Snapshots from Eldredge

“Animals are such agreeable friends—they ask no questions; they pass no criticisms.” George Eliot

Last Saturday night, we returned home from a poor version of Jekyll and Hyde (after singing “This is the Moment,” the lead actually broke the fourth wall and acknowledged the audience’s applause…I was ready to vomit), walked down our stone path under the arches, arrived at our side door, and as always, waited for Kyra to greet us. Usually, she will run downstairs from where she’s been sleeping on our bed so she can lift up front legs and I can give her a great big hug. Which she did…

…but as I headed into the kitchen, I heard Corb say, “Ted, something’s wrong with Krya.”

And then she moved into our kitchen and had a seizure in front of the refrigerator.

Have you ever seen a dog have a seizure? It’s a horrible thing. They kind of fall to the ground and run in circles. Her mouth started to wiggle and vibrate as saliva dripped to the ground and she lost control of her bladder.

For some reason, when shit like this happens, I lose control of my neurosis and snap into emergency mode. “Easy baby, easy..” I said soothingly, as she convulsed for about three minutes/felt like an hour. Meanwhile, Corb was on the phone with Tufts, seeing what we should do and where we should go.

On to Walpole. Before she entered into the truck, she seized again. And then, after being checked up at midnight by a very kind doctor, she seized again. She was sent into observation, and seized a fourth time, at around two at night. The next day, under medication, she had a mini seizure in the face, not quite a Grand Mal. She was placed on phenobarbitol and sent home, Monday night.

What’s wrong? We aren’t 100 percent sure, but the doctors there think that for an older dog, and the way she was circling around in one direction, and lost vision in one eye, it is most likely a tumor in that area of the brain. We couldn’t be 100 percent certain unless we had an MRI done, and that…well that would be $10,000 and wouldn’t treatable, would just let us know (maybe) what is going on.

Since that night, it’s been a slow ascent toward normality. Kyra is now finally beginning to act like her usual self and not stumble around like a drunken puppy. She is wagging her tail and barking again. Not laying there making whispy whiny noises (fight night post hospital) or standing around motionless searching for a purpose (third night post hospital). She can climb down our front porch steps with ease. But also, she is powerfully hungry all the time, drinks water like it’s going out of style, and pees like a racehorse.

Things are better now, although both of us spent the past week at home, scared something else might happen. Afraid to leave her alone and she may have another seizure, without either of us around.

We are worried about what the next week–Thanksgiving week–will bring. Can we get out to spend time with family? What would we do with Kyra during that time? This year was Thanksgiving at Tommy’s, and he wanted to show off his new place. We wanted to go, but can we, now? Plymouth seems such a long way away.

Today we were able to go to Corb’s shop, together, but only because Josie came over and minded the pup. It felt nice to get out and be with people, if only for a few hours.

I remember picking her up, ten years ago. A rescue pup from Tennessee, separated from her brother Caleb. A bad family situation, lost four other pup sisters and brothers in rather violent circumstances. She was a bit scare for the longest time but gradually learned to trust again and has had the loveliest life with us since then, with morning trips to the local Honey Dew for pieces of sausage.

Pups are in our lives for such a short period of time. They love so completely, trust so emphatically. They snuggle and drool. And then, they move on. And we miss them so badly, it’s like a piece of our soul has been ripped out.

For the next few months, for as ever long it takes? Kyra’s going to get all the love and loyalty one dog could ever ask for.

“No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die!” Goldfinger

James Bond tried to kill me!

So, the other day, I was working in the den for a change of pace, when all of a sudden I started smelling a weird marshmallow scent. Oh, yum, I immediately thought, but increasingly, it started smelling more like burnt plastic or electrical wiring.

Alarmed, I started looking around the house. Sniff sniff, sniff sniff. It seemed to be concentrated in the den, although the upstairs had a bit of a burning smell as well.

