Arrowhead




	WRITE 2 THE HEART Stories that are aimed "Write 2 the Heart" July 24, 2002 Cheryl Speir, Editor, moderator@write2theheart.com ----------------------------------------------------------- By subscription only! Welcome to your latest issue of "Write 2 the Heart" ------------------------------------------------------------ Do you have a heart-warming story to share? We are accepting story submissions at this time. Please e-mail your original story to moderator@write2theheart.com ------------------------------------------------------------- What wonderful memories Pamela shares. Her trophy is a wonderful reminder of summers past. Most of all, I see a father that gave the gift of time. ------------------------------------------------------------- Arrowhead Summer By Pamela Jenkins ------------------------------------------------------------- I grew up in a small town on the edge of Oklahoma's Lake Keystone. It is a popular place to visit in the summer months. Tourists and locals alike spend their days fishing, camping and water skiing. My brother and I were fortunate to be able to go to the shores of the lake all year round. We loved the names of the little coves -- Appalachia Bay, Cowskin Bay and Sandy Beach. We knew that the little community of New Prue was named so because the first settlement of Prue went underwater when the lake was built. Most of the time we went to the lake when our mother would get tired and need a rest. Dad would load us into the pickup on a Sunday afternoon, and we would drive to a quiet place where few people were seen. My brother and I would entertain ourselves by playing in the sand or chasing each other around the coves. Sometimes we would challenge each other to a game of skipping rocks on the water. Dad would spend the time walking slowly along the shoreline with his head bent down, occasionally kicking a loose rock over, looking deep in thought. I can still remember that summer day when we asked him, "Whatcha looking for, Dad?" "Arrowheads," he said. He pulled one out of his pocket and showed us the small, sharp stone resting in the palm of his hand. "The Indians used these to hunt with," he explained. He let both of us hold it, and test the sharpness of the point with our fingers. "When the water is down low, you can find them on the shore. The water washes the dirt away from them and leaves them laying where you can see them." Dad explained how the Indians would chip the flint rocks, a bit at a time, to form the arrowhead. It would then be tied on an arrow and use it to hunt small game like birds and rabbits. Very tiny ones were called bird points. Sometimes the native Americans would fashion a knife out of the stone and use it to scrape hides. Arrowheads were hard to find, and the spear points and scrapers were even more rare. Nothing would do then but my brother and I had to find our own arrowheads. We imitated our father's walk, kicking stones over and strolling along the shore. We were disappointed, though. We didn't find any arrowheads that day, or the next time out. Weeks went by, and we had yet to find anything that resembled a true arrowhead, although we studied rocks and stones and tried to imagine them tied to the end of a stick and used to hunt. Then came the day my brother found one. He danced around, excited at his discovery. He showed Dad, then me, and pointed out the exact place where he had found it laying on the shore near the lapping waves. I was even more determined than ever to find an arrowhead for myself. Still, they remained elusive. One hot day we walked a far distance along the beach, and then turned around to make our way back to the pickup. I was beginning to get discouraged. I had spent hours looking but hadn't found a thing. Almost back to our parking place, I saw something that looked promising. I bent down and touched it with my finger. I picked it up, hardly believing my luck. It was an arrowhead, all right. It was a faded grey color with streaks of darker rock running through it. And it was big! It was almost as big as my small hand. My brother's victory dance was nothing compared to the jig I performed as I showed the treasure to my family. It was the biggest arrowhead I had ever seen. What a find! Dad let me hold it until we got home, then he asked if he could put it away for safekeeping. He wrapped it carefully in a piece of felt and wrote my name on it. Then he put it on a shelf in his closet. I picked up a few more arrowheads in the years that followed, but nowhere near the amount that my father and brother found. They have beautiful, framed collections hanging on their walls, a testimony to all the hours of searching the shores of that lake. One day, as I was preparing to move away to college, my father brought that old arrowhead out and asked if I remembered the time I found it. Why, of course, I told him. How could I forget that summer and my first arrowhead? Then he laughed and told me the real story. He had watched me walking, head down, along the water's edge that day. He knew I was becoming tired and discouraged. So he cheated. Cheated? "Yes, I cheated. I walked a little ways ahead, and dropped that arrowhead. I watched you walk by it twice without seeing it, but you picked it up the third time I tossed it down in front of you." I turned the arrowhead over in my hands and studied the markings on it. The edges were finely shaped, and sharp enough to cut easily. There were no nicks or chips missing to mar its perfection. The size alone was enough to make it a prize worth treasuring. Anyone would have been proud to keep it for their own collection, and yet my father gave it away on that summer day just for a chance to see the excitement in my eyes. Today, that arrowhead is framed and hangs on the wall of my office. Each time I look up at it, I am reminded of that summer day long ago. The day Dad and I found an arrowhead, together. Pamela Jenkins ramblinrabbit @ juno.com (You are encouraged to write to the authors to let them know what you think of their story, just remember to remove the space before and after the @ symbol. The space is placed in the address to protect our writers from viruses.) Have a comment on today's story? Send it to: moderator@write2theheart.com ---------------------------------------------------------------- Pamela Jenkins lives in Oklahoma with Stanley, her husband of twenty-one years, and their four children. She is the office manager for her husband's veterinary practice and enjoys writing in her spare time. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Letters From Our Readers --------------------------------------------------------------- How wonderful that Rose has a friend that she can count on. Her story reminded me of my best friend. Whenever I think of her, I think about the friendship between David and Jonathon. No matter what happened, their loving friendship endured. Ours has been a lot like that. We can disagree and still be friends. We are always able to forgive one another. I think that is the secret of any relationship, to be able to forgive. And of course to step in and give a hand and sympathetic ear. Marie **** That was such a sweet story. Sue ------------------------------------------------------------ Cheryl's Corner We have discovered Jeremy's talent! That young man can grill a great steak! Makes my mouth water just thinking about it. He makes his own marinade out of whatever he can find in the refrigerator. The meat comes out tender and very tasty. Just the thought of it makes me want to start the charcoal. God Bless Cheryl ----------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------------------- © 2002 Write 2 the Heart Nothing may be reproduced or published without the written permission of the individual author or copyright owner. All rights belong to the authors. --------------------------------------------------------------- All subscriptions sent to your e-mail free of charge.