Hail & Farewell.

Lest we forget.

The Love Of Dog.

Everybody loved Teller.

Dalmatians have been described as “aloof” and “polite but reserved with strangers”. Teller never met a stranger and thought reservations were for snobby restaurants. My wife called him “the social butterfly” because he loved being in big groups of people and going around saying hello to everyone and telling them how happy they were to see him. It’s why people were happy to see him, though it helped that most of the people he was around were dog people. We had a neighbor who was indifferent to dogs. He didn’t dislike dogs but he wasn’t interested in them either. Teller would stand at the fence and stare at him and wait to be acknowledged and after a few minutes of being ignored Teller would give a disgusted snort and wander away to do other things. On the other hand when we took him to the vet’s office people in the back would literally come running when they heard Teller was in the building. He was just as happy to see them. If they had treats that was a bonus but if they just wanted to pet him and tell him what a good dog he was that made him happy. He was that way right up until the very end, which made it hard to say goodbye.

Early in October we took Teller for a routine check-up and one of the veterinary assistants greeted him with, “Hey, old man!” Because Teller was, mostly, still his funny, outgoing self, I had managed to ignore the toll the years had taken. I knew he slept a lot more. I knew he’d lost weight. He’d always been slender but as he got older he lost muscle, as most of us do, though he always had a healthy appetite. I knew getting up in the bed wasn’t as easy for him as it had been even just a few years ago. Sometimes laying down wasn’t easy for him either; arthritis splayed out his hips and going out into the yard he didn’t always run so much as bumble along. He was still a mighty pursuer of squirrels, though, and always a clown who’d go around and mark several trees and wait for me to say, “Are you finished?” before he’d give me a wry smile and stand in one spot and pee for what seemed like half an hour. I’ll always believe he did it because it made me laugh. Teller loved laughter.

He was also an intense dreamer. Most dogs twitch, shake, and even occasionally bark in their sleep. Teller, especially as he got older and his sleep got deeper, would lie on his side, usually taking up half the couch, and go at a full gallop, maybe chasing imaginary squirrels. Fortunately I’m a heavy sleeper so if he did it in the bed he rarely woke me up. When I did wake up he was right there next to me. Sometimes what woke me up was that he’d pulled all the covers off of me to build himself a nest. And his head would be on the pillow next to mine. Half my body would be cold. The other half would be warm, Teller pressed up against me.

The end was also full of surprises. Teller had a heart condition that we’d managed for years, but the last check-up revealed a tumor on one of his kidneys. If it stayed it could rupture and cause a massive hemorrhage at any time, so of course, in spite of his age, it had to go. Things seemed fine for a couple of days after that, then he started panting heavily after we’d gone to bed. My wife took him to the pet emergency clinic where he, of course, was a favorite of all the staff. And things seemed fine after that. He didn’t seem to mind wearing a canine onesie to keep him from chewing or licking his stitches. It was better than the big plastic cone of shame. When my wife took it off he had bruises on his chest that were initially diagnosed as a clotting issue that could cause internal bleeding. We were told he had a matter of days, maybe hours. That was early November. He seemed fine so we took him to a dog agility event where a couple of vets said any dog with the clotting issue would be lethargic, but Teller was his usual self, wagging his tail as he made the rounds, saying hello to everyone. After a few more days the bruises disappeared and he was still a happy dog.

As long as he was happy and able to get around everything was fine. Well, not fine, really. He refused food more and more and he spent more and more time asleep. He had to be helped off the couch, and onto the bed. As long as he was able to amble around the yard, as long as he still ate string cheese out of my hand, as long as he wagged his tail and smiled at us, we let him be. Keeping a dog in pain alive is a selfish act but it would be just as selfish to deprive Teller of one happy day, even one happy hour. And then came the day when it was obvious he wasn’t happy. Teller, named for the silent half of the magic duo Penn & Teller, told us when he was ready. From the moment my wife brought him home as a puppy, when he popped out of the pet carrier and licked my face, I knew we’d have to face this point eventually, but there was no way to know when. There was no way to know we’d be lucky enough to have him for thirteen years.

