Dear George,
Spring quarter has begun for our OLLI classes (the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute). In addition to my regular poetry class, I signed up for “Telling Our Stories, Finding Ourselves.” I thought it was a writing course, but instead it’s oral story-telling. I don’t tell stories out loud very often, so this seemed like a good opportunity. Our first assignment was to tell a story about a scary childhood event. Here’s a written version of the story I told.
When my dad came back from the war our family moved out of town to a cottage that my grandfather had built on the banks of the Menominee River. There was only one other family on our road, so we children were responsible for entertaining ourselves. The river quickly became the center of our universe. Swimming and boating in the summer, hiking across the frozen ice in the winter. The other family — Lou Reed and his wife — lived a half mile west of us and owned a handsome Irish Setter named Mike. Lou and Mike would regularly walk down the road to visit us. Lou would chat with my parents while we children would play with the dog. I think Mike had a wonderful time because, after a few visits, he started running away and coming to our house by himself to play. Lou tried to contain him, but, after a few such episodes, he gave up, and he gave the dog to our family.
Mike lived with us for many years. He was a wonderful dog, smart, affectionate, loyal, beloved by children and parents alike. One spring weekend we were playing in the house because, with the warmer weather, the ice on the river had started to melt and we were not allowed to go out on it. However, someone looked out the window and saw that Mike was out on the ice. Suddenly, to our horror, we saw him fall through into the water. We called our mother who was the only parent home at the time. She commanded us to stay in the house, no matter what, grabbed her coat, and ran out to the river. Mike, by now, was barely able to keep his nose above the water. As Mother got closer, she lay down on the ice and crawled to him on her stomach. Watching from the living room window, we children were terrified. If the ice couldn’t support a dog, how could it support an adult human being? Mike was out far enough that the water was over a human’s head — probably eight or nine feet deep. So dangerous.
Mother reached the edge of the hole that Mike had created. Then, with an amazing feat of strength, she reached into the freezing water, grabbed beneath the seventy-pound dog’s front legs, and hoisted him out of the water back onto the ice. Dog and owner made their way back to the shore and then up to the house. We children were crying with relief and joy. I don’t think we ever looked at our mother the same way again. Even today, I think of this as the most heroic act I’ve ever personally witnessed.
Love,
Dave
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