Personal story, or stories

[Sigmund]

Hi!

We had a dog named, "Puppy". Actually, he was my friend. I found him outside the door one day. He was maybe 8 or 9 months old, scrawny, dirty and had an injury on the very top of his head. I said Hello and he let me clean the wound and put some iodine (monkey blood) on it. Fed him, bathed him and he became our friend and champion.

Puppy was part Golden Retriever, German Shepherd and part Heinz 57. He was incredibly intelligent. We had a mom and pop store that we all worked and our family home was in a lot behind the store. Puppy would patrol the grounds, family home and the store day and night. He would square off and bark at anyone who would try to get in the gates at the house but at the store he was different. If the store was open he would patrol and lay under the awning. Didn't bother or bark at anyone. Once we closed and turned off the lights he would go into security mode and guard the store. Like I said, intelligent.

It was the gas shortage in the 70's and we were very, very busy. It was not at all surprising for us to have long lines at the pumps from opening to closing. We had a system for the gas pumps. The customer would turn on the pump and we would ask through the intercom (?) how much they wanted and we would program that amount or they would want a fill-up and we would program the pump to let them fill-up.

A car pulled up and the man asked for a fill-up and I opened the pump for him. He filled up his car and...oh crud! Puppy is barking like crazy and has the man backed up to the gas pump! I ran out and got hold of Puppy's collar and trying to calm him down. I apologized to the man profusely (lawsuit) and offered to take his money and bring him back his change. Puppy is shaking, his scruff is up and he's making noises. I look at the man and his car. Car door is open and the engine is running...Guess what? The man has *forgotten* his wallet and has no money. He was going to do a drive-off. Puppy knew it and prevented it. Intelligent and intuitive.(It was actually the gas shortage of the '70's and drive-offs that led to pre-pay gas pumps.)

Puppy protected, played with and loved us all for about twelve years. When he died everyone cried. Daddy, Momma, brothers and me. Cried for days. No shame or embarrassment. (He!!. I'm crying as I type.)

To my Puppy. I remember you still.

Peace.

 

[Grandpa]

We had a dog named, "Puppy". Actually, he was my friend.

What a lovely story.

I'll write about Our Best Dog Ever someday. I don't say that to detract from your story; rather, I understand how you feel. We've got our Best Dog's ashes in my office. Only pet we've done that with.

The special ones that enter your household through your heart and make it a warm place; they're the ones that really become family.

 

[mustangclaire]

Hi!

We had a dog named, "Puppy". Actually, he was my friend. I found him outside the door one day. He was maybe 8 or 9 months old, scrawny, dirty and had an injury on the very top of his head. I said Hello and he let me clean the wound and put some iodine (monkey blood) on it. Fed him, bathed him and he became our friend and champion.

Puppy was part Golden Retriever, German Shepherd and part Heinz 57. He was incredibly intelligent. We had a mom and pop store that we all worked and our family home was in a lot behind the store. Puppy would patrol the grounds, family home and the store day and night. He would square off and bark at anyone who would try to get in the gates at the house but at the store he was different. If the store was open he would patrol and lay under the awning. Didn't bother or bark at anyone. Once we closed and turned off the lights he would go into security mode and guard the store. Like I said, intelligent.

It was the gas shortage in the 70's and we were very, very busy. It was not at all surprising for us to have long lines at the pumps from opening to closing. We had a system for the gas pumps. The customer would turn on the pump and we would ask through the intercom (?) how much they wanted and we would program that amount or they would want a fill-up and we would program the pump to let them fill-up.

A car pulled up and the man asked for a fill-up and I opened the pump for him. He filled up his car and...oh crud! Puppy is barking like crazy and has the man backed up to the gas pump! I ran out and got hold of Puppy's collar and trying to calm him down. I apologized to the man profusely (lawsuit) and offered to take his money and bring him back his change. Puppy is shaking, his scruff is up and he's making noises. I look at the man and his car. Car door is open and the engine is running...Guess what? The man has *forgotten* his wallet and has no money. He was going to do a drive-off. Puppy knew it and prevented it. Intelligent and intuitive.(It was actually the gas shortage of the '70's and drive-offs that led to pre-pay gas pumps.)

