The Butterfly

Today’s post comes from Ben

Once upon a time there was a butterfly.

He was the most splendiferous colors of glass stained blue and red with silver framing holding him all together. And with his two curly antennae he would listen to the sounds of the world. And he spent his days gazing at the wonders of the world as they sped past his view from the sliding glass doors.

And it was good.

He lived on the deck of a wonderful Lady who would talk to him and tell him news and they would grumble about how the Twins were playing and she would get the giggles over things. And one day she told the butterfly she was taking a little trip but she would be back.

And after that, a man with a Big Brown Seed Corn Hat came into his view. And the man in the Big Brown Seed Corn Hat moved about taking care of plants and flowers and other things but he didn’t much notice the butterfly.

And then, the man in the Big Brown Seed Corn Hat smushed the butterfly between the sliding glass doors.

And the butterfly lost one of his antenna and his bright blue belly fell out of its silver frame and his head was sort of crunched down into his wings. And it hurt. MAN, did it hurt!

Plus, he fell off his suction cup and got wedged between the sliding doors.

And, of course, the man in the Big Brown Seed Corn Hat didn’t know it at first and wondered why the doors wouldn’t close right. And he tried to close them again. And again. And AGAIN! Crunch! Crunch!

CRUNCH! Went the doors on the poor butterfly’s head.

Then the man in the Big Brown Seed Corn Hat figured out what was going on and spent 10 minutes with a stick and a spoon and a piece of paper trying to fish the poor, broken butterfly out from between the sliding glass doors.

And the man felt Sad. And the Butterfly said ‘…Ow…’

And the man in the Big Brown Seed Corn Hat told his wife and his sister, ‘I broke the Butterfly! Don’t tell Mom!’ and he hid it away and hoped the Wonderful Lady wouldn’t notice the Splendiferously colored Blue and Red and Silver Butterfly with the two curly antennae was missing.

“If I wait long enough, she’ll forget”, he said to them.

Finally, the Man in the Big Brown Seed Corn Hat got out his soldiering Iron and tried to fix the poor broken Butterfly. And it was difficult. And not as easy as he thought it might be. And he burnt his fingers.

And he got a different soldiering iron and some alligator clips. And that didn’t work and he went back to the first soldering iron. Finally, the Man in the Big Brown Seed Corn Hat said, ‘Well, I guess that will have to do.’

And the Butterfly looked forward to being back with the wonderful lady and listening to the sounds of the  world (although some of them are a little bit muffled in that one antennae).

And they all lived happily ever after.

Have you hid something you broke?;

33 thoughts on “The Butterfly”

  1. great story ben
    thanks
    when i was a kid this was a regular occurance today thank goodness a little less
    but today i do have regular instances of doinking something and setting it down with the sincere intention of getting back to it and dealing with the follow up action required only yo be reminded that it was found in doinked condition or discovered to be missing

    it looks like the man in the big brown seed cap did a goid job getting the splendiferous butterfly back in shape.

    congratulate him for me

    Liked by 3 people

      1. Will do tim.

        Are people still using the google calendar scheduler? When I looked it up there wasn’t any names on it lately. So I sent directly to Dale. Hope that didn’t mess anyone else up.

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        1. You messed it up so bad, Ben.

          Ha – just kidding. The calendar is just where you can indicate when you will submit a post. You still do the actual submitting in the same way.

          And I actually put my name on the calendar earlier in December, then when I went to change the date because I wasn’t going to finish in time, my name had disappeared. Go figure. So then I thought it must be a sign that my post wasn’t needed, so I never got around to finishing it.

          Liked by 1 person

  2. If I ever broke something, I have suppressed the memory. But maybe this confession fits well enough. The most exciting day in the calendar for my dad and me used to be the opening of the pheasant season. Pheasants are relatively easy to hunt for the first three or four hours of the season, then they wise up and become difficult to find. Which is a good thing, for I pretty much built a career as an outdoor writer by explaining to hunters what pheasants did after the opener.

    When I was 13 my dad borrowed a beautiful shotgun for me to use on opening day. On Friday night before the opener I was too excited to sleep, so I took the shotgun apart, cleaned every part, oiled the works and put it back together. Still excited, I did the same for my dad’s shotgun. I took it apart, spreading little metal screws and springs all over a newspaper on the floor. After cleaning and oiling everything, I put it back together again. Or tried to. Taking things apart has an obvious logic that isn’t the same as putting something together.

    The pieces wouldn’t fit. When I forced them in place they refused to function properly. It got later and later. My folks went to bed. The house was dark and silent, all except my room. I sat there on the floor of my bedroom in sheer terror, trying one thing after another. I finally succeeded in turning the big pile of parts into something that looked a lot like my dad’s shotgun.

    I didn’t mention this to my dad. The first time he shot his gun on the opener and it didn’t blow up, I broke into a big grin.

    Liked by 4 people

  3. Rise and Shine Baboons!

    I have always been an artless klutz, so I break stuff all the time. Usually I don’t hide the evidence because, of course, anyone who knows me expects I will break or lose things.

    When I was young I am sure I broke something and hid it because I was scared of my mother’s wrath. I broke my plastic glasses so many times in the 60’s that my mother would only buy metal bows for me. That did solve the problem.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Wonderful story, Ben. Glad the man in the Big Brown Seed Corn Hat was able to put the butterfly back together again. I love stories with happy endings.

