Housecleaning

I've been doing a little reorgainizing lately, both of the literal and figurative sort, and I ran across a book from when I was a little kid. I don't remember it, but it was in amongst my old stuff, and the copyright date is just about right, so it must have been mine. I'm going to give it to Little Joe, my third or fourth cousin, depending on who's doing the counting.

Fish is Fish

At the edge of the woods there was a pond, and there a minnow and a tadpole swam among the weeds. They were inseparable friends.

One morning the tadpole discovered that duringthe night he had grown two little legs.

"Look" he said trumphantly. "Look, I am a frog!"

"Nonsense," said the monnow. "How could you be a frog if only last night you were a little fish, just like me!"

They argued and argued until finally the tadpole said, "Frogs are frogs and fish is fish and that's that!"

In the weeks that followed, the tadpole grew tiny front legs and his tail got smaller and smaller.

Then one fine day, a real frog now, he climbed out of the water and onto the grassy bank.

The minnow too had grown and had become a full-fledged fish. He often wondered where his four-footed friendhad gone. But days and weeks went by and the frog did not return.

Then one day, with a happy splash that shook the weeds, the frog jumped into the pond.

"Where have you been?" asked the fish excitedly.

"I have been about the world--hopping here and there," said the frog, "and I have seen extraordinary things."

Like what?" asked the fish.

"Birds," said the frog mysteriously. "Birds!" And he told the fish about the birds, who had wings, and two legs, and many, many colors.

As the frog talked, his friend saw the birds fly throguh his mind like large feathered fish.

"What else?" asked the fish impatiently.

Cows," said the frog. "Cows! They have four legs, horns, eat grass, and carry pink bags of milk."

"And people!" said the frog. "Men, women, children!" And he talked and talked until it was dark in the pond.

But the picture in the fish's mind was full of lights and colors and marvelous things and he couldn't sleep. Ah, if he could only jump about like his friend and see that wonderful world.

And so the days went by. The frog had gone and the fish just lay there dreaming about birds in flight, grazing cows, and those strange animals, all dressed up, that his friend called people.

One day he finally decided that come what may, he too must see them. And so with a mighty whack of the tail he jumped clear out of the water onto the bank.

He landed in the dry, warm grass and there he lay gasping for air, unable to breathe or to move. "help," he groaned feebly.

Luckily the frog, who had been hunting butterflies nearby, saw him and with all his strength pushed him back into the pond.

Still stunned, the fish floated about for an instant. Then he breathed deeply, letting the clean cool water run through his gills. Now he felt weightless again and with an ever-so-slight motion of the tail he could move to and fro, up and down, as before.

The sunrays reached down within the weeds and gently shifted patches of luminous color. This world was surely the most beautiful of all worlds. He smiled at his friend the frog, who sat watching him from a lily leaf. "You were right," he said. "Fish is fish."

When my aunt died, I wrote a short obiruary of sorts. I'm pretty sure that's all that got published. But at least she's getting a funeral, and hopefully a marker for her grave. I didn't write much of anything when my grandpa died. The situation was different--he wasn't young and full of vigor. He had suffered enough, and it was time, if not a little past, for the Angel of Death to collect.

His wife had stopped letting him run his own business and maintain his property. The golddigging bitch finally got to spend all his cash as his mental faculties slipped. I met him when he was in his mid-70s, and again when he was about to turn 80. He wasn't sharp as a tack, but pretty damn close. When she took away his project, his focus, Grandpa slipped away, too.

When she got tired of taking care of him at home, and failing in her efforts to "take care of him" once and for all, Grandpa's wife put him in a home for Alzheimer's patients. That cost far to much, and his alzheimer's medicine wasn't helping the bankroll, either. She had him moved around after that, and the medicine taken away as more and more of his memory went away. We visited him when he was in what we're told was his favorite home. They had a dog that reminded him of one he once had in the '50s. He only remembered some of his kids, and mixed up my dad with my uncle a few tiimes, but he remembered my mom some. He did a good enough job of at least acting like he remembered me. He told the same tired old stories that he always told when we'd go visit him. He ate a lot of cookies.

He seemed genuinely bothered by the fact that he couldn't tell who we were some of the time. He'd get lost in the middle of a story and ask us to remind him where he'd left off. He asked my dad to draw him a diagram showing who his kids were, who they married, and where they lived. That way, when someone called, he said, he'd be able to tell who it was and "talk to them properly." We visited his room at this home. It had pictures from the glory days in drawers, and a large photo of the whole clan, every single damn one of us, up on the wall.

That was a few years ago.

When we saw him this July, he had been moved around to different homes a few times. He was back in Manitou, at a hospice on Lois Lane. He looked an awful lot like I expected, but a terrible sort worse. I'd only known him as an old man, and now he looked even older, but that wasn't the issue. He was stiff, and facing the wall. There were no decorations or posters. No photos. The room had a closet, where all sorts of clothes that he seemed to enjoy had been brought out of closets all over the country and given to him by relatives. Most of his old friends are dead. His lawyer's headstone can be seen from the plot that's still technically reserved for him. Although he wasn't dead yet, when I saw Grandpa's body last, he had this most pathetic, God-awful look on his face. It was one of pain, in spite of morphine that would kill you or I. His jaw was open wider than anything I would have thought possible. We looked. We talked. We said goodbye.