Puppy protected, played with and loved us all for about twelve years. When he died everyone cried. Daddy, Momma, brothers and me. Cried for days. No shame or embarrassment. (He!!. I'm crying as I type.)

To my Puppy. I remember you still.

Peace.

 

[Sigmund]

My brother blew up the back yard.

(Insert rolling on the floor laughing emoticon here.)

That opening line is about as memorable as, "Call me Ishmael."

Great story. (My brothers would never have let me off the hook.)

Peace.

 

[Bryan James]

n877777777777777777-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+Great contemporary dog book (my cat "Stripe" h74ld-++ helped on the keyboard)47474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747474747
"""

Garth Stein "The Art of Racing in the Rain"

 

[Sigmund]

Has anyone who ever played sports as a kid have that one memorable moment or game they will never forget?

Every kid should have an experience like that to cling to. It will forever remain immortal in my mind.

Yay! Most excellent!

Peace.

Yay!

 

[Dana Jean]

What a lovely story.

I'll write about Our Best Dog Ever someday. I don't say that to detract from your story; rather, I understand how you feel. We've got our Best Dog's ashes in my office. Only pet we've done that with.

The special ones that enter your household through your heart and make it a warm place; they're the ones that really become family.

I have the ashes of one of my cats. THE cat of cats. And, when I got him back, there was a note and one of those gold jewelry hearts that is crooked broke down the middle? The note said that half the heart was in the ashes with my cat, and the other half was for me. Oh man. I sobbed and sobbed over that simple little piece of pot metal. Still have mine, and my cat is by my bed in his box with his part of the heart.

 

[Sigmund]

AHHH, this is the thread the ZZ Top story should been posted in....I'm getting old...

Hi!

I didn't read your ZZ Top story.

Peace.

 

[Sigmund]

If anyone, and I do mean "if," is reading along with my current theme, it gets wrapped up tomorrow.

Have a lovely day, everyone.

Hi, Sir.

I have been reading and I await the next (last) installment. The foreshadowing was foreboding.

Peace.

 

[Bryan James]

I once had a girlfriend that left me for boating.

/wordplayderail Sorries.

 

[Sigmund]

I got it!! Chicken thighs!!!

Avocado?

Peace.

Ha!

 

[danie]

You have a blog? Do send me an inbox message with the link please.

I, too would like your blog link.

 

[Grandpa]

I was going to college in a town that was also where my maternal grandmother lived. I was her only grandchild, and she rather doted on me. For instance, while I was going to school, she insisted on doing my laundry, and she wanted to feed me now and then. And while it wasn't the coolest thing in the early '70s for a college student to be going over to Granny's, I appreciated the clean clothes and free food.

(Plus, she let me drink a little, just a little, at her place. She grew up in Prohibition, and she said that pot was no different than the bathtub gin that she and her peers would whip up. Whether I indulged in pot then, and I didn't, was she a cool grandmother, or what?)

It was on one of those visits that she said I needed to call my parents. So I called home and kept it short because that's what you did on other people's dime back then, but the upshot was that Curt's cancer had returned and he was declining quickly. He was going to be moved to a hospital out of town for some aggressive treatment.

I came back to the home town that weekend and went to Curt's house to visit with him before he left. It wasn't a pleasant visit. He was lying on the living room couch, covered in a thin blanket, expression stern, mostly staring at the wall. His comments were short, gloomy, and without much eye contact. I wished him luck. He was not consolable. I understood that and didn't try.

In the ensuing weeks, I got word that Curt was declining yet faster. I asked the parents to borrow the car so I could take it to visit him at the hospital. My mom declined, saying they needed the car. I found out later that she was leery of me driving it to a city three hours away, plus she'd gotten word that Curt's experience with this new stuff called chemotherapy was making his hair fall out and bloating him up, and she didn't think it would do me any good to see him like that.

