parties involved, of the hateful rhetoric being slung by both sides, but I didn't delve. Was I wrong? I wanted to protect their childhood, but would that come at a cost?

"What do we write on the back?" Allison asked. I had brought the pine reference book, but maybe I should have brought some inspirational quotes or something, too.

The press was starting to pack up now, and I watched one of the vans disappear into the drooping sun. In its place along the roadside was a group of people holding signs. I tensed, wondering which side they were and what they might say. Would I have to shield my kids?

"Look, Mom, those are for us," Allison said. She pulled Lilly a little closer to the fence. Lilly couldn't really read yet, and I tensed as Allison started to read the signs aloud. "Love. Peace. Talk."

Then I smiled.

Allison squinted to make out a word on a sign. "T-r-a-n-s-c-e-n-d," she spelled. "Mom, what does that mean?"

I picked up my brush and smiled at her, choosing a rock big enough to write it in bold capital letters. This word I could explain.

The Spot Writers:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/