“I know there’s more,” young Miku thought, “though here I have all I need: many friends, good food and my little home beneath this water reed.”
“But those wings of mine won’t let me fly and I’m trapped here in this pond. Still I’m thankful for the others here, like me, of whom I’ve grown so fond.”
“Year after year I’ve lived a nymph’s life and ever further I have ranged. Each time I’ve molted I’m stronger, yet, those wing stubs remain unchanged.”
And so it went, day after day, in the water’s embrace, did Miku still exist, while, from time to time, some would climb their reeds and disappear, forever missed.
But then, one day, after molting time, Miko felt a brand-new twinge, and there, instead of useless buds, were newly-sprouted wings!
Now, buoyed by them. Miko climbed upwards until belly reached the air. Miko learned to breathe, and while looking around in amazement then did stare.
All the missing friends, each with their four wings, how gracefully they flew! Miko, dry and ready, realized, “Perhaps I can do that too.”
With unexpected ease Miko soared on high, warmed by the smiles of love. New freedom gained, and adapted to this more expansive life above.
But then dropping down to tell those still below how they should join them there Miko tried and tried but could not dive. “My home is now the air.”
“But all those once gone are here now with you,” Miko’s flying friends did chime. “How you longed for us for those many years, but it simply was not yet your time.”
So up and away then Miko soared, with a heart that flew much higher still; content to watch over those still in the pond, their lives below not yet fulfilled.
Yesterday evening the snow began, gently falling, falling, falling all night long. At length I turned on the Christmas lights even though I’d not planned to do so until December. Sometimes you just go with what you see before you.
I sat on the couch together and watched “Frosty the Snowman,” remembering the many times we watched it, or, rather, chuckled while little pairs of eyes, perched all around us, lit up with delight at the familiar tale of magic, perseverance and, maybe, forgiveness.
Today the snow tapered off, a quiet blanked has settled over everything. I can hear the neighbor’s kids playing outside–they’re now about the age mine were when Frosty would bring such great delight, time after time.
The sun is starting to break through. Sometimes we wonder, when we find ourselves deep in the many struggles that life visits upon us, whether it’s ever possible to catch a break. But then, from time to time, the clouds just open, the sun shines through, and hope is renewed once again. Yes, of course you know that more obstacles lie ahead but through that window of fair weather you can see, even if momentarily, that the journey ahead as navigable and that it’s all been worth it.
Granda was a Catholic Irishman. Dublin born and reared. There, the conflict of the red and green challenged all that he revered. Still and all that never shook his sense of duty and his pride. In 1914 at the call to arms he resolved to take a side.
Not all were happy at his choice to join the Dublin Fusiliers. Saw them as another of Britain’s arms. Warned him, “this will end in tears.” Still Granda’s mind was fully made and he signed up his first chance. After training, he and his Irish brothers took the fight to northern France.
The trenches dug and in cold damp mud he tended his Vickers gun. One year, another, and almost one more, then the sergeant’s stripes he won. Until that fateful day early in ‘16 the Germans shelled with mustard gas. Overcame his mask, scarred up his lungs. All at once his service passed.
From then he spent his working years at Guinness, making stout, a place he loved though Ma never saw a drop of it touch his mouth. Though the war was over you’d never say— he’d complain of THEM without a halt. Whatever he judged as wrong in this world he’d say was “the bloody Germans’ fault.”
This went on year after year ’til “the bloody Germans” became his curse. And Ma told me that after World War Two it started getting worse. No matter the cause, subject, time or place for him that complaint did just befit. And on one thing his family did agree: they were sick of hearing it.
One day the family was at a busy pub. Full? To find a place you would be tasked. When a blond haired gentleman approached and with a German accent asked, “May I sit” as he motioned toward the table’s remaining empty chair. And Ma then heard Granda’s muted snarl, “Don’t need no bloody Germans here.”
But Ma responded, “Please sit down.” As he did she then did gauge, as he ordered his drink, he and Granda looked to be of equal age. His drinks arrived—two pints of stout. He caught my granda’s gaze, and slid one pint in front of him saying, “Here’s to better days.”
But Granda pushed the glass away, shook his head and grunted, “no.” “So sorry,” the German gent replied, shrugged, and then got up to go. He fumbled the glasses clumsily and, as he finally turned to leave, Granda stole a glance at him and spied his dangling, empty sleeve.
The German saw him looking and did his best to remain calm. “Sorry, picking this up took so long but I left the other one at the Somme.” What happened next surprised my ma for Granda stood up too, asked for the glass back then raised it high and murmured, “Brother, here’s to you.”
And whether that was it I cannot say for I was too young to see the importance of most anything that did not directly affect me. Still, I do believe that incident brought one bad habit to a halt for I never once heard Granda say anything was “the bloody Germans’ fault.”
Maybe you shun stories from the wars. And, if that’s the case, it’s fine. As I accept that you have your own truth, perhaps you will let me have mine. Now, as “the elevens” come around again, pease, your own conclusions do so draw. Me? I’ll pin a poppy to my chest and remember you, my dear Granda.
Perhaps it’s the random works of this big world, or it’s due to climate change. One thing for sure is the wind this year is nothing short of strange. And with that said I’ll also add that it seems that everything is entwined. How else could a bit of rough weather bring old memories back to mind?
The recent storms that we’ve endured have brought me back to my fifth grade. And a take-home storytelling assignment and how a bags of it I made. I half-listened my teacher’s words; never bothered to write them down. Only thought of it the night before ‘twas due, “Now what did she say?” I frowned.