Back at college, my roommate, in an attempt to cheer me up one day, suggested that I take him on a motorcycle ride. He wasn't the best passenger, and for those of you who ride motorcycles, you know there's good passengers and not-so-good ones. But I acceded, and we rode out of town a little bit to one of the fire roads that I'd explored before with my other motorcycling friends.

We were a ways down that fire road when the front tire went flat. I had no repair kit, no pump. There was no way to call anyone. We just had to ride back carefully. I'd seen cases where, with enough speed, and with weight off the front tire, the tire would actually expand out just from the centrifugal force of the wheel spinning. I had hopes that it wouldn't be all that bad.

But it was. Just getting back down the fire road presented a real struggle with the bumps and ruts. Then once we got out to the main road, we were going too slow with cars roaring by, and my arms straining to hold the bike in a straight line as it tracked its unsteady way on the asphalt. We came up to railroad tracks running obliquely across the road, waiting eagerly to snatch that floppy tire and hurl it to one side. I panicked a little and starting braking, which put more weight on the flat, increasing the instability. The bike shimmied viciously and threatened to get away from me.

I feathered the brakes and muscled the bars as best I could, and when we hit the tracks, the bike shuddered and threatened to dive to the pavement. I strained as hard as I could to keep the handlebars evened out as much as possible and the bike tracking more or less straight ahead. We came within the tiniest margin of getting pitched off. But against the odds and impressions of the instant, we stayed upright. And then we were over the tracks and relatively safe.

"What was that?" my roommate yelled over the wind and engine noise.

"Quiet!" I snarled back. I was relieved but shaking. In fact, I'd been fearful of a crash every second since we'd started out.

We got to a gas station with a pay phone. I called my grandmother, told her what had happened and asked for a ride, and maybe we could put my bike in her trunk. She said she'd be right out (like I said, she was cool), and by the time she arrived, my bodily systems were crashing mildly from the letdown of the adrenalin rush that the railroad tracks had brought on.

She got out, hesitated, and said, "I'm sorry to tell you. Curt died today."

The sounds of the world diminished as I took it in, and I know that sounds like some overdramatic overlay mixed into the storytelling, but in my memory, seriously, the world just flat muted.

Logically, I knew Curt's death was coming, even though you always hold out hope for some Catholic or Lutheran miracle, but now that it was here, it was shocking and surreal. My grandmother and roommate were looking at me, watching my reaction. The shock washed out and left behind numbness. We stood in silence for a moment, then I said to my roommate, "Let's get the bike in the trunk." We did so and rode back to the dorm in silence.

When people say, "What was your worst day ever that you can remember?" which thankfully doesn't happen often, I don't have to dig very deep. It's right there.

What followed in the ensuing days, of course, had its own share of sorrow and angst. Curt was young, and the death of a young person ripples out in large shock waves, and the funeral and its aftermath is especially tough. I'd like to think that I handled it at least as well as anyone else, and blessedly, Curt's family told me that I did.

And in case anyone wonders, I have no regrets that my very last time with Curt was so gloomy. It's simply not a memory that I keep handy. Lasting memories are far more important than a last memory. That last one is but one minor snippet buried under the mass of 40 tons of much happier and closer-knit times.

But let me step back now because, really, this isn't about me, or the family, or the funeral, or the fallout.

All this is about a kid who was fascinated by fire and blew up a cistern, who loved Star Trek, who sought adventure, who had a fearsome throwing arm, who wanted three ice cubes in his glass ("no more; no less"), who with his friend invented their own private vocabulary so they could cuss and get away with it, who practiced climbing to the top of a free-standing ladder, who discovered the joys of Pink Floyd with its trippy sci-fi and avant garde themes, who brought his friend out of an asocial shell enough to ask out the friend's future wife, and who persevered with charm and good cheer for a little while as a teenager on one damn leg.

