Insane Earthlings

Hope is strength. Hope is enduring. Hope handles the tough jobs. Cleaning out your deceased mother’s house. Comforting your father during your mother’s funeral. Hope survives struggles. Like losing a child. Hope thrives in the face of adversity. Like raising and caring for a disabled child. Hope is able to see that even people with damaged brains have beautiful souls and experience moments of pure joy. Hope is the first to call when a brother needs support or just a word of encouragement. Hope stands in the wings and cheers for the people she loves when they take the stage. Hope survives crashes and grueling years of rehab. Hope is a presence in your youth. Hope is there from the  moment you are born. Hope is strong and enduring. Hope is beautiful. Hope is love. Hope is my sister’s name.

I wasn’t very good at spotting arrowheads. I grew up on Lake Norman in North Carolina. Each winter the water was allowed to recede in preparation for spring rains.  During this time of year,  a large,shoal would reveal itself.  It reached out from the shore at the top corner of our cove and extended straight out about 200 yards. Not a sandy shoal like you see near the coast. This shoal was a mucky red clay. Thousands of mud coated rocks and stones covered nearly the entire expanse. My neighbor, Ricky, had a huge collection of arrowheads he had found along this seasonal peninsula of mud. The annual rise and fall of the lake water would churn up new relics every winter.  He said that they were really easy to spot. They just stood out, he said like a pronouncement. So, sporting rubber pull-over-your-shoes snow boots, I made my away along the shoreline to the mucky red sandbar (or claybar, in reality. But that doesn’t sound quite right). Spluck, spluck, spluckin...

It was crowded at Onie’s, the lakefront hamburger joint. This was a regular stop on our family boat outings on Lake Norman.  The lake boasted 525 miles of shoreline full of deep coves to explore.  Dad was always Captain. We would seek out glass surfaced coves for skiing or private spots to drop anchor and go for a swim.  We would beach the boat on sandy, wooded islands and spend time hanging out with other boating enthusiasts. Mom might pack a picnic, or we would head to Onie’s place. Dad had mastered the skill of smoothly docking the boat. My job, at age ten, was to jump out of the boat onto the dock and grab the handrail on the bow to make sure we stopped in just the right place.   Then I would quickly and neatly tie off the boat to the cleat. Boat secured, we headed into the grill pronounced Oh-Nies.  Mom secured a table for us.   A lake with  525 miles of shoreline and yet only two places you could dock your boat and eat!   ...