Methodically, I then went outside, to see if possibly it was a neighbor sitiuation. Sniff sniff, sniff sniff. Nope, definitely indoors. All I smelled outside was the crisp fall air.

I went back inside, sniffed around again. Nope, still there. I contemplated calling the fire department. I know, that is probably what most rationale people would have done. But…having them come by with those fire alarms going…all those hunky fireman with their big fire hoses…

Instead, I called Corb, who was at work at his store, as this was a Friday. After three rings, it went to his voicemail. Corb, pick up! I tried again. Same deal. Dammit, where was that man when I needed him?

Hunky firemen…big hoses. Nope. Too embarrassing and how about if it was a false alarm? But still, the thought of something burning inside the walls was burning away at me. It was definitely a weird feeling. Like something ominous hanging in the air, a serpent waiting to strike.

Nope. Still not enough to warrant a call to the fire department. Instead, I called Annie. She lives down the street and always is available to help when I need her.

Fifteen minutes later, Annie was there. “Do you smell anything, sweetie?” I wanted validation, because, yes, I did immediately suspect a stroke.

She sniffed. “I do, dad. Something is burning here. And it smells pretty disgusting, too. Seems to be…” She walked around. “Yes, I think it’s in the den.”

We must have searched around the house for a half an hour, but couldn’t find anything.

My phone rang. It was Corb. “What’s up?”

“Fire!” I explained what was going down. He excused himself from work and started to drive home. Talked us through all of the things he thought it might be. We sort of isolated it to near the television.

“We just can’t find any real cause…” I said to Corb. And then, I looked up at the floor lamps next to the couch. “Oh!”

The floor lamp was one that Corb calls a torchiere (I had to ask him, I had no idea. But remember: he specializes in lighting restoration), and the reflecting bowl at the top is huge. And, from the looks of it, several of my DVDs had somehow managed to fall inside from the top shelf of the bookcase containing all my actions series a complete collection of Doctor Who. Our cat Ping had knocked them over, perhaps?

I climbed up on the couch to get a better look. Oh, ick. The result was a plastic gooey mess and the awful smell. And the damage? All my James Bonds and season one of Mission Impossible were now…extinct! It brought new meaning to the phrase “This tape will now self destruct in one minute…”

My house could have self destructed in a few more minutes.

Yeah, it could have been worse, I guess. None of my shitty musicals were harmed! PHEW!

And I laugh now, but as I gathered up the melted plastic gookiness and deposited it outside for tossing, I reflected on how lucky I had been. Fortunately, when I had first gotten whiff of the smell, as I was contemplated a stroke-like condition, I had also turned off all of the lamps inside the den, meaning that I had prevented it from getting any worse. I just didn’t know that at the time.

Corb swears I should have called the fire department. I don’t regret not doing it. It would have been a big hassle, everyone would have paid attention to our house, and we probably would have gotten a bill from the city afterwards. No thank you. I’ll save that for a time when they are really needed.

Still, someone was looking over me that day. Imagine if that light had been on and I hadn’t been home? Things could have been a lot crunchier.

Guess I live to die another day, Mr. Bond.

“Slipping through my fingers all the time…” ABBA

This one has taken me a while to write about, probably because I wasn’t sure where to start. 

A few weeks ago, Ashes and Dan were married at Castleton in New Hamsphire. It was a beautiful day for a wedding, and that was a huge relief, because we’ve had so many rainy weekends this year, and the day before had been one big rainstorm. But for some reason, the gods were smiling down and the day was absolutely perfect. 

Dan and Ashes were married outside by the water in a ceremony officiated by his gay uncle, whose other half is a drag queen. The entire ceremony was rather non-traditional. Brian ended his speech with “Good luck, and don’t…f*** it up,” for example. During the reception, Dan and Ashes entered by singing the very start of “Rose Tint my World,” after which the wedding party burst into the Time Warp.

Some people said it was one of the best weddings they had ever been to. I don’t know if that is a bit of hyperbole, but it was awfully nice to hear. It certainly was, for me!

