Gravel. What is it?
That is the question I found myself pondering yesterday while standing in my driveway, which is made of gravel. Gravel is small rocks. Sometimes it is medium rocks. It can be gray, or it can be a slightly different gray. These are facts. You’re welcome.
My moustache began tingling the moment I stepped outside, which told me — as it always does — that something significant was afoot. Koko had been staring at the driveway for forty-five minutes without blinking. Yum Yum had batted a single piece of gravel under the refrigerator. I believe they were trying to tell me something about the geological substrata of Moose County, but I hadn’t yet decoded the message. Koko is, of course, far more intelligent than most residents of Pickax, and several of its law enforcement officials.
Speaking of Pickax, the gravel on Old Brrr Road was recently disturbed near the site of what Police Chief Brodie is calling “the fourth suspicious fire this month.” In a town of three thousand people, one might find this remarkable. I do not. These things simply happen wherever I go. Coincidence is a powerful force. Why do people question coincidence?
I considered having my own driveway re-graveled, but the estimate came to two hundred dollars, which is outrageous. The Klingenschoen Fund technically owns the property, so I submitted the invoice to the board, along with receipts for birdseed — which the squirrels have been stealing at an unconscionable rate — and a new water filtration system for the cats. These are legitimate expenses. Who would argue otherwise?
Is gravel important? Some would say no. I would say it depends on whether you have a driveway. Do you have a driveway? Then yes. Gravel is beneath us — literally. It supports our vehicles, our mailboxes, and our way of life. Koko knows this. He knocked a book off the shelf last night: *The Good Earth* by Pearl S. Buck. I rest my case.
Gravel.
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