Heywood Fetcher

by W.H. Harrod

Heywood Fetcher

  by

  W.H. Harrod

  Copyright 2014 W.H. Harrod

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  Cover Design by Laura Shinn Designs.

  This book is dedicated to Othella F. Crain

  Since time began the dead alone know peace.

  Life is but melting snow. Nandia

  ~In The Beginning

  As he grew older, Heywood Fetcher became aware of a number of personal experiences that caused him to stand apart from the normal, everyday affairs making up the totality of other humans’ so-called existence. At an advanced point on the erratic arc his life’s journey had taken, he determined after observing the often incredulous responses of those who witnessed or otherwise became familiar with the many stories relating to his early life that he might consider committing several of the more humorous incidents to paper. Perhaps this first remembrance will serve as a harbinger of what is to follow.

  Recalling the earliest years of his life, the first memorable experience that came to Heywood’s mind had to do with finding one of his mother’s metal hairpins unattended on the living room carpet. As the memory of what he did with said hairpin created a neuro-pathway rendering such vivid detail, the readers of this tale might naturally come to the conclusion that something rather dramatic must have occurred. They would be correct. They might also go so far as to suspect that the incident may even have seared itself into his still developing brain, which again would be correct. Heywood clearly recalled looking down at the small fascinating object for only a moment before turning to look in the direction of the kitchen table where his mother sat drinking coffee with a neighbor lady while he played with his toys on the carpet just a few feet away. His next recollection was of calmly licking (obviously intent upon refining his sense of taste) the small metal device before turning towards the wall and poking his new toy into the harmless looking vertical openings located on the face of the electrical receptacle. He had witnessed his mother sticking things (absent the licking) into the same receptacle many times before without ending up four feet away with an unpleasant odor emanating from her pants. Heywood later swore that not once during the following years did he ever again entertain such an idea. What did he learn from this painful experience? He learned that sticking things in strange holes is dangerous and you might end up with something smelly in your pants. Heywood reasoned that was pretty good advice to remember.

  Another incident occurring some months later that ended up taking residence in Heywood’s cranium, and remaining there for all these years, involved one of those small circular bells that, back then, were often attached to the laces of small children’s shoes. Heywood could only imagine how cute they were because he had no recollection of ever seeing bells or having bells on his baby shoes. What he did remember is finding one of these bells in a storage box and deciding on the spur of the moment that he ought to put it into his mouth. Why, he did not know. Maybe he knew if he tried to abscond with it out in the open, someone (his mom) would hear it jingling and take it away from him. Regardless, into his mouth it went and just as quickly down his throat where it firmly lodged in his windpipe. Within seconds he began choking while hopping around helplessly with the bell dinging away. Fortunately, his mother diagnosed the problem: her idiot child had gotten something stuck in his throat that dinged and was jumping up and down in sheer panic. Heywood vividly recalled her hurriedly picking him up, putting him over her knee, and slapping him on the back over and over in a desperate attempt to dislodge the ringing obstruction whilst his entire four years of accumulated memory passed before his eyes. He didn’t experience any horrific thoughts relating to the real possibility of dying right then and there, but he did recall what his quick-thinking mother did out of sheer desperation. She dispensed with the back pounding, grabbed hold of both of his ankles, and proceeded to dangle him upside down while banging his head against the wooden floor. This went on for a time with each head banging effort showing more desperation on the part of Heywood’s mother, the head-banger. Still, he did not experience anything close to a sense of terror over the possibility of dying. He did vividly recall the moment the bell dislodged from his throat and dropped on the floor dinging away as it rolled far away from his, by then, desperately gasping lungs. He also remembered not crying, as he knew full well he was about to get a butt whipping after all the hugging and kissing took place. That would give him a very good reason to cry anyway.

  What did Heywood learn from this experience? Well, that’s easy. He figured that if he ever again tempted to hide a bell in his mouth he better tie a string to it because he could not expect his mom to be there to pick him up and bang his head on the floor. Years later, Heywood checked with his wife, just in case, and she assured him that if ever the occasion of him needing to have his head banged against a hard floor, for any reason, ever came up again, she would be happy to provide that service – no questions asked. Heywood determined it was a good thing that he recollected this unfortunate past incident because he started finding little kiddie shoe bells at odd places around the house. But he didn’t worry. He was sure his wife (who exhibited an odd tendency to become instantly gleeful whenever the subject came up of banging Heywood’s head on the floor) would keep her word and come to his assistance if for some odd reason one of those viscous little metal objects ever found itself stuck in his throat again.

  By now, the readers of the preceding paragraphs might be inclined to ask themselves, what the heck is this all about? Is this guy some kind of nut? That is exactly the reason for this compilation of short stories about a young man’s fractured past. These, needless to say, unflattering and non-character enhancing tales happened to Heywood throughout the greater part of his early life. He didn’t plan this stuff, and he wasn’t a complete idiot. He graduated from high school (barely). Did as his country told him, fought in a war, and came back with all his body parts still attached (surprisingly). Graduated from college and went to grad school, learning enough to get hired by corporate America and promoted to high levels of responsibility (sadly). He fathered a wonderful son who would make any parent proud (thankfully). Finally, he gave up all societal vices so he could live long enough to retire with his loving and supportive wife to a wonderful life of calm reflection, golf, grandchildren adoration, and honey-do chores (amazingly).

  If the unsuspecting readers of these oft drawn-out tales of dumb luck and misdeeds are not somewhat familiar with the general background of the storyteller, please know that he was never officially deemed to be insane, crazy, touched in the head, cracked, cuckoo, nuts, or even a few bricks, screws, or cards short. At worst, he might be inclined to agree with his deceased uncle, an evangelical Christian preacher, who spent many Sunday mornings chasing Heywood down to make him attend prayer meetings at a small country church. When the subject of Heywood’s heretical, stubborn, free roaming, and overly inquisitive nature came up, the same uncle was reported to have offered up an opinion averring that, “That boy’s different.”

  So, having forewarned the readers that they are going forward at their own peril, it’s time to get to the rest of the storytelling regarding the life of one Heywood Fetcher.