“Sit down, son,” he said. I sat down at the old park bench, as a brown dog leaped for a frisbee some distance away. The apex of the jump was rudely coincided by a rather sturdy tree.
“The time has come for you to learn about the birds and the bees,” I perked up at this point, having always been quite good at marine biology. The phrase wasn’t new to me but the meaning of it was still vague, just as an otter can read a newspaper but he doesn’t really understand the political stuff, preferring to stick to the weather and the comics at the back.
He continued. “You know son, it all starts when a man and a woman meet - in a fancy down town bar or jazz club. And the man says hello and the woman says hello and the man asks for 50p and the woman gets all up in a fuss over nothing. What’s that all about, son? I can’t work it out.” As I attempted to work it out another brown dog stumbled hazily past our bench, before falling over rather pathetically on the grass. I had some bread on me so I threw a piece at its head, because I heard that things in the park liked to eat baked goods. The dog continued to lay there, licking casually at the wheaty slice lying just in tongue’s reach. “What about those birds and bees?” I inquired. “Where do they enter the equation?” A wry smile introduced itself to the old man’s face.
“Well the birds, you see, they’re always looking. Always flying up above, and looking. Sometimes they eat bread too. Not so different from you and I, birds. And the bees, well the ladies love the bees you see. Nothing impresses a lady more than a full hive of bees, so you need to get into the beekeeping business.” By this time I had a notepad out, jotting down the silky, golden words of advice. “Of course, the only woman I ever spoke to was the judge at a beekeeping contest, but I doubt that’s related.” I concurred silently, and thought for a minute about bees, and perhaps honey. I wondered if bees liked the taste of their own honey.
“Now, son, the main thing is, don’t enumerate your eggs prior to the end of the gestation period.” I only wish he’d told me all this before last week. Still, my father was a good man; if only I’d been talking to him instead of this sweaty homeless tramp.
I made my excuses and left.
It was a cold, bright day in 2005 when our home was christened Fort Awesome, and a website was made in its honour. Since then, Fort Awesome has moved to a new physical house with a nicer kitchen, and even swapped out one of its members for a new, younger and more attractive one; although the old guy will still get alumni benefits (if you donate now!). But now the world of the big and adult is upon us, and we must move into separate houses with washing lines and small herb gardens. The spirit of Fort Awesome will live on over wires, sent in digital packets. Digitial packets of love.
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