You know, when we were growing up, a hundred years ago, there were not that many forms of entertainment. No telephone or Bluetooth, no Twitter or talking robots. We had only recently passed the dinosaurs.  For my brother and I, when we would get bored, something exciting for us would be to go visit this massive rock, about three miles down the county line. They called it the “Devil’s Chair.” I guess they called it that because the shape was so unusual: Sloped on the side of a hill, it looked like a bed an alien would sleep on. You’d think they would have changed the name, considering the risk of the evangelicals going fanatic and blowing it up with dynamite. But as far as I know of, it’s still here.  I guess we were spiritual, somehow, we had it in our DNA. Something about this rock was so serene and energizing and powerful. It just made you want to crawl on top of it and shut up. It took a little pilgrimage to get to it. We’d drive up the county road, turn onto a dirt road, and hop …