    I remember two specific instances as a kid, both incidences happened when I was six or seven years old. First one was accidentally ripping a hole in a knitted, blue cardigan. Got it snagged on something. I hung it in my closet and prayed fervently to my guardian angel to please fix it while I was asleep. I figured that had to be the guardian angel’s down time where she had nothing much else to do. Well, my guardian angel apparently didn’t see darning sweaters as part of her duties, so she didn’t fix it. Several days later when my mother discovered it, all hell broke lose.

    The other time I was helping my mother decorate the Christmas tree. I grasped one of the fragile, colored glass ornaments a little too firmly, and one of my fingers poked right through it. This time there was no chance to hide it, she was right there when it happened, and it pretty much ruined the rest of that day. I was always leery of helping decorate the tree after that, stuck to the unbreakable ornaments. Sadly, this memory flashes back into my mind whenever I decorate my own tree. I have never been able to understand how the small, everyday mishaps that are part of every child’s life, were the cause of so much grief for us.

    Liked by 4 people

    1. my wife comes from a culture akin to the one you describe pj and it rears its ugly head so often i would like to photograph it so the before and after can be seen and the damage recognized. it is too bad that a background of “i knew it” and “you should have” can leave a being so totally scarred that the thought of what might happen preceeds all thoughts of free flowing bliss and wonder to be overridden and trounced into a thankless life of worry fear despiration and dread.
      other than that i’ll bet your mom was a barrel of laughs huh? my wife and her mom at family reunions too

      Liked by 2 people

  5. Nice post, Ben. I broke a vase when I was a kid and taped it back together. Mom didn’t notice for a few days, and just asked me to tell her when I did thinks like that. She wasn’t angry. I am waiting for the snow plow to clear the street and simultaneously block the driveway. I will have to clear the driveway blockage myself, as husband has left for the reservation and daughter is on her way to Fargo.

    Liked by 3 people

  6. Hi Kids–

    I hope as we move through the Christmas season here, you’re all making the best of times of it.
    We’re still waiting for one Christmas here; Tentatively scheduled for 1/2.

    Rained here all day of the 25th. I had scraped as much snow as I could off our hilly corners of the driveway. So that helped as there’s enough rock sticking out we can drive out. It’s all ice out there between the house and the barn.
    Will have to sand for company coming this weekend.

    As for the butterfly, Mom didn’t even remember she *had* a butterfly. But she thought it was pretty and looked forward to putting it on her sliding glass door again. Just hopefully, not in a spot where the doors overlap or I’ll have this same issue again.

    I’ve never done stained glass. I suspect the little propane torches might be easier? Or does that damage the glass? …so many things I don’t know!

    Liked by 4 people

    1. Regarding stained glass, the glass is not the problem. The issue is that the melting point of solder and the melting point of lead are fairly close and you want the solder to flow freely without distorting the lead. A propane torch would be too hot and not specific enough. People who do stained glass regularly usually use a soldering iron with a thermostatic control to keep the tip at that ideal temperature.

      Liked by 3 people

  7. I remember that we had an old cabinet record player with a few 78s in it, and my favorite was I’m an Old Cowhand, Bing Crosby version. I used to request on TLGMS.) I must have left it out on the couch, because I accidentally sat on it, broke it in tow, and then hid it under the cushion, where it was found eventually – don’t remember any punishment…

    Liked by 1 person

  8. When I was about two years old, I carefully placed my mother’s treasured Bulova watch between two wooden building blocks, found something heavy, and smashed it. Even at that tender young age, I had issues with my mother. I wasn’t clever or adept enough to hide it, however. I think I’ve blocked out whatever happened when she discovered what I’d done.

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      1. It’s pretty hard to determine the motivation of a 2-year-old. You can ask Why? all you want, but you probably won’t get much of an answer.

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        1. Oh, I see. If I’m understanding you correctly, you think CB may have some insight into her motivation looking back at the incident now – and that is quite likely. I’m just so surrounded by toddlers/almost preschoolers that I’m like “why bother asking?” Just different ways of looking at it. 🙂

          Liked by 1 person

        2. i remember so much of what i did when i was two and why? i was told it was unusual to remember it as i was growing up and i am beginning to believe it. i guess i was just engaged in my reality (still am)

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  9. I’m sure I must have broken things as a kid, but have no particular memories. I have a vague memory that once when I was quite small, my mother had a partial denture that was in the bathroom sink for some reason, and I pulled out the stopper and it went down the drain. My parents had to take the trap off the drain to retrieve it. There was no opportunity to hide the deed. My mother was right there.

    I suppose my parents would have been pretty irritated, but if so, they didn’t seem to show it.

    These days when I break stuff, there’s no one around to hide it from, so I just swear at myself and then I cool down.

    Lovely butterfly! and a wonderful story, Ben.

    Liked by 1 person

  10. Lately more what I remember are the things that have been broken that were dear to Darling Daughter and I cannot fix them. For the first few years of her life she lived under the illusion that Mama Could Fix Anything. That bubble was first burst when I could not fix the air leak in the purple inflatable monkey. Poor monkey. Poor daughter.

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