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."
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
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.
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
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Hindsight is 20/20... and I DO feel like an ass
Let me introduce you to our driveway. Very-steep-and-wouldn't-meet-code, meet my readers. Readers, meet our driveway. It met code back in 1956, but I'm very confident it would not pass inspection were it built today. The street slopes down at about a 25-degree angle, and the level bit of the diveway is built about eight to ten vertical feet above the street. They meet at a weird angle, have a steep four-inch curb, then the driveway takes off at a varying angle in the neighborhood of 33 degrees. Then it levels out just in time to give ten feet of level before you risk going through the garage door. We tried parking a truck in the driveway once. The rear wheels hung onto the slope by about two inches. That's enough to send the truck off in the winter. That's why we don't have a truck.
Oh, no, the driveways in my neighbohood are not for sissies. Most people have some leeway for error, but all us folks have three options: right, try again, and propery damage. There is no almost.
So you can see my consternation when my dad loads good old just-got-my-learner's-permit-three-fucking-days-ago into the car, has me drive around the neighborhood a little (I've got that part down. Thank god it's not a stickshift, or I'd still be trying to get up the hill). No problem yet. I ask if I can try parking in the driveway (do or do not, there is no try), and he says sure. Halfway up the block we live on (and I do mean UP), he shows no signs of intending to explain how, or even of paying attention. Then, about 20 feet before the driveway, he says "stay right, then just trun left like you normally would."
Oh that cleared it all up.
Good news is, the garage door is intact. Car wound up at an odd angle, way too fast, and then I had to slam on the brakes because my dad decided that even though I was no longer even going fast enough to register on the spedometer, I was getting too close to the garage door and shouted "STOP!!!!!" while I was still a solid six feet from it. I got out and checked, dammit. One wheel clean on the slope, one wheel just barely off the level, and two on the level bit of the driveway, I called it a day and proceeded to head inside. My dad could fix the angle of the car and then learn to explain things when he's asked to do so.
I told you that story to tell you this story.
For the past couple of weeks, we have had a robin's nest on top of our garage light. It's nice and protected there. Not to mention warm.
Several thunderstorms have come through here since momma robin layed her eggs, and two eggs blew out. One aparently survived and hatched, and grew pretty healthily plump. He's obviously the only chick left out of at least three eggs.
When I came into the driveway in a manner which can best be described as "like a drunk bat out of hell," I scared that poor bird. As I was walking to the door, I could see him standing up shakily and crying out, scared somethin' feirce. Just as I was fishing for my key, I saw the little bird tip a little too far and fall. He tried to grip the brick, but kept falling, frantically flapping his wings. That barely helped, but it did slow him enough that he could land in an evergreen planter without damage.
Momma robin was in the tree, calling frantically while he fell. Once he landed, momma chirped a few times as he hopped around and tried to get airborne, to no avail. He did get around a bit, and got pretty well hidden, but I don't know if it will be enough.
See, we have had a fox hanging around the area for a few months, and I'm sure he'd love some fresh, tender poultry the first chance he gets. That baby robin has a while to go before he will be able to fly to safety, and in the meantime, it's a crapshoot. He'd be safe if he were still up in the nice warm, sheltered, safe nest. Now he's fallen out and the fucking fox can get to him.
Thing is, he'd be fine, except I scared the bird. If I'd have remembered the nest, I'd have been much more careful and probably would have gotten stuck halfway in the driveway. Maybe I'd have got the car parked oaky. But I sure as hell wouldn't have scared him that much.
God I hope that little bird survives.
Oh, no, the driveways in my neighbohood are not for sissies. Most people have some leeway for error, but all us folks have three options: right, try again, and propery damage. There is no almost.
So you can see my consternation when my dad loads good old just-got-my-learner's-permit-three-fucking-days-ago into the car, has me drive around the neighborhood a little (I've got that part down. Thank god it's not a stickshift, or I'd still be trying to get up the hill). No problem yet. I ask if I can try parking in the driveway (do or do not, there is no try), and he says sure. Halfway up the block we live on (and I do mean UP), he shows no signs of intending to explain how, or even of paying attention. Then, about 20 feet before the driveway, he says "stay right, then just trun left like you normally would."
Oh that cleared it all up.
Good news is, the garage door is intact. Car wound up at an odd angle, way too fast, and then I had to slam on the brakes because my dad decided that even though I was no longer even going fast enough to register on the spedometer, I was getting too close to the garage door and shouted "STOP!!!!!" while I was still a solid six feet from it. I got out and checked, dammit. One wheel clean on the slope, one wheel just barely off the level, and two on the level bit of the driveway, I called it a day and proceeded to head inside. My dad could fix the angle of the car and then learn to explain things when he's asked to do so.
I told you that story to tell you this story.
For the past couple of weeks, we have had a robin's nest on top of our garage light. It's nice and protected there. Not to mention warm.
Several thunderstorms have come through here since momma robin layed her eggs, and two eggs blew out. One aparently survived and hatched, and grew pretty healthily plump. He's obviously the only chick left out of at least three eggs.
When I came into the driveway in a manner which can best be described as "like a drunk bat out of hell," I scared that poor bird. As I was walking to the door, I could see him standing up shakily and crying out, scared somethin' feirce. Just as I was fishing for my key, I saw the little bird tip a little too far and fall. He tried to grip the brick, but kept falling, frantically flapping his wings. That barely helped, but it did slow him enough that he could land in an evergreen planter without damage.
Momma robin was in the tree, calling frantically while he fell. Once he landed, momma chirped a few times as he hopped around and tried to get airborne, to no avail. He did get around a bit, and got pretty well hidden, but I don't know if it will be enough.
See, we have had a fox hanging around the area for a few months, and I'm sure he'd love some fresh, tender poultry the first chance he gets. That baby robin has a while to go before he will be able to fly to safety, and in the meantime, it's a crapshoot. He'd be safe if he were still up in the nice warm, sheltered, safe nest. Now he's fallen out and the fucking fox can get to him.
Thing is, he'd be fine, except I scared the bird. If I'd have remembered the nest, I'd have been much more careful and probably would have gotten stuck halfway in the driveway. Maybe I'd have got the car parked oaky. But I sure as hell wouldn't have scared him that much.
God I hope that little bird survives.
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