Some would say I’ve been touched. I’m creative – a writer. Perhaps it was a light touch. Regardless, here I am to share about touching things, not people. Touching people is too complicated. 

I’m a keen toucher of things. This is why, when visiting the Kennedy Space Center, I couldn’t wait to touch the moon pebble. When I did, I realized I was accomplishing something incredible, touching the moon. Eventually, I heard a grunt behind me. I looked at my watch. Wow, does time fly when you’re touching the moon! As I looked back at the line-up of angry faces behind me, I thought of everything that they may have touched. Perhaps one of them has touched the Mona Lisa. That would explain her smile. Or, considering this bunch, her grimace. 

It’s not that far-fetched. I’ve touched “Water Lilies” by Monet. When I was a teenager, the paintings were shown at the Saint Louis Art Museum, and I was there waiting. Even as a teen, without a fully-formed frontal lobe, I had the foresight to touch it with the back of my oily, corrosive finger. 

I’ve been a fan of touching famous things for a long time. As a child, I lived in England, and I had a chance to walk through Anne Hathaway’s house, likely the home of Shakespeare. I remember dragging my snotty hand along the walls and finding a hole in the wall. I reached in and pulled out a tiny pebble. I plopped the pebble in my jacket pocket and kept it there for a long time. I’m a writer because of all those years rubbing the bard’s pebble. Eventually, it was lost in the wash (like most things from my childhood), tossed out in our garbage, and perhaps now serves as a piece of asphalt on Highway 44 in St. Louis. Locals call it “farty-far.”

But this isn’t about the pebble that got away. I’ve touched greater things than Shakespeare’s house. I’ve picked up larger pebbles, which plebeians call rocks. Like the one in the valley of Elah, Israel. The same valley where, thousands of years ago, King David picked up five smooth stones. Apparently, he only needed one as he sling-shotted his first smack between Goliath’s eyeballs.

I’m sure that my David pebble is the one. Not only does it groan when I hold it up to my ear, but doing a little logic, I realize that my chances are higher than winning the lottery or being struck by lightning. It’s why the lottery is so popular and why we scamper for cover every time there’s lightning within a 10-mile radius. We’ll all be rich soon, but soon, we’ll all be dead. 

My reach is far, and I’ve touched many great pebbles. The Rosetta Stone, known to the sophisticated as the Great Rosetta Pebble of Unusual Proportions, was housed in the British Museum. Seeing it at age five, I was disappointed at its lack of pocket-size-ability. But I was thrilled when I realized that all there was between me and touching the great pebble was an aluminum bar, which I was swinging on. Taking an arm off, I slapped it, leaving a boog on possibly the greatest archeological find in history. No boog deal. 

I speak of the Rosetta Stone in the past tense because the Great Rosetta Pebble of Unusual Proportions, which enabled people to unlock hieroglyphics, done got crushed up into asphalt and became an online language learning program. 

What’s with calling things online “platforms”? I’ve tried standing on Facebook, Instagram, and a bunch of others. They’re worthless. Particularly when I’m trying to touch something really cool, like a Lego off of Mickey’s head at Disney Springs. (Did you know they glue those on? You just can’t trust people anymore.)

Well, as touching as this has been, I’ve touched the keys on this MacBook a lot of times, and the novelty is wearing off. So I best be going … things to touch and all. Except asphalt. We live in Florida, and I’d like to keep my fingers, thank you very much.