Hooked on a Hook

The sun was sinking as Teak, Hobo and I turned up a small wash. Within a few minutes our sandy path grew increasingly rocky and narrowed. Hobo, forever cautious, was beginning to doubt the brushy choice. I pushed on; I relished the challenge after hours at the computer. When I finally stopped and looked back, Teak and Hobo were ten yards behind, waiting for me to turn around. Time to give in. I pivoted. A piece of metal caught sun's final rays. A horseshoe? I reached and pulled a smooth, weather-hewn hook from the sand. It was old. Despite it's original hookn' yank  purpose, it possessed a soft, sculptured energy.




I almost tossed the rusted hook down, but I couldn't let go. I carried it home, all the while wondering about the riddle. A hook. Did it signify a hook for a story. No. Was it about hooking something in my life? Had I hooked something I shouldn't have? No and no. Pulleys. Rough'n tug. I mined the metaphors but nothing resonated. I put the hook aside and carried on.





I wasn't, however, the only one who wondered what it was about.

I'd forgotten about the hook when, a few days later, I picked up the phone. It had been over a month since I'd spoken to Jacqueline. We caught up over the next hour, covering subjects near and dear to our hearts. Our phone reunion was coming to a close when the subject turned to our tendency to overwork ourselves. For me, my nose-to-the-grindstone writing pace, most evident when I was finishing a book, which I was. We need to let up, I said, be more gracious with ourselves.

Yes, she replied, we need to play more hooky! 

That's IT! I screamed with delight; laughed as I related the tale of the hook.

Another burst of synchronicity hit the bullseye. I've since made out the worn word Durbin on the hook. It's an old manufacturing company. I doubt anyone associated with the company had a clue it would end up as a symbol for putting toil aside and kicking up my heels. It's now on my altar.

I'm taking hooky to heart.