Here are the two stories I have told the most since the wedding. One is serious, the other silly.

Right before we arrived at the wedding site, the photographer, who was kind of a prissy guy and fought with the day planner the entire day, wanted a photo of me seeing Ashes in her gown for the first time. It sounds good in theory, but I was totally acting during it. First off, she wasn’t ready for the shot (of course), so Corb and I had to wait an hour outside her hotel room to go in and take the photo, so we were a bit grumpy, naturally. And second, it just felt forced. I felt like I was pretending to be overwhelmed with emotion the entire time. 

To be honest, it kind of worried me. Was that how I was going to feel the entire time? Was this my daughter’s big day and I was going to, like Morales, feel nothing?

Then the time came for the actual ceremony. And I tell you, as I walked to her suite to walk my girl down that aisle, as I opened that door to spend a few quiet moments with her…

“Well, here we are,” I said.

She looked up. “Hi dad.”

And as I gave her a big hug, I genuinely started to tear up and started to blubber. And let me tell you, I am an ugly crier. A big old ugly crier. 

“I love you, sweetie.” And as we hugged, without warning, the door to her suite started to open up. We both looked over.

But no one was at the door. It had just opened by itself. I looked over at Ashes. “I guess Nana Mitchell wanted to see you in your dress,” I said. Nana Mitchell, who had passed away so long ago now, who made dinner for Ashes and me every Wednesday night for years when Ashes was just eight years old. And now…look how grown up she is. 

Ashes and I looked at each. And I started ugly crying again. And then, wiping away the tears, I led her out the door to walk her down the aisle. It was time.

The far less serious story happened after the wedding was over. As we were packing up, Ashes was stuck with a dilemma–how to transport the wedding cake, which the staff had inexplicably not served the guests? ‘

Ashes asked if Corb and I could help move it, but our truck was still at Ashes’ hotel, as we drove to the location in the limo with Ashes. So we were bumming a ride from Alex. Ever so carefully, we placed the cake into the back of Alex’s car, and strapped it in with a seat belt. And at the point, Ashes asked us for one more favor: could we drive the maid of honor back to her hotel? Gulp. It was going to be a tight ride, but okay.

Only one twist: the maid of honor was…well, three sheets to the wind.

Which made for an amazing ride to the hotel, as she spent the ride telling us how much she loved Ashes. “I love that girl! No, really I do. I’d do anythingforher! I’d takeabullet for her, I’d bethere if she need anything. That girl…that girl..that girl means everything to me! She is my total, total, total besty. Fer reals.”

And more like that for the fifteen minutes it took to get to the hotel. Except for one two minute period where she grew silent.

We all looked over. She had fallen asleep on the cake. 

And as she got out of the car, she took one look at the cake, which now had a large elbow mark on the top layer, turned to us, and said, “That was like the when I got in the car, I swear.”

Gulp. Glad I paid so much for that comfy pillow. And also, glad that my husband went to Johnson and Wales. 

The next day, we took the cake home, removed the top layer, and Corb worked his magic. He turned the second layer into what now resembled a galaxy cake and we wrapped that up for Dan and Ashes. And the rest of the week, we feasted on cake pops. A win/win all around.

What the stories don’t talk about are the intense feelings I had during this entire weekend. I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that Josie and I had divorced…and all the drama surrounding my relationship with Corb and pretending that we weren’t together for so long. Ashes and I haven’t always had the easiest relationship through the years, and I have such feelings of guilt and sadness and overwhelming protectiveness for her. Too much protectiveness. I really should have stopped worrying about so much, because she turned out just fine.

And I am so, so happy that her and Dan met. Before she met him, right at the start of the pandemic, she was in a really horrible relationship and I was frankly worried she would be living at my house for the rest of my life. Dan does so much to complete her, and he is totally devoted to her. They are truly a perfect couple, and I couldn’t be any happier. And relieved that she found her happy ending.