And it's about a kid who never got to see the really good science fiction movies that Star Wars (which he would have loved) begat, who never got to go on the epic road trip planned for years with his friend, who never got to discover the love of his own life or even if there was one out there for him, and who never got to stand with his friend and the friend's girl at their wedding and then be "Uncle Curt" to their kids.


That was tough to write. 42 frickin' years, and it's tough to write.


In Esther Forbes' Johnny Tremain, one of the minor characters gives a final, soaring speech about the advancement of human rights. When he talked about people dying for that cause, it goes: "All the years of their maturity. All the children they never live to have. The serenity of old age. To die so young is more than merely dying; it is to lose so large a part of life."

So was Curt's death unfair? "Fair" isn't even in the equation. A comet doesn't scream, "No fair!" as it's consumed by a star, or not as far as we know. "Fair" was invented by humans to help bring order to their treatment of each other and grease the gears of society.

Someone causing another's death may well not be fair within our society. But otherwise, asking if a death is fair is like asking if gravity is purple. Death is the most natural part of life. (Or to put it in our gracious host's terms, we each owe a death.) And we all find our way there.

But still, some deaths sure do take on more tragedy and leave larger holes in the fabric of life for those remain. Every time I hear Pink Floyd sing, "How I wish, how I wish you were here," I think of Curt.

Every damn time.

It's that, and things like that, which keeps that hole in the fabric open, and sometimes with a sharper ache than some other times.

And yet, perversely, I relish that ache. Because whether it's Curt or anyone else, we can visit their grave; we can look at their photos; we can view the detritus left behind, scattered in the wake of their journey on life's road. But if their lives have meaning to us, it's kept locked in and on display in our memories. In our enduring thoughts of them, in our wistful visits to our own personal past, that's where the dead actually do come back to life and still live on.

And really, those good and lasting memories are the best that we can do for them, and for those of us who remain, however short or long that may be.

 

[Grandpa]

Epilogue

When I posted my first story in this thread, I swear that it wasn't with the intent of writing what I've ended up writing. I just wanted to share a story of three kids blowing up a cistern, and I didn't know where else to put it, so it went here. Really, that was it at the time.

And it was with the sincere invitation for others to participate, and for those who have, thank you, and please keep on with it.

In On Writing, Mr. King advances the thesis (a little glibly if I'm being honest, and he says we must be, but I also believe he's mostly accurate) that the writer doesn't manufacture the story. Rather, the writer uncovers the story that is already there. Mr. King compares it to finding a fossil and working to unearth and assemble it with the various tools that the writer brings to the task.

From a personal standpoint, that's exactly what's happened here, and it was pushed by the feeling that in the passage of over four decades, I've never given my friend a proper eulogy. But that eulogy was there, waiting to be found, and once that first bit of fossil peeked through the soil to the light of day, with the rest of it extending to an unknown depth into the earth, I couldn't let it go, and the digging began.

And maybe I still haven't given the eulogy that's appropriate to the circumstances. If it's any consolation to the content, I have wiped my eyes more often in writing that previous chapter than anything else I've ever written. Not to say that means anything other than the writing was genuine.

Thank you for your patience in accommodating this story, especially for someone this new to your community.

And as always, thank you to Mr. King for supplying this so-very-enjoyable resource to those who participate in it.

 

[mustangclaire]

That was wonderful Grandpa, and we are blessed to have you here.

 

[Dana Jean]

I was going to college in a town that was also where my maternal grandmother lived. I was her only grandchild, and she rather doted on me. For instance, while I was going to school, she insisted on doing my laundry, and she wanted to feed me now and then. And while it wasn't the coolest thing in the early '70s for a college student to be going over to Granny's, I appreciated the clean clothes and free food.

(Plus, she let me drink a little, just a little, at her place. She grew up in Prohibition, and she said that pot was no different than the bathtub gin that she and her peers would whip up. Whether I indulged in pot then, and I didn't, was she a cool grandmother, or what?)

