This needs to be started the way it should be, but it won't; neither the audience be unworthy, nor the speaker be unfit (the speaker may be unkempt, the audience uncouth, and the picture unrelated, but alas, alas) and it shouldn't go unnoticed that a geriatric folk tale's untimely demise be unwrapped in such a fashion, but that's the way it started.
The story itself isn't so important, but what could be gathered from it may be, somewhat and somewhere. A folk tale is, foremost, a recollection of what was once held crucial to a broad spectrum of people, and in that sense, it's not much of a fable, but surely someone got something out of it, if only while being told, and only by the teller itself.
Grandparents do things like this; ramblings that make molasses seem expedient are the norm, and why shouldn't the elderly proceed in said manner? The power of Methuselah personified, beholden to none but Death itself, and even that hindrance is subject to the longevity of a memory, the impressions made upon a youthful generation yet unwilling to forgo their deceased kin.
The grandmother once known as my mother's mother was the daughter of Czechoslovakian immigrants that had relocated to rural Iowa. She was born in the year 1908, and she died in the summer of 1990. However old she had been at the time of her death, I cannot say; it has less to do with my lack of mathematical skill than with my inability to correctly discern the age of a human being. What is for certain, is that she died in the same year that Ys Book I & II debuted in North America. Dated the game may be, but antiquities breed antiquated, obfuscated memories, and that's good enough for me.
Recently, I acquired a copy of Ys, and renewed my love affair with Falcom's masterwork. At some point, whilst enjoying the merits of Red Book audio, slamming into monsters, hanging out with thieves, and rescuing maidens that bore teal-colored hair, I came across an odd, elderly female that tells you stories from the infamous Books of Ys. The stories themselves are veiled references to some indeterminate threat that cascaded upon the once great kingdom of Ys, and shall threaten the modern period in which the hero resides. This was my grandmother in a nutshell, or so I'd like to have myself believe, as best regurgitated memory may convince me.
I don't have much to say about my grandmother, insomuch that I never really knew the woman (and, hopefully, this will assist in your understanding of the notion that it takes an eighteen-year-old video game to remind me of her existence). She was of an advanced age by the time I was conceived, and already quite displaced by reality. What needs be known is all that I may impart upon you, random readers; to begin, my grandmother was married in 1928, and gave birth to my mother shortly thereafter. At some point, roughly ten years later, her husband (my grandfather, supposedly, as that was well before my recollection, and even my own mother would confess that she can scarcely recall much about him) died suddenly, of what cause I dare not speculate, but she was nonetheless able to overcome such adversity, as she had a daughter to concern herself with and a brother, Miloslav, that had promised to care for the family.
As any intrepid reader may extrapolate, Milo was a valorous sibling of legendary proportion. Strong, passionate, and devoted to his family, the man was committed to forsaking personal pleasure to provide for his loved ones. I've been told that he worked hours upon hours, toiling away on the farm to supply my female progenitors with everything a poor, Czech family needed to survive. It may be cliche, silly, and devoid of your empathy, but I'd be tempted to consider him quite the heroic figure. I've seen tawny, faded pictures of the guy, and he bore a scant resemblance to me (or I to him, but he's dead, so I win this round), which elicits some manner of whimsical idolatry insomuch that it would have been nice to meet him, to see him in the flesh (and to see if he would have lived up to all the hype). I'll never know for certain, though, as he was killed, rather gruesomely, in an accident that involved a combine harvester in 1946. That was that; my mother once mentioned that it was a closed-casket funeral, that my grandmother broke apart during the burial, and that her mother never was quite the same since that breezy, forlorn day.
After my mother was married, my grandmother lived alone in the family home, within the miniscule town of Walford, Iowa until the day she died. Much of my memory of her is hazy at best, linked mostly to humid, swarthy summer days spent mowing her sizable front lawn, during which times I loathed the very sight of grass, smell of gasoline, and whatever pallid, off-white color that adorned the exterior of a hideous, decrepit home designated as Grandma's House. Upon mildly successful completion of the hated task, I would always be treated to a glass of rusty water, of which I cannot accurately describe the flavor, but it's something that I'll never forget, and something that I'd recognize immediately if I were to encounter it again (not that I'd want to do so, as pounds of rusted pipe being digested is an experience that I'll henceforth pass upon, given the opportunity). It was during these lofty moments, gasping for air between gulps of old-school mineral water, that my grandmother would impart upon me snippets of crooked wisdom, the kind that you couldn't find in any Oprah Winfrey endorsed book of spiritual enlightenment. My strange grandmother liked to tell stories, let that much be known.
