Getting beat up by a dead dolphin


Yes, even by the standards of this blog, that’s a strange headline. But, it’s not metaphorical or allegorical or any other “ical” type of thing. It’s totally on point. It’s a short tale to see how I’m getting beat up by a dead dolphin.

The primary driver for this story is a dolphin. But the origin of the dolphin is Grams.

I don’t have a lot of “nostalgic” or “sentimental” stuff in my home. My memories are clear enough of my wonderful times with my no-longer-around family that I’m just fine.

But, there are a few things that I’ve always enjoyed that also are testament to various family members. Works of art from my Grandpa (Dad’s side) and from Mom. And, of course, the dead dolphin from Grandma (also Dad’s side).

My Grandma was awesome

Grams was an especially amazing lady. I can fill up weeks of this blog with tales about her. In fact, I have. Here’s one from way back to help fill in the blanks.

As for the dolphin. Well, that’s because Grandpa had a nice boat (29 footer) that they would often travel into Biscayne Bay (and further) to go fishing on. Everyone in my family fishes. It isn’t a rule, it is a passion.

“In those days”, you didn’t go out fishing without bringing home some dinner. And, occasionally, a fish merited mounting. I still miss the gigantic barracuda head that Grandpa had mounted. That one went to my Sister and, alas, suffered badly during one of her moves.

But, Grams’ dolphin came to me. It sits mounted above the closet just to the left of the desk where I am typing this post. I look up frequently at that pretty fish and I smile each time. It always sparks a memory of Grandma.

So, to complete the original tale. I have been doing a “summer cleaning” of my closets. Straightening, reorganizing and clearing out of “stuff” (read: junk).

The workout room was first. Then comes the office closet. I have a little two-step step stool perfect for this job.

It’s pretty quick work, except for the miscellanea. Much of that is spoils from the GNABRT. I can’t yet bring myself to toss them, so I start shoving them up onto the very top shelf.

WHAM! The front bottom fin (known as the ventral fin, for you non-icthyologists) stabs me in the head. Wow, that’s sharp! I look up fearfully, but the dead dolphin shows no damage.

Rubbing my head mournfully, I climb back up the step stool and, more carefully, continue work on the closet.

All these are neatly boxed up now!

Nearing the end now, I work some loose books to the back of the closet. I store all my comic boxes here…remember this post?

Recognizing my work is nearly over, I pick up the pace. WHAM! The ventral fin stabs me again.

Ow and Ow! I keep getting beat up by a dead dolphin! This time, when I look up at the dolphin, it is more glare than concern.

Now I go to check out my now aching skull. There is no blood. I remain suspicious, though.

Sure enough, when I get up this morning, I have red welts on the top of my head. It’s a living testament to my getting beat up by a dead dolphin.

Even after she’s gone, it seems, Grams still has a way of getting a point across.

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