Skipping Stones, Not Generations

Yesterday, we headed up to Northern Virginia for an impromptu day visit to Grandma's.

Grandma still lives in the apartment that I grew up in; and while the DC metro area has continued to explode in both population and commerce, there are marvelously soothing aspects to revisiting the old hallowed haunts. Behind G'Ma's building runs a very thin creek -- and I mean very thin -- (is there a term between barely a rivulet and full-fledged creek?) From age 9 on, neighborhood kids and I would hang out and skip stones, look for fish and turtles, and occasionally fall in. Naturally, the teen years brought on "Truth or Dare" and other more "mature" creekside pasttimes. But I digress...

After an impressive afternoon cloudburst that we felt confident was the harbinger of a rainbow, we four headed past the basketball court (now hoopless), past the pool (now diving board-less), and past the rollerskating strips (now skaterless), to the creek.

The maintenance staff was cooking out on the creekside grill I'd never seen put to actual use in my 30+ years of memory. The water-infused creek was actually babbling in brook-like fashion; something I'd never heard in my 30+ years of memory. The sunlight poured through the overgrown but stunningly canopied archway of green foliage now enveloping the wee waterway, never before seen in my 30+ years of memory. We never found the rainbow, but we witnessed the promise. So maybe these were more boulders than skipping stones, but the heart was there...