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 running after 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 used 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 his first arrowhead. 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 faded grey in 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!
My Dad let me hold it until we got home, then he asked if he could put it away
for safekeeping. He wrapped the arrowhead 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 knicks
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 hanging 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
bunnies-n-birds@juno.com
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