Last week I

went to my favorite restaurant for lunch. I sat down at my usual table,

the in the front next to the large picture window and placed my order.

While waiting for the food to come, I looked out the window at the children

playing in the park across the street. Three boys about seven or eight

years old were playing tag, wrestling with each other and playing in the

dirt.

A smile must

have been on my face because when the waitress returned with my lunch,

she said, "You must have young children at home."

"No. My

son is fifteen now, long past the age of playing tag. The only rolling

around in the dirt he does now is when he plays football. I was just watching

those boys playing. They must be brothers."

"You're

right. Those are the Humber boys, but how did you know they were brothers?"

"Because

they play half the time and argue the rest, just like my three brothers

and I did when we were growing up. We would argue about everything, even

rocks."

I told her

that "back in the day," we did not need fancy playground equipment,

swings, monkey bars, or elaborate climbing sets to have fun. All we needed

were a sack of rocks the flatter the better.

She gave me

a funny look and asked me to explain.

About a hundred

feet behind the house I grew up in was a swamp. If you walked around to

the right, there was a dirt path that led to the lake above. The lake

was actually a small neighborhood fishing pond. But to seven- and eight-year-olds,

the small pond was a huge lake.

During the

summer, if Mom couldn't find us in the backyard, she knew we were up at

the lake playing (if she wanted us, she would send The Sister to fetch

us). Big Brother James would always get the first turn to play on the

rope swing (We didn't call him Big Brother James for no reason). The swing

was tied to a huge limb of an oak tree on the banks of the lake. At the

end of the swing was a wooden disk the size of a hub cap that we sat on

while we swung out over the lake. If you wanted to get wet (or someone

double-dog-dared-ya), you would take the swing to the top of the bank,

run down the hill and swing out over the water standing on the disk and

jump off.

While we waited

for our turn, Twin Brother Mark, Brother Richard, and I skipped rocks

across the lake. We took a burlap sack and collected rocks at the north

end of the lake where a small creek flowed into it. The rocks in the creek

were always small, smooth and flat perfect for skipping. After collecting

a sack full, we would spend the rest of the day skipping rocks across

the lake.

Twin Brother

Mark and Brother Richard were always the best at skipping; I was the worst.

Every time Iíd try, my rocks would go skip-skip-kerplunk. Theirs

would skip ten or more time before the kerplunk. (To this day, I still

believe they gave me all the bad rocks.) We argued about who had the most

skips, who had the best rocks, whose turn it was on the rope swing, and

who would throw The Sister in when she came to fetch us.

While waiting

for our turns on the rope swing, we would catch bullfrogs and pick cat

tails. (Cat tails are a type of three-foot-tall reed grass that surrounds

most lakes. The top of the reed looks like a ten-inch brown cat's tail

- hence the name.) After picking them, we'd run around the lake and try

to hit each other with the cat tail. Upon contact with the skin, the cat

tail would explode and spread white sticky fuzz all over the unfortunate

sister er, person who got in its way. Thinking back, not many a summer's

day went by without cat tails exploding or the sound of skip-skip-kerplunk

up at the lake.

Last week,

Twin Brother Mark retired from 20 years in the Air Force. The ceremony

was held at a resort that had three lakes, each with a dirt road leading

up to it. The Boy and I took a walk after the event and started to skip

rocks across one of the lakes. All of his went skip-skip-kerplunk. (Least

he comes by it naturally.) I found one cat tail and The Boy made the mistake

of asking what it was white sticky fuzz went everywhere. Some things never

change.

Twin Brother

Mark's son will be eight years old next month, and I will not be buying

him a new bike, football, inline skates, or even that new go-cart. No.

This year I will send him a burlap sack of smooth river rocks just the

right size for skipping across lakes. I think his dad will remember what

to do with them. Happy eighth birthday, Christopher!

[Rick Ryckeley

is employed by the Fayette County Department of Fire and Emergency Services.

He can be reached at [email protected] .]