Ashes and I have been on a thirty year journey that ends with this walk down the aisle. Or rather, begins a new journey. And I have been so happy to be there supporting her, every step of the way.  

Friday was May Day, otherwise known as the first day of May. What a quaint tradition May Day is: an older-than-old rite of Spring I don’t think anyone in the States really considers any more, although I think it’s still observed in Europe. May poles and all that. Maybe it would have been bigger, had it gone the way of Saturnalia and just been renamed Christmas. Clearly someone had the wrong marketing agency.  

May Day also happens to be the birthday of my grandmother, who would have been 106 this year. She passed away in 2004, sixteen years ago.

The first of May is an easy birth date to remember, so when I woke up that morning, I actually did say “Happy birthday” to myself, but then the thought passed away in the crushing flow of what needed to get done that day and the underlying COVID-inspired sanctuary malaise that seems to hover over everything these days.

My brother Tommy, who is much more thoughtful about these things, posted a lovely photo of Nana as a teenager on our “personal Facebook” family page: it’s actually a text message string Dad created a year ago that includes all the kids and mom and dad, where he posts daily photos. Dad and Mom are not into social media and this is the closest they come and I kind of love it. The photo of Nana Tommy posted hangs on our wall of memories outside the front door of Green Victoria.

The minute I saw it, I stopped what I was doing and walked over to give the Nana photo a quick kiss and tell her I loved her. 

The thought of Nana passing also came to mind later that day as I was “talking” (or what passes for talking these days…really, texting) to my friend Melissa, who lost her grandmother about a week ago to COVID-related complications. I wish I had thought to bring up the birthday or my grandmother, rather than simply say the words that everyone says when you are discussing a recent bereavement. So sorry…let me know if I can help in any way. You know the words. Maybe stressing a common connection might have meant more.

Let me try now.

For years growing up, from when I was about six or seven, I’d have a nightly ritual with Nana, who lived in an in-law apartment on the ground floor of my parents’ home growing up. Around seven in the evening, I would go downstairs and she’d make me some peanut butter toast with tea and we’d watch TV. Usually I’d be sitting down there, writing or clumsily drawing a comic book, while she’d crochet a pair of slippers or work on an afghan. She was pretty well known for her crochet work…to this day, all of us have friends who have held on to their slippers from her.

As I grew older, this tradition began to falter, as I came out of my shell and found friends and activities and eventually Josie. But really, that toast and tea ritual lasted for at least fifteen years, which is a good long time.

I’ll never forget one of the last evenings having toast and tea with Nana. It was the night before I moved out of my parents’ house. I was 23 and Josie and I were moving in together, after a few years of dating. Most of the bags packed, I went down for one final evening with Nana and…well, over-nostalgic lump that I was, burst into tears. I mean, totally lost it. PS: I am an ugly crier. Just ask Josie or Corb.

Nana set down her needles and looked over with concern. “Teddy, what’s the matter?”

“I don’t want this to end,” I managed to blubber.

“Oh.” Her eyes crinkled together as she considered what I had said. “Moving out of your parents’ house is hard, but—“

“No. This! Coming down here every night. Spending this…time together…with…”

“Well, Teddy.” She sighed. “It has to end sometime, right?”

I didn’t want to hear this. But she continued.

“You’re getting older now and grown up and it’s only natural you’re going to find a woman to love [EDITORS NOTE: Little did she know…] and then get married [EDITORS NOTE: Little did she know…] and have kids [EDITORS NOTE: Okay, that one she knew about…]. You’re never going to do all that and still come down and see me at seven every night, right? And I wouldn’t want you to.” 

“I’m just…” A pause. I tried to pull myself together. “I’m just going to miss this so much.”

She patted my hand. “You will. At first. But things change when you get older. You’ll see.”

I grabbed her hand. “No! I won’t ever forget—“

“I didn’t say forget. But you’ll SEE.”

I didn’t see. But things change.

