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 lived at the lake with my parents. Each winter the water would recede in preparation for spring rains. The power company had decided that it was better to open the dam and let the next lake down the chain deal with spring flooding.   In front of our house a large shoal would reveal itself. It reached out from the shore at the top corner of the cove and extended straight out a good 200 yards. Muddy, red clay covered in gravel sized rocks. A neighbor three doors down had a huge collection of arrowheads that the water would churn up from the sticky mud each year. He said that they were really easy to spot. They just stood out. 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, splucking my way to the plethora of arrowheads and Native American artifacts waiting to be discovered by me.   ...

It was crowded at Onie’s, the lakefront hamburger joint. This was a regular stop on our family boating excursions on the large lake we loved so much.  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 and private spots to anchor and 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 for as far back as I can remember 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.   I knew how to do a quick and neat tie-off on the dock’s cleats. Boat secured, we headed into the grill pronounced Oh-Nies. That’s a long I and accent on first syllable. Mom secured a table for us.   525 miles of shoreline and onl...