This holiday season, I’m making a puddingstone list. Won’t you join me?
There is a book called “Essays and Essay-Writing,” which is a collection of 78 charming opinion pieces, each written anonymously. The book was published in 1917 and is now in the public domain. Let me share the first paragraph of an unknown author’s piece called The Flavor of Things.
“When I was a little boy, I used to get a great deal of satisfaction out of stroking a kitten or a puppy, or crushing a lilac leaf-bud for its sprig of fragrance, or smelling newly turned soil, or tasting the sharp acid of a grape tendril, or feeling the green coolness of the skin of a frog. I could pore for long minutes over a lump of puddingstone, a bean seedling, a chrysalis, a knot in a joist in the attic.”
When I first read the essay, I paused on the word puddingstone, having no idea what it might be.
Turns out it is a type of rock formed when pebbles are embedded in fine-grained mud, and eventually—I’m talking billions of years—heat and pressure harden the mud into a natural, very tough cement. What you end up with is rock made up of smaller rocks glued together. This is known as conglomerate, but I prefer the more fun-sounding label, puddingstone. This type of rock is quite beautiful when cut and polished because of the mix of smaller stones it contains.
Why is conglomerate called puddingstone? Because the colorful smaller stones reminded people of Christmas pudding, a traditional Yuletide treat in England that has pieces of dried fruit in it.
Probably the most famous bit of puddingstone in Maine is a 20-foot high boulder called Haskell Rock that sits in the middle of the East Branch of the Penobscot River.
Life, it seems to me, can be a type of puddingstone. It is full of small, yet beautiful things that can delight our eyes and warm our souls, if only, like that unknown essayist, we make an effort to notice them.
Recently, I had to stop for several dozen ducks that were single-filing their way across a road. An oncoming car was also stopped and its driver and I shared a smile as we waited for the waddling parade to go by. Once the way was free, the other driver and I each gave a brief wave as we passed. Puddingstone.
One morning as I drove by Lake Pennesseewassee, the sky was pink. The lake, reflecting the sky, was a color I’d never seen before. Puddingstone.
A bird and I had a conversation. It whistled three times, so I whistled three times. It whistled back. I replied. This went on for over a minute. Puddingstone.
My granddaughter, who groans rather dramatically at dad jokes, made a joke of her own. There was a temptation to say, “If I had told that joke, you’d have groaned to high heaven.” Instead, I rewarded her with a laugh. Puddingstone.
This holiday season, I’m making a list.
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