Once Upon the Matagamon

This article is from the archive of The New York Sun before the launch of its new website in 2022. The Sun has neither altered nor updated such articles but will seek to correct any errors, mis-categorizations or other problems introduced during transfer.

The New York Sun

Rock Memorabilia from Bus Huxley on Vimeo.

Whether it would be lunar, solar, or terrrestrial gravitation, let me say that I’m just not sure, but when those rocks start flying, a-catching I will go. Locally its known as sprundig, afar they call it magic. Or you could call this phantasmagorical phenomenon vimeologizing.

I am, therefore I imagine. I go for a walk. “What’s the worst that could happen?” I think as each footfall brings me closer. Bring gloves, I’ve heard. Igneous rock can tear up your hands, and igneous it is. Guessing this is the malarky I had supposed, I think nothing of a need to build a structure.

This is the Grand Lake Matagamon, not yet swoll up again with winter rains. Is it me? Where would have those stones flown? Do these things happen if no one is watching, does a tree’s collapse resound upon deaf ears? Cold. And I mean cold. Take 15 away from Zero and add 35 miles per hour of gale.

Time spent in the outfield as a youngster prepared me for the task at hand. No idea still as to why these rock fly. I do my part — some terrible feeling of obligation dictates each movement, from inception to completion. Unable to rest and watch, participation seems paramount. And the pile grows.


The New York Sun

© 2024 The New York Sun Company, LLC. All rights reserved.

Use of this site constitutes acceptance of our Terms of Use and Privacy Policy. The material on this site is protected by copyright law and may not be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, cached or otherwise used.

The New York Sun

Sign in or  Create a free account

or
By continuing you agree to our Privacy Policy and Terms of Use