I grew up on a rock farm. Every year I spent more hours than I can count out walking back and forth across fields, sifting through the dirt, filling my arms with loads of rocks, walking to the wagon and throwing them on, repeating the steps. Any rock bigger than a potato was wiggled out of the soil and stacked in the crook of my arm. When I had so many rocks in my arms that I could barely stand up, or hold them without dropping any, it was time to head over to the tractor bucket or wagon and unload them. Then turn around and harvest another armful. By the end of each day I was caked with rich brown earth, hair lightened by the sun, hands nicked with red cuts and scrapes, and sore from carrying heavy weight for hours on end. Not really a fashionable look for a young girl but it was life as I knew it.