Having spent years in Yosemite National Park, Parn came to a simple realization - not all of Yosemite's visitors are happy. Many visit during a time of personal crisis. From this, If Granite Could Speak was born. A collection of short stories, If Granite Could Speak chronicles the way people unravel the complexities of their lives while making a connection with public land. Follow a washed up base jumper, a newly divorced daughter, a budding influencer family, and more as they attempt to find themselves, and a parking spot, in their brief but impactful time in Yosemite National Park.

Lydia sneezed. She stood and tried to wipe her face, but the dust, now mixed with her sweat, created a grimy film across her skin. She was disgusting. She let out a long breath.

The attic's humid air clung to her. Her thin shirt pressed into her stomach. Her arms itched, her back hurt, and as she surveyed the shadowed space, she felt her stomach sink. She wasn't making any real progress.

She sniffed, blew the errant hair out of her eyes, and spotted small, leather bound book on the floor. It was only partially visible, as a cardboard box of her mother's swim trophies sat atop it. She bent, pulled it out, and left the attic.

Lydia plodded down the stairs, the smell of her grandparents home filling her nose. It was a mix between old wood, the constant mildew and rot that accompanied homes in the Deep South, and something else, something timeless, as if the 1950's were just a room away.

She made her way to the kitchen and took a pitcher of iced tea from the fridge. She poured herself a glass, washed her hands and face, and sat at the table.

She placed the little book in front of her. It looked old, but this house had been accumulating possessions since the late 1940's. It could have been bought last month and lost in the maw of the attic, or it could actually pre-date the house. A relic of her grandparents' lives that surfaced today.

She opened the book. The pages cracked, and she knew it wasn't something that had been errantly purchased within the last few years. This had history.

Faded script graced the journal's pages, time having sucked the black out of the ink. The first page was dated May 1st, 1951. Lydia stared at the hand writing for a while. Script was hard for her to read, but soon the letters fell into place, and she could make sense of the words.

Military released me today, thank the Lord. I didn't want to go across another ocean. Apparently, I am exempt from further Service, having done my time in the last war. Had I not been so damn 'important', as my commanding officers said, I wouldn't have been drafted (again). They sent me out here to pass on what I knew from the last go around. Once I was done they let me cut ties. They tried to play on my honor and patriotism to make me stay, but I've seen enough. Honor can only get you so far in this life.

I left McClellan this morning. I'm headed back to Birmingham. I bought a Ford Crestliner, last year's model. Rose is excited about it. I'll like to drive with her when I see her again.

I have several days of driving between here and Alabama. Honestly, I feel somewhat adrift. Returning from war, leaving the military life, going home to Rose, getting sucked back into the Air Corps, and now leaving once again... I think a few days of driving should do me some good. I feel like my feet are struggling to find a solid cloud to stand on. Perhaps the pavement beneath my wheels will fix that.

"Hey Honey."

Lydia looked up. Her mother stood before her, looking as disheveled as Lydia felt.

"You look hot," Lydia said. "There's tea in the fridge."