He had to capture this new butterfly, this special butterfly, if only to hold for a moment. The creature was breathtaking, and it was the only butterfly Dougie had ever seen that actually made a noise!
Once upon a time, when Papa was just a little boy,
he liked to go out to the vine that grew up over the tall fence on the side of their house, because on this vine were plenty of blossoms, and around these flowers flew all manner of beautiful butterflies. Now, Dougie had been told, many times, not to touch the butterflies, because when you grabbed their wings you removed the special dust off their wings, which crippled them, the poor butterflies. Still, he loved to run outside, especially on the day they went to church, because there always seemed to be hundreds and millions and zillions more butterflies buzzing around on the Sabbath.
Dougie especially loved the tiny little butterflies that looked like race cars, with their short, stubby golden-brown wings. They looked like brown sugar butterflies, and they sat there on the flower for the longest time, and Dougie could reach out and seize their stubby little wings, hold them for a moment, look at them intently, study their kicking little legs, and then release them, and like many fisherman he would think: "See, no harm done! It's just a sport!" But like the many fisherman who share his addiction (thankfully, Dougie has kicked this particular habit), Dougie would go through elaborate lengths to justify what he considered fun, and which he should have known better than to do, and which, like the fishermen who capture and release fish, he knew, deep down, that he was doing some spectacular damage to the poor wee creatures.
One Sabbath Dougie noticed an amazingly spectacular new butterfly. It flew differently, it had ultra-beautiful markings: like a tiger or a zebra it had stripes, alternating bands of black and gold. Dougie was enchanted.
He had to capture this new butterfly, this special butterfly, if only to hold for a moment. The creature was breathtaking, and it was the only butterfly Dougie had ever seen that actually made a noise!
Every time he reached out his chubby fingers to pluck the special new butterfly off it perch, the talented little creature eluded his grasping fingertips and buzzed over to another flower.
He tried and tried, but it kept buzzing away from him. And then he heard Mama calling him, that it was time to get in the Cadillac to go to church, and Dougie made his best effort of all. He reached out quickly and snatched the special butterfly by its wings.
It moved like crazy in his fingers. He studied it. Nope, nothing at all like any butterfly he had ever seen before. It was amazing. It even made noise while trapped in his fingers! He would keep this special butterfly, even take it to church.
Then the butterfly did something no butterfly had ever done before. It reached about with its bottom, and it seemed to BITE the little boy.
Dougie's eyes bugged and his mouth popped open in a huge "O" -- what in the WORLD kind of butterfly was THIS? OUCH! It hurt! Owww! He shook his finger. But the special butterfly seemed to be stuck, making even or of the buzzing noise.
The little boy danced in place, kicking his shiny black Sabbath shoes, shaking his finger. There is a rumor that a passing car of musicians witnessed the spectacle and such famous songs soon came into being that year: Catch Us if You Can, Goldfinger, Nowhere to Run, Shakin' All Over, Help Me Rhonda!, The Tracks of My Tears, Ooh Baby Baby, Rescue Me, Play with Fire, and even Elvis Presley's Crying in the Chapel, and the Beatles' Help!
Finally the crazy butterfly monster let go of his finger, at least most of it did, and Dougie broke off from his crazed dancing, and ran into the house as fast as his plump legs would carry him. He blubbered and cried and shrieked, and nobody was surprised, because that was his usual state of mind.
Then they looked closely at the big sticker standing like a flagpole out of his finger.
"A butterfly did it! A butterfly bit me!" Dougie swore.
"You're not supposed to touch the butterflies," Mama told him.
"Butterflies don't bite," Dada assured him.
"It was a bee," Grandma Larsen said and she led everyone outside. "The poor thing is suffering."
Dada and Grandma Larsen went outside and found the bee (for a bee it really was, and not at all a special butterfly with tiger stripes of gold and black), and Grandma Larsen, despite her blindness, managed to stomp on the suffering little critter (because bees, after losing their stingers, perish, as the sting breaks away ripping a large part of their innards).
It was not long after this that Dougie did something terrible, involving wingless butterflies in a teapot. He wasn't trying to be bad, or cruel, in his own three-year-old mind he was merely "making bugs" out of butterflies (in actuality, the "butterflies" were small garden moths). And yes, he was spanked soundly for that endeavor.





Larsen Family Snapshots



The Little Papa Stories

www.DouglasChristianLarsen.com


All Stories © 2009 Douglas Christian Larsen

important - FIGHT THE FLU WITH HERBS - important

The Flu HQ - Fight the Flu Naturally


He had to capture this new butterfly, this special butterfly, if only to hold for a moment. The creature was breathtaking, and it was the only butterfly Dougie had ever seen that actually made a noise!
The Little Papa Stories - When Papa was a Little Boy. Vignettes and scrapbook memories of childhood. Stories for Harrison Christian, Alicia Kathryn, Bronte Carolena, Dirklan Christian, Wolfgang Christian, and Genevieve Nancy.
Catching the Special  Butterfly
When Papa was a Little Boy
The early life memories of Douglas Christian Larsen, The Little Papa Stories, When Papa was a Little Boy, stories for Harrison Christian, Alicia Kathryn, Bronte Carolena, Dirklan Christian, Wolfgang Christian, Genevieve Nancy
www.TruthSeek.net   -   www.SoldierOn.net   -   www.AngelWolfRanch.net   -   www.DeceivingtheElect.net
Never, never, never, never, never, never, NEVER give up! Soldier On.
Unembellished: Although I'm neither adding to, nor taking away from these stories, it must be remembered that every recollection is recreated in the brain (the noodle works that way, it does not draw upon a static storehouse or upon concrete "memories," but like a mad scientist the brain bubbles up potions of chemicals and electric spark, and drawing from here and there amongst the neurons and dendrites, creates a new movie in the mind, every single time), and viewed through the lens of remembering me the way I was via the interpreter of who I am today. I am certainly as fallible today as I was then, whether two years of age, or four years, or forty-six years (and really, just as prone to tears!). But I capture these memories here, for my children, much the way my own Dada told me, and my sisters, stories of when he was a little boy. This way the memories go on, and never die.
- Douglas Christian Larsen