It was on one of those visits that she said I needed to call my parents. So I called home and kept it short because that's what you did on other people's dime back then, but the upshot was that Curt's cancer had returned and he was declining quickly. He was going to be moved to a hospital out of town for some aggressive treatment.

I came back to the home town that weekend and went to Curt's house to visit with him before he left. It wasn't a pleasant visit. He was lying on the living room couch, covered in a thin blanket, expression stern, mostly staring at the wall. His comments were short, gloomy, and without much eye contact. I wished him luck. He was not consolable. I understood that and didn't try.

In the ensuing weeks, I got word that Curt was declining yet faster. I asked the parents to borrow the car so I could take it to visit him at the hospital. My mom declined, saying they needed the car. I found out later that she was leery of me driving it to a city three hours away, plus she'd gotten word that Curt's experience with this new stuff called chemotherapy was making his hair fall out and bloating him up, and she didn't think it would do me any good to see him like that.

Back at college, my roommate, in an attempt to cheer me up one day, suggested that I take him on a motorcycle ride. He wasn't the best passenger, and for those of you who ride motorcycles, you know there's good passengers and not-so-good ones. But I acceded, and we rode out of town a little bit to one of the fire roads that I'd explored before with my other motorcycling friends.

We were a ways down that fire road when the front tire went flat. I had no repair kit, no pump. There was no way to call anyone. We just had to ride back carefully. I'd seen cases where, with enough speed, and with weight off the front tire, the tire would actually expand out just from the centrifugal force of the wheel spinning. I had hopes that it wouldn't be all that bad.

But it was. Just getting back down the fire road presented a real struggle with the bumps and ruts. Then once we got out to the main road, we were going too slow with cars roaring by, and my arms straining to hold the bike in a straight line as it tracked its unsteady way on the asphalt. We came up to railroad tracks running obliquely across the road, waiting eagerly to snatch that floppy tire and hurl it to one side. I panicked a little and starting braking, which put more weight on the flat, increasing the instability. The bike shimmied viciously and threatened to get away from me.

I feathered the brakes and muscled the bars as best I could, and when we hit the tracks, the bike shuddered and threatened to dive to the pavement. I strained as hard as I could to keep the handlebars evened out as much as possible and the bike tracking more or less straight ahead. We came within the tiniest margin of getting pitched off. But against the odds and impressions of the instant, we stayed upright. And then we were over the tracks and relatively safe.

"What was that?" my roommate yelled over the wind and engine noise.

"Quiet!" I snarled back. I was relieved but shaking. In fact, I'd been fearful of a crash every second since we'd started out.

We got to a gas station with a pay phone. I called my grandmother, told her what had happened and asked for a ride, and maybe we could put my bike in her trunk. She said she'd be right out (like I said, she was cool), and by the time she arrived, my bodily systems were crashing mildly from the letdown of the adrenalin rush that the railroad tracks had brought on.

She got out, hesitated, and said, "I'm sorry to tell you. Curt died today."

The sounds of the world diminished as I took it in, and I know that sounds like some overdramatic overlay mixed into the storytelling, but in my memory, seriously, the world just flat muted.

Logically, I knew Curt's death was coming, even though you always hold out hope for some Catholic or Lutheran miracle, but now that it was here, it was shocking and surreal. My grandmother and roommate were looking at me, watching my reaction. The shock washed out and left behind numbness. We stood in silence for a moment, then I said to my roommate, "Let's get the bike in the trunk." We did so and rode back to the dorm in silence.

When people say, "What was your worst day ever that you can remember?" which thankfully doesn't happen often, I don't have to dig very deep. It's right there.

What followed in the ensuing days, of course, had its own share of sorrow and angst. Curt was young, and the death of a young person ripples out in large shock waves, and the funeral and its aftermath is especially tough. I'd like to think that I handled it at least as well as anyone else, and blessedly, Curt's family told me that I did.

