Dear Elizabeth (Liz),
Remembering my first encounter with Mister Grim, my brother and father had taken me to northern Canada. My father was adamant that my brother should go fishing, since he had never even seen a cod his entire life. (Ah ha ha ha, Besides me.) And so the three of us took a small hike from our Lodge, the Gatsbur, and to a small lake called North Sport pro-bass. In all curiosity, I dove from the boat, and into the lake that was " As cold as hell", or at least that's what my brother informed me about the waters. I swam around, (Like I tend to) and found a pod of fish. (In a lake .. yeah) I watched them squirm about and dart around me, .. it was all quite a kodak moment, and a beautiful scene I will never forget. Maybe the thee of us should go back there some day, just to swim around for a change of pace. (For you, I mean) I think a vacation is in order as soon as other matters of my brother are taken care of, and I can leave home from therapy.
Ah yes, my first encounter with Mister Grim .. My father taught my brother how to put a worm on a hook, with his left hand, and how to put a bobble in the middle of the fishing line. My brother, in all his glory, sat at the forward, my father at the aft, and sat as still as a nine year old boy can, while in the process. I was down below the small ship, looking around at the bass. The bass were beautiful in their own right, though I much prefer salmon. The basses scales reflected the sun, like a crow's feathers, all different colors and prisms of the reflected light. Each swam, taking their time, in little circles around each other, and aimlessly made their way throughout the lake, without a worry I the world.
After many hours of this, my brother called my name. Submerging, he demanded that I catch a fish for him. I tilted my head, wondering why in the world he would want a fish, and caught one that had been swimming around my legs for some time in my hands. I held it up to him, and he said, being the imploring little boy he way, " Well how come it doesn't look like the ones in all those books?"
I looked at the fish, wondering what was so wrong with it, and replied," Maybe it's a small fish."
My father agreed, " Like Abe, so leave it alone, son."
Nodding, he kept his line still, and stared out and at his bobble, obviously content. I wondered again what was wrong with the fish, and grew horrified with the idea of big fish and small fish.
" There are bigger fish, down there?" I looked at the aft, father holding his own line still and without the restless expressions as my brother did. He looked up at me and smiled.
" Yes. Why don't you see for yourself?"
I looked down, and swam down and down, trying to catch one of these "Bigger Fish." I found none, and submerged again," Nu-ugh." My brother taught me to have such lovely and ranged vocabulary. This still continues today. You can see this, if by chance, I ever have a five foot lizard attached to my ankle in western Africa.
" W- sure there are. You just aint looking hard enough." The forward stated indignantly.
" No there aint." I retorted.
The aft told us to remain silent, so that we did not scare them away, and we obeyed, but not before sticking our tongues out at each other. (Yes, I did. Bet you've never seen me do that before.)
" Hey, what we gonna do with these fish?" My bother asked. The aft looked out into the lake, and at the boys bobble, which was shaking furiously. He ordered the boy to reel the fish in, and excitedly, the boy did so. I watched from beneath the ship, watch the fish struggle, jump, pull as hard as he could with all of his breath so that he would not be reeled in. Slowly, my brother succeeded, and why I can only guess. The fish pulled slowly, and from his bulged eyes, I saw something in him change. He darted this way and that, but never with that same struggle. Taking a hand, I stroked it once as it made it's way above the water, and then I followed, worried.
The fish, when I flopped aboard, was in a bucket that I had been told to fill with lake water. My father was telling my brother that we had to let the fish go, and my brother, in his pride, was now sad and gloomy. His prize was taken out of the water, and sprawled on a board, fighting in convulsions, but probably because he missed the water. I stepped forward, but father told me to stay aside while he took the hook out of the "Little Guy's" mouth. And so I watched, from the yellow side lines, as my father fought with the fish, and opened his jaw.
The fish struggled, and swallowed the hook. Cussing, (My father, yes, he cussed) placed the fish back inside of the bucket, telling us he was going to put him back in the lake, and that Mister Fish was just fine. I watched something change, as the fish quit convulsing, and enter the water. His eyes were as they always had been. White saucers with two counted black dote in the center, like a little olive in a martini glass. Yet I saw something, looking in it's eyes. There was something tired. There was something .. done. Taking the bucket, my father dumped it inside of the lake, and both brothers heard a resounding " Plunk" in the lake from the bucket water. However, I watched Mister Fish float like my brother two years before, when he had to wear little duck floaties. One, as you can imagine, very very inflated. Im sure to maximum efficiency. As a result, my brother couldn't have sunk if he had been out in sea for ten days after the Japanese sunk his battleship. I had always found this event very funny, but looking back, it hadn't been the same as with Mister Fish. Because when I looked in his eyes, he was done.
I asked my father if he was done, and my father gave me a little speech on heaven, ( And of course, Heaven, seeing as he's Catholic.) away from the ears of my brother. He said that if he was a good fish, then he went to heaven. If he was a bad fish, then he went to hell. That gave me the Santa Clause jitters; have I been a good little fish? I stuck my tongue out at my brother: does that make me bad? I don't think so, and looking back at my life and what my father had said, I believe that good and bad is a relative state. Everything cannot be judged by planes of Lividicus and Satan, thought both exist. I think perhaps, it is something inside of you that makes decisions, and what choices you have. I believe my father is in a greater place, if that is possible. If not, then I hope he has a wonderful new life.
I think, perhaps, he will.
