Kevin can see the creek in his mind’s eye to this day, although he had not even visited the farm since 1964. That would make it over 46 years, nearly half a century. And yet it was like yesterday. Memory plays tricks, that is for sure.
He can see Jimmy Wicks with the leather pouch that his old man gave him tied around his waist, walking along the creek bed choosing stones. Not just any old stone, mind you. They had to be chosen carefully for size, for weight and for shape. Jimmy made better choices than did he, Kevin freely acknowledged now. Kevin chose for colour. He liked the bright stones, and the mottled stones. And he wondered why Jimmy always won.
Jimmy, however, was motivated by the beauty of the trail of splash that the perfect stone left in its wake as it skidded across the still surface.