Fools Gold

Fools Gold by Charles Coleman

         My father was a mining engineer who, in the early 1930s, mapped part of Northern Rhodesia geologically. This was long before I was born, but I grew up hearing tales of his adventures in the wilds of the Dark Continent. Back in Canada I would tag along as a youngster to tap on rocks during prospecting expeditions. We traveled to various spots in northern Ontario and the Yukon, always focused on rocks. I didn’t find rocks interesting in the slightest and it produces a pang of guilt to write this even now, after more than fifty years have elapsed. My attention was on the living things, the butterflies, the birds, snails, beetles and even worms. Even worms. When I eventually finished my PhD, my thesis topic concerned a worm. But rocks left me cold, and I felt guilt. My father was never concerned in any obvious way by my lack of devotion to these inanimate lumps, but I was sure he must be hurting inside.

          One afternoon, during the long summer of a ten-year-old, I decided to do some mining. Partly perhaps to please my father, and partly because once started I discovered it was rather fun, I chipped away all afternoon. I had discovered the first stone that actually held my interest. Something glinted in the sun falling on a stone protruding from the rock wall running along the boundary of our property. Approaching, I discovered a treasure trove of large nuggets, perfect cubes of iron pyrite, iron sulfide, or fool’s gold. These brass-coloured little cubes were irresistible, and for the first time I could feel the tug of geology pulling gently at my sleeve. But it was a very gentle pull, and didn’t persist beyond that afternoon, while I chiseled and hammered, pried and extracted dozens of pieces of fool’s gold from the rock. I placed them in a bottle, pretending it was real treasure, and somehow that jar of nuggets has survived. It sits on my library shelf amongst other bits and pieces that are tied by nostalgia to memory. I sometimes want to say, “Look dad, I’ve done quite well without rocks.” The accusing bottle stands there, representing my one short foray into my father’s passion.

        “When iron pyrite is pulverized it releases a characteristic odor,” said my dad, rolling one of my larger nuggets between his fingers. “Shall we hit one with a hammer and smell it?” We did, and such is that reptilian portion of our brain, that connects the sense of smell directly with emotion, that when I tried this again a moment ago, connections were instantly made, and I was there at our back door, prospector’s hammer in hand on a summer afternoon in 1952.