Once upon a time long ago, there lived a skinny, shy, and lonely little boy, eight or nine years old, who had not a single close friend. Every afternoon after school, he made the solitary half-hour walk to his family’s small row house at 68 Lemon Street in Uniontown, Pennsylvania.

That pathetic little boy was me. And this is the story of the curious friendships that suddenly brightened my world. It’s something I kept to myself in Cleveland after my family relocated.

Beginning in third grade, I decided to take my friendless situation in hand with a solution lying right under my feet. The moment I stepped out of St. John’s School, I would spot a rock — well, more of a large pebble, never very big — lying in the school driveway, risking being run over, or sitting all alone in the playground

See Full Page