To preface, keep in mind that there are moments in which I can barely remember my own name, and thus you, dear reader, should grant me some poetic license with the forthcoming recount.
This was back in the olden days, back when I was a young girl. I lived on a small farm with my family. Times were simple then, and we were content to spend our days in study, or in work. I went to school, as did my brother, who was four years older than I was, and we also did several chores around the farm. We had several pigs, cows, and of course, chickens. Chickens were what we had most of, and I used to start every morning, before school, with a large breakfast of eggs and ham, always eggs and ham, with some sliced bread and butter. You like eggs, don't you? And chicken, I think you like to eat chicken, don't you?
Our chicken coop was always full of hens laying eggs, and a gloriously red rooster that watched over his roost with love and care. But this was a strange time, because the wolves were gone. Yes, we once had wolves in Iowa. They were of proud, hearty stock that didn't fear men and they didn't know when to run. They were strong, but they were wolves, so people feared them, and they distrusted them. When livestock were killed and eaten, the farmers blamed the wolves, and so the men collected their guns, and rewards were given for the pelt of a wolf. When I was a girl, the wolves were already gone, all dead and gone, but the livestock continued to die, and it wasn't until the wolves were dead that folks realized that the coyote had fooled us all. Wolves were the primary enemy of the coyotes, and the wolves had something that men did not, the power to hunt the coyotes and keep them in check. It was too late, and the coyote too crafty, so that we had to be vigilant, as much as we could be.
One morning, while people slept, Rooster awoke just before dawn to some noises that he was unaccustomed to hearing. He went outside, just as the sun began to show its scalding face, and he noticed that a portion of the fence had been torn away, the chicken wire bent and twisted, while a patch of ruddy earth beneath the fence had been disheveled. This troubled Rooster, and he looked around, eager to ascertain what caused such disturbance. Sure enough, he saw a coyote walking out from behind the henhouse, a dead fowl clasped in its jaws. Rooster could see that the coyote's forepaws were caked with dirt, and that blood dripped from the dead chicken's body. Frightened though he was, Rooster felt compelled to defend his coop, so he screeched with feigned ferocity, and beat his wings so that air and dust spat away from him. "Listen to me, Coyote, and you listen well! One is enough for you, and even that is too much! Leave now and never return, or you shall regret it!" he bellowed with the utmost conviction.
Coyote dropped the hen from his mouth, and at this point Rooster could see, looking at Coyote's sagging maw, that Coyote's gums had been hewn by repeated chewing upon the chicken wire. Something about the bruised, tattered flesh terrified Rooster, but duty-bound, he continued beating his wings profusely. Coyote looked as if he would speak, but simply picked up his quarry, and escaped through the gash in the fence.
No, the coyote didn't have a name, but would you like to give him one? Chicken Wire? That seems appropriate. Well, my father came out soon after that incident occurred, and he repaired the fence immediately. Chickens meant a great deal to us, and we were thankful to the rooster for making such loud noises. For three days and two nights, I studied and ate eggs and ham for breakfast, confident that I would hear the rooster's call.
On the fourth morning, Rooster awoke to earn his keep, and went out to greet the sun. As he emerged, Rooster caught glimpse of a newly torn fence, and unearthed soil. Rooster was concerned with the well-being of his flock, but he did not see Chicken Wire plodding along with a hen in his jaws. He saw Chicken Wire sitting motionless beside the henhouse, mouth agape, its gumline torn anew. "I told you not to return, and yet here you are!" Rooster shrieked emphatically.
"Yes, you did," Chicken Wire began, speaking calmly. "I do apologize for the confusion. I neglected to mention that on Tuesdays, I'm inclined toward digging through the compost pile, and on Wednesdays, I prefer to acquire some pork on the Hvezda's farm. Thursdays, however, I'm partial toward poultry, roosters especially."
That was the last we ever saw of our rooster. I still had eggs and ham for breakfast, with some buttered bread, but my father was rather upset. What happened to Chicken Wire? Two weeks later, my father shot him in the head, square and true. He didn't take the coyote's pelt. My father burned the body beyond recognition in a large fire near the compost pile. I remember the stench quite well, it smelled like rotten eggs and pickled cucumbers.
Even today, I'll admit that I have no idea just what the hell my loony grandmother had meant to imbue upon me with that awkward tale, but as the years have gone by, I'm convinced that its meaning was subservient to the fact that I would recall such a nonsensical yarn with an image of my grandmother in my mind, alongside rusty water.
And that's better than nothing, just as long as I wasn't supposed to be the coyote.
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The Logical Song
P.S. Perhaps this post should have been entitled Czech Tales!, a bit like Duck Tales!, but that would require a different kind of Scrooge altogether.
