Arrowhead to the Soul

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?