Plundering through a box, looking for a twistie-tie... |
Have you ever been looking for something and found "something" else, by mistake? Well, that is what happened to me this morning. As I was plundering through a box looking for a twisty-tie I came across an Indian arrowhead given to me by my late Uncle Ben. I was given this arrowhead when I was but a child on one of our families yearly vacations to Horse Cove, North Carolina. Every summer we would make the journey from east central Florida to the mountains of North Carolina. And every summer I would return to Florida with a cherished token of my visit to these ancient hills. Being young and full of energy made it very difficult to adjust to the laid-back ways of Horse Cove. One television station - on good days, no decent radio stations, and nobody under the age of fifty made things excessively boring to a youngster, like myself. Hours were spent walking the woods, exploring streams, picking blackberries, and rock hunting. "Gee, what a boring place", I thought to myself time and time again. The only real excitement there was was when the cows came passing through the yard on their way from the pasture to the barn and fish feeding time. My sister, God bless her, would hear the cow bells as the cows approached the house and scream herself hoarse. She would run upstairs as fast as greased lightning and slam the bedroom door. It was amazing that I never broke any ribs from laughing so hard. Right after supper Uncle Ben would take my sister and me to the fish ponds to feed the fish. I got to do most of the feeding, as my sister was too busy drenching herself trying to catch tadpoles. She would break the sound barrier running from domesticated bovines but would practically drown herself trying to catch slimy amphibians....go figure! Oh the joy it would bring to hear an approaching vehicle. The initial excitement of having visitors was very nearly overwhelming. But, alas, the excitement would eventually erode into dullness and it was back to the same old routine. Once or twice a week someone would make the trip into "town" for groceries or to pick up the mail. We kids would be practically hanging from the door handles on the car in anticipation of being told we could come along. Those brief excursions never seemed to last long enough however, and all too soon we would come back down the mountain to the Cove. As a youngster I "hated" going to Horse Cove. Sitting around listening to the stories about the "old days" was not my idea of excitement. But, for some odd reason, I sat and listened intently. And as I look back on it now, some thirty years later, maybe it wasn't so bad after all. Being awakened in the morning by rooster calls, or by cowbells, or by my grandmother churning butter in the kitchen...watching from safely inside the house while my Uncle Ben collected honey from the beehives and laughing as he did the "slapp dance" all the way back to the house...being trapped inside the house during four or five straight days of a foggy drizzle and having to invent things to do...yes, boring as a child but cherished as an adult. Thank you, Uncle Ben, for this soul-piercing arrowhead...now what was it I was looking for? |