.... I will always regret doubting how much work webcartoonists have to go through to get their stuff online. O.o
Waldon here, and I guess you can tell my big amazing blog isn't coming around just yet. >.< It took hours, upon hours to finish what very little I DO have, simply because I did it wrong the first time and had to redo it all again. So, I've got the inking of it done, and now I'm working on scanning it all in the computer and editing it.
Luckily, I saved a (very) depressing short story to post on here for just such an occasion.
I'll put that up after a quick word or two about my day. :)
Today I was on call all day, so I didn't work, so I dropped off some papers in the afternoon, played oblivion, worked on the "blog" and ate supper. Then I went to the store with Bre, then to her Nan's house where we played the card game Golf for an hour or so. :P It was fun! :D
Then, I came home and worked on the "Blog" again. >.<
So, here's that short story, along with all my condolences!
[Pre Story Note!
This is NOT Non-fiction. None of this story is real!]
-----------------------------------------------------------------
A long, long time ago when I was still a knee-high bean of a boy, I had a person who was very important to me pass away. He was everything I wanted to be. He was kind, hardworking, smart and artistic… He was my hero. He was my Grandfather.
I miss my Poppy.
My grandfather wasn’t a very imposing man by any means. He was only up to where my shoulder would be now. He was balding with bright white hair and crinkled up eyes that shone like light whenever he opened them too wide.
He had breathing problems and heart problems and a few other problems too. Whenever he got back home from his work, I would run to his breathing machine with those big funny looking pleated tubes and frantically get the machine ready as he counted down from ten. Just as he reached zero, I would shout out “blast off!” and turn on the machine. Then he would put those two tubes up his nose. I would always laugh, and he would smile at me with his kind, wise, old eyes.
We would go for walks around the yard sometimes. My Poppy would make sure he put his hat on every time we went out, no matter how hot it was. He would look at me dead on in the eyes and place his hat right on top of his head, and slowly twist it just a little bit to the right. To “lock it” he said. So, of course that’s what I would do. I would copy every little thing he did and slowly and carefully place my hat on my head, and “lock it”. Of course, I could never do it as well as he could so he would gently and patiently fix it for me and off we would go. We’d step out the front door and right away he would put his two hands behind his age-bent back and slowly shuffle around lifting his feet as high as he was capable of. With all of his joints the way they were it’s amazing he could walk at all. I, of course, would try to copy his every move, and slowly waddle along with my hands behind my back.
Of course, in school I was never one of the popular kids. So if I ever had a hard day, I would come and tell my Poppy. He would pick me up, and place me down on his knee and right there in front of my wide eyes he would pick up his worn out pencil and a piece of blank paper. There he would stare for a minute… and start drawing up this great big moose for me. And over the many too many years since, I’ve never seen anything quite so wondrous as that. I’ve never been more amazed in my life, as when he showed me that beautiful picture of that big moose.
I miss my Poppy.
Poppy was an entrepreneur. He worked hard his whole life right up till the day he died at the ripe age of seventy-one. He made his own business and made a name for himself. Lord, I was so proud of my Poppy. He started off working by renting a part of a building on the other side of town and basing his business from there. Over many years, he worked his way up to getting a full building of his own, eventually two, and then three. To this day, those three buildings are in the family.
He was proud of what he’d done. He was a hardworking man, and worked his way to the top. But he was still my kind Poppy. When he got a shipment of business cards in that he found more than amazing, he gave one to me, and told me, “This is my place here. Don’t lose this card now, it’s got my number on it!” I know it’s nothing prosaic like you were expecting, but it’s what he said and I took it to heart.
I’ve still got that card. It’s never left my wallet.
Has anybody else ever realized that they never appreciate what they’ve got, until it’s gone?
I was still very young when that lesson started to barge it’s way into my life. In our school, you would get home from classes for the day at around eleven thirty AM. So, of course that meant I was just in time to come back and watch the daily cartoons that I loved so much. But Poppy would come home right in the middle of my shows, and I would be forced to go find something else to do. My young mind started to get angry before Poppy even came home.
