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Final Tumbler Batch Reaches High-Gloss Finish; Collector Rebrands Stones as 'Sentimental Objects' to Avoid Admitting Cost of Grit

The fourth stage is done; the arithmetic is not.

Perrin van der Velde 3 min read The Rockhound Register
Final Tumbler Batch Reaches High-Gloss Finish; Collector Rebrands Stones as 'Sentimental Objects' to Avoid Admitting Cost of Grit

Inez Fenn's Tumbler Log card for Batch 14 lists four grit stages, one polish, and, in a margin added sometime after the third week, the word "enough." The stones came off the final stage on Saturday with a gloss you could read a window in. The card does not list what the gloss cost. Cards rarely do.

The batch now lives in a shallow bowl on the hall table, which is where finished rocks go in this house to become furniture. Four of them are basalt from the same roadcut, indistinguishable now, distinguished instead by event: the one from the trip, the one the dog carried in, the one Harold dropped on the patio and we agreed to call weathered. Nobody has written a locality label since March. Fenn, who has logged every batch since 2021, admits the card runs out of columns before it runs out of things worth recording.

I asked what the batch cost, meaning grit. Fenn produced a jar of 60/90 silicon carbide, a second of aluminum oxide polish, and a figure she described as "consumable," which is the word the household has settled on for money that has left but not been spent. The jar is half gone. Half a jar is a bowl of stones, a lesson in arithmetic nobody in the room wanted.

Otis Vale, who has never run a tumbler and has strong views about the ones who have, furnished the position everyone now quotes: the standards board's valuation note treats grit as process material rather than acquisition, so home-finished specimens are recorded as labor and carry no specimen cost. The ruling dates to the 2019 minutes, which remain the single source anyone has produced. Fenn cites it the way people cite zoning law.

Harold Loomis, who lives with all of it, has taken a different line. He heard the tumbler through two batches, eleven days each, a murmur through the wall he compares to a refrigerator that resents you, and has arrived at the view that a stone polished at home is not a specimen but a sentence someone finished. He will tell you which bowl is which by sound when it was running. He declines to say what he paid for the quiet.

What the rebranding accomplishes is honest enough. Nobody in the house is claiming the basalt is rare. The claim is that the fourth stage happened, and the fourth stage took eleven days, and the bowl is now where keys are put down. A geological specimen is a thing with a source. A sentimental object is a thing with a date.

Fenn has started Batch 15. The margin on the new card already has a word in it. Under the hall table, one stone from Batch 14 stayed off the bowl, plain, slightly warm to hold, no locality anyone can name. It gets picked up when someone is on the phone. It is the only rock in the house that nobody has finished.

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