Erma Bombeck Writing Competition - Winners
2003
Erma Bombeck Writing Competition
2nd Place - Human Interest Category
Margaret A. Frey
Knoxville, Tennessee
"Skipping Stones"
| Pop taught me the fine art of skipping stones when I was six years old. We crouched along the edge of the Delaware River fingering the best ones—the flat, smooth specimens from Red Devil Harbor. Pale in color, Red Devil pebbles had a gloss and shimmer and certain heft. “All in the wrist, kiddo. Like a firm handshake,” Pop said. It goes like this: a good skip is three jumps with four or five skims better yet. You know a good release when the stone slides silky-smooth between your fingers. After balancing the stone between the second and third digits, you focus on posture: body parallel to the water, nose pointed the way the current runs. Flicking down river is a sure-bet direction, but an upstream toss is a wondrous feat. You lean at the waist, pivot a half step, and set your eye on a dream mark. Curl your hand inward, then snap the wrist—you’ll hear a click. Snap, flick, watch it rip! Sound is an issue. If the water gulps you’ve thrown way too high. A sideways sound means you’ve hit the right angle, no splash or splat, and that pebble’s sliced the water like a fine-edged knife. Childhood passes in a flash, but those early impressions remain deep. When Good Shepherd’s Hospital called, I knew where Pop was headed. He’d defied the Alzheimer’s lockdown ward and shuffled out the door with Houdini ease. No surprise for a lifetime master of the wiggle and slide. I trundled the kids and dog in the van and headed straight to the harbor. I told my oldest daughter to watch her brothers and then scrambled down the steep embankment. I walked the north beach and heard the throw, the soft swish of an artful toss. Pop said ancient warriors used stones in battle, shot them from slings with dead-on accuracy. He failed the ferocity quotient dressed in red-striped pajamas, but looked supremely contented—the way a man looks while perfecting a skill or discovering the place he was meant to be. The sun crouched low. I did not hurry but hunkered on the beach with my ear bent for the kids’ wild clamoring. I watched Pop skip stones while the light faded to blue-black shadow. He turned. With a broad smile, he gestured with his wrist. It’s a small thing, this art of skipping stones, with no practical use beyond simple mastery. It might be a forgotten skill handed down by woad-stained men charging ghost fields while slinging pale, magic pebbles through the twilight air. Or maybe a simple gift from one father to one daughter. Maybe. Maybe not. |