Oh, yes, It suddenly came to me—get a story my parents tell. I asked my father, and he then sat down and thought of it a spell. “Here’s one from when I was a boy about the same as you It’s of a near-disaster and every word I say is true.”
So, dutifully I wrote it down and added a few lines of my own. Next day at school when the assignment came up I realized, with a groan I’d done it wrong. A true story was not what it was supposed to be so I kept my head down and the teacher never called on me, thankfully.
When the class was over I “thought that is that for me”. But recent windstorms somehow rekindled that long lost memory. And now, the tale I wrote down in the scribbler I since have thrown away Is worth the time to relate to you, on this blustery, windy day.
My Dad was, like me, a teacher, but all the Barrys before he were planters, which meant they owned land and made a living at the sea. In western boats, two-masted schooners, of thirty feet or more, they went to the cape for days at a time and returned again, full-store.
One fine day in August my grandfather left to catch his fish for Lady Day. Said, “The weather’s fine and the fishing’s good, so I won’t be long away.” Still as it sometimes happens, a late-summer storm from out of nowhere came. With gale-force winds and driving rain, “I hope they’re safe,” Mrs. Maggie did exclaim.
A few boats returned that evening, much worse for the wear. But of Skipper Billy Barry’s crew there was no hide, nor hair. The community went to the church to pray, as there wasn’t any news. and offered up the rosary for the safe return of all the crews.
The night passed slowly. Nobody slept. The whole house shook and creaked. ‘Til sometime in that fearsome night the worst of it had peaked. The morning light showed some wharves wrecked and the lighthouse it had burned. But thankfully it could be seen that most boats had returned.
But not skipper Billy’s Western Boat, the aging Mystical Rose. My grandma sat by the window saying, “They’re in God’s hands I suppose.” Until at last, she sat up straight. “He’s back,” was all she said while Dad almost tripped up in himself as, down to the wharf he fled.
The boat was quite a pitiful sight that would fill you up with gloom. Nothing flying but the mainsail, and no sign of her jib boom. All hands on deck with sculling oars and she, listing to her starboard side. Still they all made it back, hold brimmed with fish, and onto the wharf they tied.
His wife met grandad at the door, “Your supper’s on the heating rack. You had me worried, and you surely took your time in getting back.” Still the story was not ended, even though that part went well. Later after supper Skipper Billy had yet another tale to tell.
After a good day fishing, splitting and gutting the hold was mostly stogged. And a decent southwest wind was driving them back home through the fog. When from out of nowhere big gust came, drove the boom across his rib And as he stood back up he saw it shred both the foresail and the jib.
He knew that out on the open bay they would not last for long. Between the torn-up sails, the swell, the rain and the wind that was so strong. But all that was near was a deserted harbour most sailors did eschew. Rumour of an evil thing that happened there still struck fear in every crew.
The situation worsened by the hour as the ship began to list. But the protestations of the frightened crew continued to persist. Until at length an unfamiliar ship, an old square-rigged brigantine, went through the narrows, and hove right too, a most unexpected scene.
Now that the harbour was no longer empty the crew agreed to go. So they limped in to find shelter there and dropped anchor there although the other ship was silent and dark with nar a hand on deck. Still better in this eerie harbour than to be assured of wreck.
Skipper Billy stayed on deck, at watch, but told the crew to go below. Said “you’ll need to be rested up for when we get the chance to go.” But just after dark, to his surprise, he thought he saw a fire on the beach. Strange for this abandoned place, so for his spyglass he did reach.
It was indeed a bonfire, and what’s more people gathered all round it He wondered how through the wind and rain it managed to stay lit. Taking a closer look he realized they were beckoning to him. So he made as to head in to shore for their situation appeared grim.
But then, to his great surprise, the brigantine weighted anchor and, with lights aglow situated itself between him and the beach so he could no further go. Undaunted, he retied the main boom and tried another tack. But the bigger ship also came about and once again stopped him in his tracks.
This went on for quite some time, until the winds eased up at last. By now exhausted, he dropped anchor and sail and tied it all full fast. Decided to sit down for a spell for he was feeling fully spent. And since the stress had taken quite the toll, right off to sleep he went.
Next morning, he awoke to calm seas and the sun so bright. But of the brigantine, and the people on the beach there was no clue or sight. And as all hands were anxious to return home, he put it from his mind. For, getting the Mystical Rose back to her berth took all their strengths combined.
All hands looked at grandad askance, “I’m telling no lies!” he swore. But his aged father, Maurice, then stirred saying, “It’s true and I can add some more. There’s a thing I witnessed when I was young, and long before my prime that I’ve never told my family, but now I suppose it’s time.”
“As a boy of 12 I left my home, signed on to a brigantine. And about a month in we faced a storm like the one you just have seen. We pulled into that very harbour, our sails, too, were tore. And we also saw the fire on the beach and the people waving us ashore.
We brought the ship close in as we dared and fired them off a line. But it turned out their intentions were far from just benign. Instead of thanking us for saving them, once they were all aboard. They produced weapons and all the crew but me they then put to the sword.
I tried to sneak for the fo’c’sle hatch and down below I dove. But one of them chased me below, and between us we knocked over the stove. The ship caught fire right then and there before you could even blink. Only I escaped as the works of it burned up and then did sink.
Somehow I found my way to this place and here I did remain. And speaking of that tragedy, I mostly have abstained. Billy at his father looked, “Was that a ghost that saved me yesterday?” But Maurice said not another word and there the story stayed.
And now, as I sit safe in my house, riding out this latest gale, I’m reminded after all these years of that eerie, once-told tale. And whether there are times when our world with that of the spirits do collide I have my opinion, but I’ll leave that part for you, too to decide.
Duck? Starfish? But...23 