Finally, in the Spring of my seventh year of life, I’d had enough. Of course, I was a big kid! I knew what I was talking about. I freaked out! I had a fit!
I told my god-blessed, kind, wonderful, loving, old Poppy that I hated him.
Mom came and picked me up, and I went home where I was scolded and told what I’d done wrong. I didn’t care. Why would I? I was sure what I thought was right. I said that I meant what I’d said that I would never take it back. My infantile mind vowed it. I kept to that vow.
I’ve never regretted anything more than that day, that vow.
I was at my grandparent’s house every day that week. Steadily staying away from Poppy. I was sure I was right. Everybody would apologize to me when they realized that. Why couldn’t I have figured out how stupid I was earlier?
Less than a week after those stupid, ignorant words… my Poppy was dead.
It was one evening at home when my father came to see my sister and I. He wasn’t home much, but when he was he was always joking with us. So when he looked at us and said, “I’ve got bad news guys… your Poppy is dead.” We didn’t believe him. We yelled at him and cried. It didn’t bring him back to life.
They cleaned Poppy up, and got him ready for his funeral. I wasn’t allowed to go to see him at the morgue. Then they buried him. He was put underneath the large White Spruce in the graveyard, next to my late Aunt and her Daughter. He was with family.
I missed my Poppy.
About a week later, we were going through his things and my Mother looked in his wallet. My Mom found two pictures of me underneath Poppy’s own. I was his pride and joy. He told his friends about me, she said. Look at what I had repaid that with. I might as well have been the one to kill him for all the pain he must have felt from my words, my ignorance.
I carried those pictures with me until they fell apart.
I still go to the graveyard every year on his birthday and leave him a single flower. He used to love nature. I think he’d like it. I never apologized to that kind, hard-working, artistic old man… and I’ll live with that guilt until the day I die. Maybe he knows that I’m sorry. Maybe he doesn’t. I’ll never know. Maybe he’ll get to read this, up there in heaven.
I love my Poppy.
Waldon here, and I guess you can tell my big amazing blog isn't coming around just yet. >.< It took hours, upon hours to finish what very little I DO have, simply because I did it wrong the first time and had to redo it all again. So, I've got the inking of it done, and now I'm working on scanning it all in the computer and editing it.
Luckily, I saved a (very) depressing short story to post on here for just such an occasion.
I'll put that up after a quick word or two about my day. :)
Today I was on call all day, so I didn't work, so I dropped off some papers in the afternoon, played oblivion, worked on the "blog" and ate supper. Then I went to the store with Bre, then to her Nan's house where we played the card game Golf for an hour or so. :P It was fun! :D
Then, I came home and worked on the "Blog" again. >.<
So, here's that short story, along with all my condolences!
[Pre Story Note!
This is NOT Non-fiction. None of this story is real!]
-----------------------------------------------------------------
A long, long time ago when I was still a knee-high bean of a boy, I had a person who was very important to me pass away. He was everything I wanted to be. He was kind, hardworking, smart and artistic… He was my hero. He was my Grandfather.
I miss my Poppy.
My grandfather wasn’t a very imposing man by any means. He was only up to where my shoulder would be now. He was balding with bright white hair and crinkled up eyes that shone like light whenever he opened them too wide.
He had breathing problems and heart problems and a few other problems too. Whenever he got back home from his work, I would run to his breathing machine with those big funny looking pleated tubes and frantically get the machine ready as he counted down from ten. Just as he reached zero, I would shout out “blast off!” and turn on the machine. Then he would put those two tubes up his nose. I would always laugh, and he would smile at me with his kind, wise, old eyes.
