Gravel. What is it?
That is a question I have been pondering lately, and I believe the residents of Moose County deserve an answer. Gravel, for those who do not know, is small rocks. It is found on the ground. Sometimes it is found on driveways. My driveway, for instance, has gravel on it, and I can tell you from personal experience that it is not cheap. The Klingenschoen Fund covers the resurfacing of my driveway at the apple barn as a legitimate historic preservation expense, which my accountant assures me is perfectly standard and not worth investigating.
But what makes gravel so interesting?
I was considering this question yesterday morning when Koko leapt onto the windowsill and stared at the driveway for eleven unbroken minutes. Yum Yum joined him after six. Readers of this column will know that Koko possesses an intelligence that borders on the clairvoyant, so when he stares at gravel, I pay attention. My moustache began to tingle, which it has not done since last month when the antique dealer on Main Street was found bludgeoned in his shop — the fourteenth violent death in Pickax this year, which seems about average.
Who is stealing my gravel?
I have noticed the layer thinning near the east side of the barn. Squirrels, perhaps. Or deer. Or one of the many individuals who seem to take a peculiar interest in my property and my cats. I have told Polly Duncan repeatedly that someone is watching the barn, and she says I am being paranoid, but Polly does not have a moustache that tingles.
Gravel serves many purposes. It provides drainage. It makes a crunching sound when you walk on it. Is that not remarkable? I mentioned this to the barista at Lois’s Luncheonette, who did not charge me for my coffee because I am, after all, doing this community a considerable service by writing about such matters. Some might say gravel is mundane. Those people have never watched a Siamese cat contemplate it with an expression that suggests he knows something about the universe that you do not.
Gravel.
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