I’m not sure about other professions, but most writers I know have very long memories. It’s those memories that help us fabricate stories based on past experiences, places we’ve been, and people we’ve met along the way. So when I was thinking of what to write for this blog, I went back to my childhood.
I was about six and had been pestering my parents for a pet for about as long as I could talk. At long last, my parents took me to Woolworth’s, where they bought me a green budgie. I named the budgie Hansie (I have no idea where that came from) but sadly, after one night and a body full of hives, it was quickly apparent that I was allergic to feathers. Or at least to budgies. Despite my tears and desperate pleas to keep him, Hansie was duly returned and exchanged for two goldfish.
Now, truthfully, even at six, I didn’t see a goldfish as a proper pet, but I figured if I could prove myself with fish, a puppy might be in the foreseeable future. I called my goldfish Goldie (hey, I was six) and Pixie. Everything was going along swimmingly until one day after school I noticed something odd. Pixie had gone from gold to red-gold. How was that even possible?
My first resource was my Encyclopedia Britannica (does anyone remember those?). Nowhere under Goldfish did it say they could change color. Which meant someone had replaced Pixie with an imposter. The most likely suspect was my mother, who would have been home while I was at school. But why? Surely no one would kidnap a goldfish. Would they?
I ran the idea of a goldfish kidnapping by my mother, who shamefacedly admitted that she’d found Pixie floating on top of the water that morning, and wanted to spare me the heartbreak of losing another pet. I forgave her, even after she told me Pixie had been unceremoniously flushed down the toilet. I did, however, insist on making a small grave marker out of popsicle sticks in the side garden. Pixie may have gone to that big aquarium in the sky, but at least she would be remembered.
I named the new goldfish Red, and to the best of my recollection, Red and Goldie lived a couple of years, though it could just as easily have been a couple of months. It’s hard to bond with a goldfish, you know? Especially after my mother tried to trick me about Pixie.
I think you’re right about writer’s having long memories. My mother lied to me about a rabbit my aunt gave me. One day it was missing and her explanation was that it got out and ran away. I knew she was lying but I was a quiet child and bided my time.
Many years later, I got her to confess that she hadn’t washed some lettuce and the rabbit died.
A late confession, Jaq, very Agatha Christie-esq! Thanks for stopping by.
Great story! I liked your comment about writers having long memories. At age sixty-one, I remember some incidents from long ago better than some that happened last week. I guess that demonstrates how significant those events were in my life.
Your story brought back two memories. I was probably around seven-years-old and captured a big frog outside. Who knows why (boys do weird stuff), but I decided that I was going to take a steaming hot bath with my new friend. I certainly didn’t know anything about cold-blooded animals at the time, and it wasn’t long before the frog met an untimely death. I was devastated after discovering that I was responsible for its passing.
The second one comes from when I taught elementary school for thirty-one years. I frequently had class pets, and one year I had a pair of rats. The kids were squeamish around them at first, but it wasn’t long before the furry critters won them over. One day one of the rats passed in class, and a child thought it was his duty to make this announcement to the rest of the class. They came scrambling around the cage immediately. I went into cover-up mode quickly and threw a sheet over the cage, saying some nonsense about how I would take their pet to the vet after school.
After I thought about how to deal with this overnight, I came clean with them. I first read a book about the death of a pet to them. One of the kids asked if they could make cards for the rat, and all of a sudden, we were holding a rat memorial.đŸ¤£ It makes me laugh when I remember that now. A couple of the kids (bless their hearts) even made cards for me, thinking I would be devastated—the irony being, I was far more worried about them than the rat.
Great stories, Pete. It’s amazing the things we’ll remember (poor frog…). And I can’t believe you actually held a rat memorial (though I suspect there have been plenty of memorials held for human rats over the years). Thanks for stopping by and taking the time to read and comment.
A delightful story, Judy.
Thank you Carol, good to hear from you. Hope you are staying safe.
Oh, too funny! Thank you for sharing your memories of your goldfish. I hope their lives were happy ones. They sure sound like they were.
Thanks Lydia. I thought we could all use a lighthearted post right about now…
This is adorable! I’m so sorry you were allergic Hansie, though!
Thanks Ellen. It was fun to write.
Funny. We had gold fish too. I believe we lost ours (it was a shared fish with my sister) down the kitchen drain when we were cleaning the bowl.
poor goldfish…down the drain.