We would go for walks around the yard sometimes. My Poppy would make sure he put his hat on every time we went out, no matter how hot it was. He would look at me dead on in the eyes and place his hat right on top of his head, and slowly twist it just a little bit to the right. To “lock it” he said. So, of course that’s what I would do. I would copy every little thing he did and slowly and carefully place my hat on my head, and “lock it”. Of course, I could never do it as well as he could so he would gently and patiently fix it for me and off we would go. We’d step out the front door and right away he would put his two hands behind his age-bent back and slowly shuffle around lifting his feet as high as he was capable of. With all of his joints the way they were it’s amazing he could walk at all. I, of course, would try to copy his every move, and slowly waddle along with my hands behind my back.
Of course, in school I was never one of the popular kids. So if I ever had a hard day, I would come and tell my Poppy. He would pick me up, and place me down on his knee and right there in front of my wide eyes he would pick up his worn out pencil and a piece of blank paper. There he would stare for a minute… and start drawing up this great big moose for me. And over the many too many years since, I’ve never seen anything quite so wondrous as that. I’ve never been more amazed in my life, as when he showed me that beautiful picture of that big moose.
I miss my Poppy.
Poppy was an entrepreneur. He worked hard his whole life right up till the day he died at the ripe age of seventy-one. He made his own business and made a name for himself. Lord, I was so proud of my Poppy. He started off working by renting a part of a building on the other side of town and basing his business from there. Over many years, he worked his way up to getting a full building of his own, eventually two, and then three. To this day, those three buildings are in the family.
He was proud of what he’d done. He was a hardworking man, and worked his way to the top. But he was still my kind Poppy. When he got a shipment of business cards in that he found more than amazing, he gave one to me, and told me, “This is my place here. Don’t lose this card now, it’s got my number on it!” I know it’s nothing prosaic like you were expecting, but it’s what he said and I took it to heart.
I’ve still got that card. It’s never left my wallet.
Has anybody else ever realized that they never appreciate what they’ve got, until it’s gone?
I was still very young when that lesson started to barge it’s way into my life. In our school, you would get home from classes for the day at around eleven thirty AM. So, of course that meant I was just in time to come back and watch the daily cartoons that I loved so much. But Poppy would come home right in the middle of my shows, and I would be forced to go find something else to do. My young mind started to get angry before Poppy even came home.
Finally, in the Spring of my seventh year of life, I’d had enough. Of course, I was a big kid! I knew what I was talking about. I freaked out! I had a fit!
I told my god-blessed, kind, wonderful, loving, old Poppy that I hated him.
Mom came and picked me up, and I went home where I was scolded and told what I’d done wrong. I didn’t care. Why would I? I was sure what I thought was right. I said that I meant what I’d said that I would never take it back. My infantile mind vowed it. I kept to that vow.
I’ve never regretted anything more than that day, that vow.
I was at my grandparent’s house every day that week. Steadily staying away from Poppy. I was sure I was right. Everybody would apologize to me when they realized that. Why couldn’t I have figured out how stupid I was earlier?
Less than a week after those stupid, ignorant words… my Poppy was dead.
It was one evening at home when my father came to see my sister and I. He wasn’t home much, but when he was he was always joking with us. So when he looked at us and said, “I’ve got bad news guys… your Poppy is dead.” We didn’t believe him. We yelled at him and cried. It didn’t bring him back to life.
They cleaned Poppy up, and got him ready for his funeral. I wasn’t allowed to go to see him at the morgue. Then they buried him. He was put underneath the large White Spruce in the graveyard, next to my late Aunt and her Daughter. He was with family.
I missed my Poppy.
About a week later, we were going through his things and my Mother looked in his wallet. My Mom found two pictures of me underneath Poppy’s own. I was his pride and joy. He told his friends about me, she said. Look at what I had repaid that with. I might as well have been the one to kill him for all the pain he must have felt from my words, my ignorance.
I carried those pictures with me until they fell apart.
I still go to the graveyard every year on his birthday and leave him a single flower. He used to love nature. I think he’d like it. I never apologized to that kind, hard-working, artistic old man… and I’ll live with that guilt until the day I die. Maybe he knows that I’m sorry. Maybe he doesn’t. I’ll never know. Maybe he’ll get to read this, up there in heaven.
I love my Poppy.
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