I first met Economic Recovery while walking along the edge of the dump near Bay Lake, Minnesota.  My grandma and I were there together, looking for arrowheads.  She was still young then, as grandma’s go, and seemed to scamper up and down the mounds of earth as easily as I did.  But I didn’t really see that then.  Back then, all I knew was that for some mysterious Indian reason, she would find arrowheads and I would not.  It’s hard for a boy to be bested by his grandma.

I tried to sneak off and find my own secret spot.  Some place that was fresh and full of arrowheads.  Some place that grandma hadn’t been, and that was when I spotted the other woman, walking right at me with huge, long steps.  She seemed to take no notice of the dump at all, and I thought she might actually not see me.  Maybe she’s lost, or blind, or both, I thought.  Maybe she wants to scare me off or thinks I’m just another piece of trash, thrown out for the crows to peck at.

The woman stopped directly in front of me, hands on her hips, and stared at me through icy blue eyes.  I liked her immediately.

“We’re looking for arrowheads,” I told the woman with childlike boldness.

“No you’re not.  You’re looking for me,” she replied.  She handed me an arrowhead, then slipped past me, walking away as quickly as she had come.  At the time, I had no idea who it was I had just met.  Her statement had been a curious one, no doubt, but I had my arrowhead and my curiosity soon disappeared.  Suddenly I felt worthy of my grandma, whose pockets, I knew, would be bulging with arrowheads by now.  I rushed off in search of her.

Summer at grandma’s meant being surrounded by old people, so naturally my arrowhead became my new best friend.  I would carry it around in my pocket, reaching down constantly to reassure myself it was still there.  I would take it out, making up games like The Last of the Mohicans.  I convinced a little girl to play spin the arrowhead, but all we did was take turns spinning it, not really knowing what else to do.  I would take it out and put it back and take it out so many times that the pocket wore out on my jeans.  I would show it to everyone, even if they’d already seen it a hundred times.  Sometimes I would pretend to cry and tell grandma that I’d lost it, and then watch them search all over the house.  I’d sometimes sneak out late at night, after everyone was asleep, and dance around in the moonlight with my arrowhead.  Once, a stray dog wandered up while I was dancing and sniffed my leg.  I held out the arrowhead and he licked it, which I knew was sure to be good luck.

My imagination rolled along so well that summer that I completely forgot about how I’d come to own such a fine arrowhead.  The strange and confusing woman was completely gone from my mind.  Instead of her, I would make myself the hero, the lover, the explorer and warrior and brave archeologist who unearthed the past and made all things possible.  The world revolved around me, and for one summer, I revolved around the arrowhead.

The summer passed quickly.  Grandma packed me up and put me on a bus and sent me flying into the next fifteen years.  I’m sure she hugged me many more times before she died, but for some reason, I only remember that one particular hug.  Maybe it was the arrowhead, sitting in my pocket, ready for its bus ride, that helped make everything so vivid.

But my fascination for arrowheads, like the memory of my grandma’s hugs, would fade over the years, and slowly be replaced by something else.  Arrowheads had been fun to search for because you didn’t see them everywhere.  They had been elusive and mysterious, something you kicked up in the dirt.  Fun for kids.

Money, on the other hand, was incredible.  I suddenly realized that money was all over the place, and just like arrowheads, you couldn’t seem to get your hands on enough of it.  I began to realize that wallets everywhere were filled with the stuff.  I eyed women’s purses and imagined the crisp, fresh bills.  I watched four ton, steel trucks pull up next to the bank, filled with money, and then sat amazed as armed men, whose only job it was to protect the money delivered the money into buildings filled with people whose only job was to count the money.  Banks seemed like churches, where someone who loved money might go to worship.  I started a savings account and pretended I was depositing my soul.  I became a regular at the local coin shop - Coins! Coins! Coins!  I could tell you how many dimes were minted in 1970 and the number of serrations on the edge of a quarter.  I would count dollar bills in my head to fall asleep at night, and then dream that God would come to me:

“How high can you count, my son?” he’s ask.  He’d take out his wallet and run his thumb through a stack of bills that, as far as I could tell,  stretched to eternity.

“All the way, God!” I’d shout.  “All the way!”  I’d wake up happy and refreshed, knowing that God obviously had big plans for me.