old and new
A few of you know this though most of you don’t. I have kept another blog for more than a decade. It’s about my cabin in the woods plus the 80 acres around it and the lake below it. I call it Roundrock Journal, but don’t try to search for it; you’ll be disappointed. That blog uses WordPress software, but it is not hosted by WordPress. Keeping a blog for that long (on a server that maybe doesn’t have the best firewalls) apparently increases its chances of being targeted by evil doers. It’s been hacked a few times, but my crack technical team (daughter, son-in-law, and now grandson) have been able to get in the back door, clean out the malicious code, and restore the blog to its rightful glory. That is, until this last time.
Roundrock Journal is toast. The latest hack has been pernicious. Most of the time even I can’t get in. (Some have reported luck getting to the blog on their iPhones.) The team has put some effort into scrubbing the blog, but it’s apparently not enuf. (I first started using “enuf” on Roundrock Journal.) I’m told that the hundreds of thousands of words of text I’ve written there and the thousands of photos I’ve posted can (somehow) be captured and moved to a new blog that would be hosted by WordPress. This would cost a little money but nothing outrageous, especially if it meant I could avoid hackers better. However, the work to capture and move the substance of the old blog — for the first five years I made a post every single day — is a much bigger task than I want my crack technical team to undertake. Not only do I need this same team to drag my sorry self through the New York City Marathon in a few months, but they’ll also be the ones who will pick out my nursing home. So I’ve decided to retire Roundrock Journal. It had a good run, as they say, and this humble blog has long been in need of some diversity, so I can begin making Roundrock posts here. Everyone wins!
I call my 80 acres Roundrock, continuing a long tradition of people naming places. The reason I used that word is because the place is — literally — filled with round rocks. Behold:
I have collected perhaps a hundred of these round rocks. Hundreds more await. Kick away the leaves in certain parts of my forest, or stumble along the wet-weather stream that bisects my acres, and you can find them easily. The one in the photo is about the size of a grapefruit, which is their most common incarnation, but I’ve found some as small as golf balls and as large as basketballs. (There is a fragmented one on my neighbor’s land that is the size of a beach ball.) These are not rounded by rolling around in a stream. Roundrock is mostly ridgetop. Rather, they grew this way. Yes, the rocks grew into these nicely spherical shapes, just calling out for a human hand to hold them and put them in gardens and on book shelves and here and there. When I get the gumption, I’ll explain how they came to grow, but I’ll tell you now that it involved a meteor impact.
So Roundrock Journal is retired, but the stories about it will live on here. I hope you can tolerate them.
That preying mantis in the top photo greeted me when I spent the weekend at my cabin. It hung around for a while, but eventually it moved on to do whatever it is they do.