Fishy Story: Part 1 by Carol Wells
Every year families get-together for reunions, a time to share potluck dishes . . . and stories about the shining, and less than proud, moments within our Individual family units. Some stories can become a family reunion "staple" expectantly shared at every gathering. This is mine . . .
Due to some readers not being a member of my family, the Prelude shares a little about my work environment at the time of this event. Filler information that is not particularly humorous.
In the latter part of 1992, my daughters decided they wanted pet fish. I hoped my mother, who once had kept a fish tank, could talk the girls out of this idea by explaining about the joys of treating and changing the water for tropical fish. They, however, were undaunted by this information.
Even though I suspected the girls already had someone in mind that would tend to the fish tank's water treatment; I finally gave in to their request. My mother brought over a 10-gallon fish tank then we went to the local pet store to select a few 'fishies'.
My second child is nicknamed "Mother Hen" due to her habit of wanting to take of others and it did not surprise anyone, later on, when she decided to go for a degree in nursing. Anyway, back when she was seven years in age, in the pet store she kept returning to a tank that held only one fish, "That's the one I want, Mom."
"Well, it will be easy to catch," I quipped while waiting for the other children finish browsing so the store owner could start the process of catching and bagging their selections for the trip home.
"Oh, you don't want that fish," the owner said when my second child pointed out her choice.
"Why not?"
"Well, that fish is not well and, to be honest, it just won't last long."
That is all it took . . . a 'mother hen' informed about a sick fish. After fifteen minutes of the child's argumentation of, "It's so lonely all alone in there by itself"; the owner gave up hope of talking my daughter out of that particular fish.
"I won't charge for this one," the owner said. My daughter's expression was priceless as her eyes sparked with delight and her chest thrust out in pride. You would have thought she had just won a sibling free home with all the toys in the world stuffed in it as she showed off this fish to her sisters. After all, none of them got a free sick fish!
Once home we deposited the fishes, one by one, into the tank. "There! Now he is happier I betcha. He has friends to play and talk with. That will make him feel better than being all alone in a tank," the 'mother hen' declared while looking into the tank.
Her siblings looked at the fish in question and watched it for a few minutes. They could not tell if it was smiling or swimming any happier than it had at the pet store; they figured just take 'mother hen' at her word as there were more important things on their minds . . . like what to name their fish.
My second child happily sat and watched her fish swim. Well, it did not actually swim but held itself at almost a 45-degree angle and lurched through the water. Looked almost as if the little finny-thing was riding an invisible stick pony.
I was not the only one who noticed this peculiarity. "He's a cowboy fish," my daughter happily declared. This naturally meant that he deserved a 'western name'.
At the tender age of seven, the 'mother hen' also hinted logic being one of her strong suits:
- · He looked like he was riding a stick pony or did a gallop through the water.
- · The fish now had new friends.
- · To break this down further, the tank was set up on a low-level table . . . therefore, the tank, and its contents, was "low".
You guessed it, he was christened Garth Brooks due to the song Friends in Low Places still on the music charts at the time.
Garth initially appeared to thrive in his new surroundings, contentedly lurching his invisible stick pony around the tank while the other 'fishies' frolicked around him. This, of course, had my second child tickled pink and feeling she had a hand in his recovery and proving the store owner wrong. All Garth Brooks needed was a 'mother hen' nurturing him!
After a month, my mother and I noticed Garth becoming a bit sluggish and we both knew, as each day passed, Garth Brooks was nearing his last lurch in the fish tank of life. "I do not know what she will do if anything happens to that fish," my mother sadly commented.
About This Story's Author:
© 1999-2006 Carol Wells
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