Unregretted,
Abe.
Remembering my first encounter with Mister Grim, my brother and father had taken me to northern Canada. My father was adamant that my brother should go fishing, since he had never even seen a cod his entire life. (Ah ha ha ha, Besides me.) And so the three of us took a small hike from our Lodge, the Gatsbur, and to a small lake called North Sport pro-bass. In all curiosity, I dove from the boat, and into the lake that was " As cold as hell", or at least that's what my brother informed me about the waters. I swam around, (Like I tend to) and found a pod of fish. (In a lake .. yeah) I watched them squirm about and dart around me, .. it was all quite a kodak moment, and a beautiful scene I will never forget. Maybe the thee of us should go back there some day, just to swim around for a change of pace. (For you, I mean) I think a vacation is in order as soon as other matters of my brother are taken care of, and I can leave home from therapy.
Ah yes, my first encounter with Mister Grim .. My father taught my brother how to put a worm on a hook, with his left hand, and how to put a bobble in the middle of the fishing line. My brother, in all his glory, sat at the forward, my father at the aft, and sat as still as a nine year old boy can, while in the process. I was down below the small ship, looking around at the bass. The bass were beautiful in their own right, though I much prefer salmon. The basses scales reflected the sun, like a crow's feathers, all different colors and prisms of the reflected light. Each swam, taking their time, in little circles around each other, and aimlessly made their way throughout the lake, without a worry I the world.
After many hours of this, my brother called my name. Submerging, he demanded that I catch a fish for him. I tilted my head, wondering why in the world he would want a fish, and caught one that had been swimming around my legs for some time in my hands. I held it up to him, and he said, being the imploring little boy he way, " Well how come it doesn't look like the ones in all those books?"
I looked at the fish, wondering what was so wrong with it, and replied," Maybe it's a small fish."
My father agreed, " Like Abe, so leave it alone, son."
Nodding, he kept his line still, and stared out and at his bobble, obviously content. I wondered again what was wrong with the fish, and grew horrified with the idea of big fish and small fish.
" There are bigger fish, down there?" I looked at the aft, father holding his own line still and without the restless expressions as my brother did. He looked up at me and smiled.
" Yes. Why don't you see for yourself?"
I looked down, and swam down and down, trying to catch one of these "Bigger Fish." I found none, and submerged again," Nu-ugh." My brother taught me to have such lovely and ranged vocabulary. This still continues today. You can see this, if by chance, I ever have a five foot lizard attached to my ankle in western Africa.
" W- sure there are. You just aint looking hard enough." The forward stated indignantly.
" No there aint." I retorted.
The aft told us to remain silent, so that we did not scare them away, and we obeyed, but not before sticking our tongues out at each other. (Yes, I did. Bet you've never seen me do that before.)
" Hey, what we gonna do with these fish?" My bother asked. The aft looked out into the lake, and at the boys bobble, which was shaking furiously. He ordered the boy to reel the fish in, and excitedly, the boy did so. I watched from beneath the ship, watch the fish struggle, jump, pull as hard as he could with all of his breath so that he would not be reeled in. Slowly, my brother succeeded, and why I can only guess. The fish pulled slowly, and from his bulged eyes, I saw something in him change. He darted this way and that, but never with that same struggle. Taking a hand, I stroked it once as it made it's way above the water, and then I followed, worried.
The fish, when I flopped aboard, was in a bucket that I had been told to fill with lake water. My father was telling my brother that we had to let the fish go, and my brother, in his pride, was now sad and gloomy. His prize was taken out of the water, and sprawled on a board, fighting in convulsions, but probably because he missed the water. I stepped forward, but father told me to stay aside while he took the hook out of the "Little Guy's" mouth. And so I watched, from the yellow side lines, as my father fought with the fish, and opened his jaw.
The fish struggled, and swallowed the hook. Cussing, (My father, yes, he cussed) placed the fish back inside of the bucket, telling us he was going to put him back in the lake, and that Mister Fish was just fine. I watched something change, as the fish quit convulsing, and enter the water. His eyes were as they always had been. White saucers with two counted black dote in the center, like a little olive in a martini glass. Yet I saw something, looking in it's eyes. There was something tired. There was something .. done. Taking the bucket, my father dumped it inside of the lake, and both brothers heard a resounding " Plunk" in the lake from the bucket water. However, I watched Mister Fish float like my brother two years before, when he had to wear little duck floaties. One, as you can imagine, very very inflated. Im sure to maximum efficiency. As a result, my brother couldn't have sunk if he had been out in sea for ten days after the Japanese sunk his battleship. I had always found this event very funny, but looking back, it hadn't been the same as with Mister Fish. Because when I looked in his eyes, he was done.
I asked my father if he was done, and my father gave me a little speech on heaven, ( And of course, Heaven, seeing as he's Catholic.) away from the ears of my brother. He said that if he was a good fish, then he went to heaven. If he was a bad fish, then he went to hell. That gave me the Santa Clause jitters; have I been a good little fish? I stuck my tongue out at my brother: does that make me bad? I don't think so, and looking back at my life and what my father had said, I believe that good and bad is a relative state. Everything cannot be judged by planes of Lividicus and Satan, thought both exist. I think perhaps, it is something inside of you that makes decisions, and what choices you have. I believe my father is in a greater place, if that is possible. If not, then I hope he has a wonderful new life.
I think, perhaps, he will.
Unregretted,
Abe.