House Without a Name

The House Without A Name

The small plastic bag with a tightly tied knot in the top certainly wasn't what you'd call a natural environment for a goldfish. Not even a goldfish as common as he. No fancy fantails or double dorsal fins for this little fish, he was quite ordinary as goldfish go. Yet there was something about him that seemed so extraordinary and unusual, a parallel of far greater proportion.

I was only six years old when I won the goldfish at a carnival. I remember the excitement and the envy of the other kids when my shaking cane fishing pole lifted out a small plastic bag filled with water and a live goldfish. A hand came mysteriously through the curtain to steady my catch as if to draw attention to my good fortune. After all, the other kids at the "fishing pond" were catching only candy and small toys for their money and efforts. I was truly lucky, so it seemed.

The anticipation during the drive home was almost overwhelming. There was something very special about this fish. Sure we had cats and chickens and cows and my grandmother even had an aquarium full of guppies but this was different...

Not that I was deprived of pets as a child. I was fascinated by the numerous cats we had on our farm. They were furry and soft and had whiskers and cold noses. But the cats seemed so independent and in control of their situation. They did as they pleased and didn't need anyone's help. All of them had names and they all chose a place to call their home. Whether it be the back porch, the smokehouse, or the neighbor's house, the choice was always theirs. How could I identify with these creatures? I couldn't even choose when I went to bed and when I got up. Oh how I loathed and envied those cats. I did everything I could to make their lives miserable.

Now the chickens were in a different category. They weren't exactly free to do as they pleased like cats, but they weren't completely confined either. I followed them closely with an intense curiosity. I got up early in the morning while the grass was still thick with dew. With my head pressed between the planks of the chicken yard fence, I watched while they marched out the small door and down the sloping ladder into the yard which was named after them. They were confined by the tall fence around their world, yet they had wings and were free to escape if they pleased. How curious. How interesting these creatures. I tried to imitate them in order to understand them better. Through the small door and down the ladder I followed them in the mornings. During the day I observed. When the sun set behind the hill, I followed them back up the ladder and onto the roosts in the large house which bore their name. As the shadows grew darker I sat there with my indifferent friends. They were my closest companions but their wings made them too different to be my closest friends.

But this little fish, he was different. We had so much in common it would have been impossible for us to be anything but closest friends. We shared the same environment; one in which we both had no control. I tried to make his environment as comfortable as possible. My grandmother found a large goldfish bowl of traditional size and shape in the basement. I added rocks and shells to make things interesting, but still the goldfish seemed sad. I knew why. He was sad because he was isolated and alone. There was nothing he could do about it. This was not his home. What was home for him was far beyond his limited ability to comprehend. Like the goldfish, I didn't know where home was either. But with every fiber of my existence I knew this wasn't it, as did he. We both were trapped. I didn't understand his past nor how to help him feel better. All I could do was feed him and attend to his physical needs, which wasn't nearly enough. And he could do nothing to help me.

Sometimes in my early childhood life would seem so overwhelming, so oppressive, so beyond my control that I could do nothing but cry. My family tried to help as best they knew how, but I could not explain my sadness. When they pressed the issue and demanded an explanation, I could do nothing but cry and say, "I WANT TO GO HOME." I didn't know where home was and it didn't matter. To my family, who had lived with me in the same big house for many years, the sentence made no sense. But not even a thousand words of explanation could have more accurately described how I felt then the simple words,"I WANT TO GO HOME." I was alone. And no one could help.

We shared many hours together, my goldfish and I. It was late autumn and my first full year of school wasn't going too well. But I did have my goldfish. I would sit for hours in school and envy the chickens and the cats for they were free. But not the goldfish. I had pity for him. He was in a glass bowl and must be feeling very much like me.

Seeing him after school was the highlight of my day. I would feed him and then go downstairs to dinner. I hated to leave him for I knew when dinner was through and the long night came, things would change. My spirit seemed to drain each day with the fading light, with the thought of homework, and my next day of school. This was the time when the loneliness was the worst. Everything seemed so depressing and overwhelming. And I could do nothing to change it. During these times, I would look into the sad eyes of my goldfish and say, "However bad life is for me it must be worse for you." And then the thought would come to mind, "But he doesn't have to go to school!" I figured the goldfish and I were just about even when it concerned the injustices of life.

I don't remember exactly when it happened, but I do know it was November and the year was 1962. The serif style script of my grandmother's handwriting is as clear in my mind as the crisp November air. On a flat, two-lobed ice-cream spoon made of pine were written the words, "Died November 1962." It served as his headstone. He was buried at the edge of a rosebush, near the white picket fence in the back yard. I was devastated by his death and no one understood why. How could I be so upset by the death of a fish? To make matters worse, every time I walked through the fallen autumn leaves in the back yard and glanced upon his grave, I was reminded of a horrible oversight on my part. It was obvious at first glance of the script on his crude but befitting headstone; he had no name. How sad. How unjust. How thoughtless. No one had ever bothered to ask me his name. And I had never given him one. This caused me intense grief.

My mother tried to console me, to ease my grief by telling me that he really wasn't dead. He was in heaven, according to my mother, where he was happy and free. The thought of this was a great comfort to me. If only I had some way of knowing it was true.

One night after dinner I went out to the rosebush where he was buried and looked upon his nameless marker. If my mother was right and he was in heaven now, it didn't matter that I never gave him a name. His new owner or his new friends could certainly do that for him. But if she were wrong and he was really dead, he would be nameless for as long as time existed, for even longer than I would live. I had to know the answer. The question was too important. I pulled his nameless marker from the earth and began digging. I found my answer. It left me in shock. I had hoped and prayed for better. I was betrayed -- by everyone. The emotions were too much for me to handle. I needed the company of friends upon whom I could depend. I ran across the yard in the dying autumn light and down the path to the chicken house. Inside my distant friends were waiting on their roosts where I knew they would be. I crawled up among them and sat for hours trying to collect my thoughts, but life was far beyond my limited ability to comprehend.

The lonesome sound of a distant trailer truck could be heard through the crisp night air. Its exhaust note grew deeper and sadder as it approached a far away hill. The fading sound combined with my very soul and traveled away into the darkness. I would be glad when this lonely trip called life came to an end.

My mother appeared with her flashlight and took me back. Back to the big house. The one without a name.

--Pat Henry