So I moved out, got married, had kids (not quite in that order). And although we attempted toast and tea time, it didn’t work, but after a while, Nana and I managed to find a substitute for our nightly get-togethers. Once a week, usually on a Wednesday, I would come over and she would make me supper in her tiny little kitchen. Then she’d pack me a lunch for the next day at work. You’d better believe those were some of my favorite lunches at work. I was probably one of the few supervisors who would regularly bring in a paper bag lunch from his grandmother every Thursday.

And then, things changed again. When Nana passed, I was 38, so this year is exactly the midpoint between when I moved out of my folks’ house and now. At 38, I was going through stuff. Time had passed and I had moved out of another house—Josie’s—and had just begun a third life, with Corb. 

That’s wasn’t something Nana was aware of. Due to failing health, Nana had moved out of her house, too, of over 30 years. Into a nursing home.

Josie and I hid the divorce from Nana. It would only have made her sad and upset, and Nana loved Josie and wasn’t doing great, so the two of us would simply visit her at the nursing home and pretend to still be married.

I know, I know, in these times, that sounds horrible, but you have to remember, Nana was of another time and place. Would she have accepted things had we had more time? I honestly don’t know. But perhaps this is why I loved Corb’s grandmother so…she was of the same time and place and I know she accepted and loved us.

Nana’s wake was actually the first time many members of my family actually met Corb, including my parents. (And they have loved him ever since!)

I kind of regret all this, because there’s no doubt it separated me from her. There was so much I couldn’t talk about at that point—certainly this wasn’t material to nosh over if we had managed to have toast and tea in the nursing home. And I wish we had. But no, not once. I had the kids every other night and theater on the other nights and…well, no excuses. Things changed. I wish they hadn’t. But she had been right, all along.

Is there a point to this? I think so. I think it’s, when tea and toast was no longer viable, we found a way to adopt and change and still achieve some form of regular connection. It didn’t involve toast. It didn’t involve tea, although some nights, it did, I imagine. But it did involve the two of us.

I’ve said this before, the traditions we create among friends and family create the deepest connections in our souls. They’re what we remember when we consider a life well spent. That’s why I so cherish mine: Christmas eve parties at my parents, Scrabble with my brother. Watching Buffy with Kayla and TJ and Krista. Santa Ghost stories. Skanky Swap on New Year’s eve. Father’s day and lobster at the beach house.  Ted and Corb’s Halloween costume party. Theater traditions with my friends, whether it’s singing Paddy Murphy late at night or the move into Wheaton or the old stories we tell, over and over again, of adventures past. And from almost the very start, toast and tea with Nana.  

This year, this season, keeping up these traditions has been made more difficult, but in some ways, are even more important as a result. The fact is, life will always change, always evolve. The important thing is not to let it devolve into a series of random socially isolated disconnected memories. Find the meaning. Build on the memories. Find ways to make connections with the ones you love.

I wish I had gotten out of my head enough to maintain a few more toast and tea moments with Nana in her last few years.

But for as long as I can, I want to try to find a way to create more of those moments with the people in my life, and help them live on for as long as possible. Peanut butter sticks, remember. And this sort of toast is the bread living on in our memories for years to come, sustaining us when separated by time. 

Time. Way way way too short. We need every trick we can get to fool ourselves into making it feel longer.

That’s what Kami Corley learns one late night when she connects with a girl online named GoAskAlice–and receives in return a disturbing plea for help. Although Kami wishes for more excitement than the flat Midwest town she’s living in, she never wished for what happens next, as she witnesses Alice’s grisly on-camera murder. Without knowing her real name or even her location, Kami doesn’t know where to turn for help. As she uses the few clues she has to dig deeper into the crime, she finds herself caught in a web from which there is no escape—one that may lead to her own on-camera death, as well.

Will Kami live or die when she is thrust into the very heart of a secret organization known only as the GKS? Without warning, she’s become the one on the inside looking out—and very well may be the next one chosen to play the deadly midnight game known as the Late Night Show.

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