And in case anyone wonders, I have no regrets that my very last time with Curt was so gloomy. It's simply not a memory that I keep handy. Lasting memories are far more important than a last memory. That last one is but one minor snippet buried under the mass of 40 tons of much happier and closer-knit times.

But let me step back now because, really, this isn't about me, or the family, or the funeral, or the fallout.

All this is about a kid who was fascinated by fire and blew up a cistern, who loved Star Trek, who sought adventure, who had a fearsome throwing arm, who wanted three ice cubes in his glass ("no more; no less"), who with his friend invented their own private vocabulary so they could cuss and get away with it, who practiced climbing to the top of a free-standing ladder, who discovered the joys of Pink Floyd with its trippy sci-fi and avant garde themes, who brought his friend out of an asocial shell enough to ask out the friend's future wife, and who persevered with charm and good cheer for a little while as a teenager on one damn leg.

And it's about a kid who never got to see the really good science fiction movies that Star Wars (which he would have loved) begat, who never got to go on the epic road trip planned for years with his friend, who never got to discover the love of his own life or even if there was one out there for him, and who never got to stand with his friend and the friend's girl at their wedding and then be "Uncle Curt" to their kids.


That was tough to write. 42 frickin' years, and it's tough to write.


In Esther Forbes' Johnny Tremain, one of the minor characters gives a final, soaring speech about the advancement of human rights. When he talked about people dying for that cause, it goes: "All the years of their maturity. All the children they never live to have. The serenity of old age. To die so young is more than merely dying; it is to lose so large a part of life."

So was Curt's death unfair? "Fair" isn't even in the equation. A comet doesn't scream, "No fair!" as it's consumed by a star, or not as far as we know. "Fair" was invented by humans to help bring order to their treatment of each other and grease the gears of society.

Someone causing another's death may well not be fair within our society. But otherwise, asking if a death is fair is like asking if gravity is purple. Death is the most natural part of life. (Or to put it in our gracious host's terms, we each owe a death.) And we all find our way there.

But still, some deaths sure do take on more tragedy and leave larger holes in the fabric of life for those remain. Every time I hear Pink Floyd sing, "How I wish, how I wish you were here," I think of Curt.

Every damn time.

It's that, and things like that, which keeps that hole in the fabric open, and sometimes with a sharper ache than some other times.

And yet, perversely, I relish that ache. Because whether it's Curt or anyone else, we can visit their grave; we can look at their photos; we can view the detritus left behind, scattered in the wake of their journey on life's road. But if their lives have meaning to us, it's kept locked in and on display in our memories. In our enduring thoughts of them, in our wistful visits to our own personal past, that's where the dead actually do come back to life and still live on.

And really, those good and lasting memories are the best that we can do for them, and for those of us who remain, however short or long that may be.

aw hell, that made me cry.

 

[no bounce no play]

It's a beautiful eulogy, Grandpa. I can't say much else now... the tears are making it difficult to see the keyboard.

 

[Grandpa]

Some or maybe most people know when their work is where they want it to be to get out there. (Maybe they're wrong, but at least they're confident.) I'm missing that sense. I like to write, but I just don't know when I throw it out there if people are going to chew it up or roll their eyes at it. And this was pretty intensely personal, so the uncertainty factor was enhanced.

So I'm gratified that you liked it. Thank you very much.

Back to the lighter stories after today, I should think.

 

[danie]

Even though we didn't know your friend, you brought him to life on these "pages." We laughed along with him, ached with him and cried for him.
You not only gave him a proper eulogy, but a gift. Forty-two years is a long time to go without hearing his voice and seeing his face--I think his family
would like to read what you wrote.

 

[Spideyman]

What a beautiful tribute to your friend. Thank you for sharing Curt with us- the Ka-Tet. Tears flowed as I read each word. What you and Curt has was special. It still is and always will be. I am so thrilled you found that first bit of fossil and continued to dig. I think Curt would have loved reading this piece. Friendship- everlasting. Hold the good memories tight.