Skippin Stones
“I just shot a fiver” my friend said. “No you didn't” I replied. “It was only four”. “Was so” he said. “Was not” I repeated. And so it went as two young boys stood at the waters edge, skippin stones.
Time was not so precious then and hours could be lost in simple games with rules made up as you went along. You entertained yourself, limited only by the constraints of your own imagination. Some old wheels off of a cart and a few pieces of wood became a racer, hand powered of course. A piece of rope became a swing and inner tubes were prized.
It was a time when you did not buy your fun. Every neighborhood had one football, and between us we had a collection of baseballs, bats, and gloves. Pick up games were commonplace, springing up spontaneously, and yes, upset the wrong kid and he would take his ball and go home.
I thought of these things the other day while strolling along the shores of Crystal Lake near my home. From somewhere within the reaches of my memory, I heard a voice say “bet you can't shoot a fiver”. Not one to forsake a challenge, real or imagined, I stooped and picked up a few smooth and flattened stones, and proceeded to skim them across the water. Years vanished and for just a few moments I got lost in yesterday.
I'm sorry to say I did not shoot a fiver. In fact, the only thing I got was a sore arm, and, of course, the satisfaction of knowing that the kid in me was just fine.
Bob Quigley
October 7. 2011
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