Two days before, his son in law and daughter had come to visit. He hadn't seen his son in law in a long time, but he walked right up, called him by name, and used every ounce of strength he could muster to try and crush his hand, just like he always did. They talked. They left. They got a call two days later that Grandpa's wife had visited, and he'd slipped into a coma. They called us. We hauled ass back home from the Western Slope.

I may live in Denver, but as far as I'm concerned, "home" is about 90 miles south.

His daughter was with him when he died. She talked about each of his children, where they were, and said that they forgive him if there was anything outstanding still on the record between them. That they said he could rest now. He could be seen to calm down, to relax, and he died peacefully. She didn't mention that his youngest daughter was dead.

There was no money for a funeral. He had wanted to donate his body to science, and that was one wish his wife was eager to grant. The coroner had other ideas. Foul play was ruled out, but I doubt that it was a very thorough investigation. Eventually, someone found a university that would take his autopsied body.

His kids got together and wrote an obituary. Originally, it was going to be printed in the city paper in each town one of his kids lived in, but when it proved to be over $200 for just one paper, they settled for his hometown of 50 years. It was run with a photograph of Grandpa with all the trophies he won for customizing his Honda Goldwing.

Alfred H Dwyer
January 17, 1920-July 22, 2008

We would like to honor our father's life by sharing what many already know of him.

For over 40 years people respected the caliber of the work that Dad completed in the Pikes Peak Region. As owner of Dwyer Construction, he had the privilege to work with/on properties such as the Broadmoor Hotel, Alamo Hotel, and the Cliff House. We know that many of his projects were completed 'on a handshake' because of his professional integrity and quality. His tremendous engineering skill was demonstrated when he and our mother, Jean, bought and renovated the Manitou Spa during the 1960's.

His life's example taught us that hard work, commitment and respect for people of all backgrounds were the foundation of a person. He taught us to never give up learning and that “there is always more than one way to solve a problem”.

We will miss you very much!

David A Dwyer, Las Vegas, NV
Daniel B Dwyer, Denver, CO
James H Dwyer, Buena Vista, CO
Susan H Ayler, Colorado Springs, CO
Mary E Dwyer, living in our memories

Must... not... drool

In case I haven't mentioned it lately, Lucas is too damn sexy for his own good.

Whiskey Lullaby

She put him out like the burnin' end of a midnight cigarette

She broke his heart he spent his whole life tryin' to forget

We watched him drink his pain away a little at a time

But he never could get drunk enough to get her off his mind

Until the night

1st Chorus

He put that bottle to his head and pulled the trigger

And finally drank away her memory

Life is short but this time it was bigger

Than the strength he had to get up off his knees

We found him with his face down in the pillow

With a note that said I'll love her till I die

And when we buried him beneath the willow

The angels sang a whiskey lullaby

The rumors flew but nobody know how much she blamed herself

For years and years she tried to hide the whiskey on her breath

She finally drank her pain away a little at a time

But she never could get drunk enough to get him off her mind

Until the night

2nd Chorus

She put that bottle to her head and pulled the trigger

And finally drank away his memory

Life is short but this time it was bigger

Than the strength she had to get up off her knees

We found her with her face down in the pillow

Clinging to his picture for dear life

We laid her next to him beneath the willow

While the angels sang a whiskey lullaby.

Hopefully the last in a series of posts about this sort of thing

Isn't it interesting that the times you want drugs or alcohol the most are the times you need them least?

That unless you stay stone-cold sober, you'll never get out of whatever hole you've stepped into?
It's not how a man takes the good times that counts, not in the end. It's how he takes the bad times. Does he crawl into a bottle and drink the mortgage payment, or does he cut back on his own indulgence first, so the people he loves don't have to? Does he face the challenge, or does he ignore it, run away to the next one?

No matter how dark times get, they can always get darker. Things don't get better on their own. You have to make them get better. Whether it's unfair wages or a dead-end relationship, it's up to you to fix it. Sometimes that means getting out of the situation. Other times that means fixing the situation. Most of the time you just need to fix your own perspective. But it always means doing something.

Not everything you can do helps. You can grab a shovel and help your own gravediggers twice as easy as you can pull yourself up out of that grave. But you can't change anyone but you. That's all you really need, really. Nobody can make you think or feel or believe anything if you don't let them. If you aren't content with "almost" or "could have," if you are willing to try that much harder instead of just complaining, you can overcome anything. Even if the objective hazard is too great and death is certain, there is a certain dignity in facing your own death with integrity.

They talk about the spaces between the words
Like the pain only hides there.
The last thing she said,
Nobody heard.

We talk without end,
So the silence doesn't get us.
We talk of trifles and outrage and God,
But never what we need to say.

Then it seems like we can't talk
For fear we'll say the wrong thing.
That we'll ruin something we only imagine we had.

Fact is, we can.
We will.
Someone has to speak their mind
Before they lose it.

Throw it away really,
For you can't accidentally let go of your mind.
You leave it because you want to,
Just as people throw away relics that don't suit them.
If I'm the only one not scared
To say what has to be said,
So be it.

And I'd do it again.

I'd admit it eats me up.
That I nearly tore myself apart.
I'd cry when no-one was looking
And come up with a smile.

I'd raise a toast to the day before it's gone
And laugh at Misery himself.
He can take what he wants,
But he'll never get my soul.

The trick is to be glib,
To be wry and rude and uncanny.
You have to be yourself
Especially in those times it seems like you can't,
Because nobody else will.