Even though I’ve dealt with it before every loss is different because every dog, every cat, and, for that matter, every person is different. There are some things I’ve learned are true in every case, though. I know this is going to hurt for a long time. I know it’s going to still hurt even after I stop looking for him, even after I see things that remind me he’s really gone, after those reminders send me into a breakdown. I know that every loss leaves a scar.

I also know that, even though I’m dwelling on the end now, it’s going to be the first thing I forget. A year from now, maybe, his last few days won’t be as clear in my mind as they are now. What I’ll remember are all the things he did that made me laugh: the time he pulled out a dog toy he’d ignored for years and destroyed it, how he’d paw at the quilt on the couch to make a cozy spot then curling up on the opposite side, how he leaned sideways to listen when my wife talked in the other room. I’ll remember how happy he made us. That’s what Teller would want. That’s what Teller deserves because he loved us.

Slip Slidin’ Away.

The only time in my life I’ve ever eaten anything from White Castle is when a truck handing out free samples showed up near where I work a few years ago. Even when I was a kid I thought small square sliders only came from Krystal, which, having been founded in the south, was more common around here even if White Castle had been around longer.

I’m not saying I contributed to the demise of the White Castle on the corner of White Bridge Road and Charlotte Avenue here in Nashville—I’m just saying I didn’t help it survive. I’m a little sorry to see it go, though, because whenever I passed it I always remembered that one of the first times I saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show I’d never heard of or been to White Castle. So someone had to explain this audience participation bit to me:

AUDIENCE: WHAT’S WHITE AND SELLS HAMBURGERS?
BRAD MAJORS: Didn’t we pass a castle just up the road?

And seeing Rocky Horror in Nashville, or even in the Franklin Theater which is about twenty miles to the south, a lot of the audience’s line was a very local “SELLS HAMBURGERS ON WHITE BRIDGE ROAD?” Because there just weren’t that many White Castles in the area.

I was still young—especially compared to what I am now—and somewhat naïve but at least I understood what followed:

However it’s soon followed by one of the funniest audience participation lines:

JANET WEISS: I’m coming with you!
AUDIENCE: FOR A CHANGE!
JANET WEISS: Besides, darling, the owner of that castle might be a beautiful woman—
AUDIENCE: HE IS!

It’s a little strange to me that it’s now easier to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show than it is to find a White Castle. Or even a Krystal. But it’s definitely the healthier option.

Strangers On A Train.

Source: Amazon UK

The combination of Halloween and the recent passing of Donald Sutherland reminded me of one of my favorite horror films, Dr. Terror’s House Of Horrors, and, in a roundabout way, that reminded me of Dame Maggie Smith who also passed away recently.

Dr. Terror’s House Of Horrors is about six strangers in a train car, played by Peter Cushing, Christopher Lee, Max Adrian, Peter Madden, Roy Castle, and Donald Sutherland. Cushing, the eponymous Dr. Terror, produces as pack of Tarot cards and tells each man’s future. This provides a frame for a series of stories dealing with werewolves, witches, monstrous plants, and even a disembodied hand. Sutherland, who gets a vampire story, was the last survivor of the main cast; they’re now all reunited which is, if you’ve seen the film, darkly fitting.

It’s a fun watch, especially if you like Hammer films–Amicus Productions was kind of a rival–and because it’s an anthology you can jump in and watch the stories in any order; only the opening and closing are connected, and it always makes me think about at least part of what gives trains their romance. The number of stories about trains is seemingly endless, ranging from Murder On The Orient Express to Silver Streak and I think Hitchcock even made a film about an encounter on a train. From the very beginning trains offered a mobility no one had ever experienced before and also brought together a whole spectrum of people. That’s why one of my favorite parts of living in Britain was taking trains regularly.

On one trip I sat next to a man a few years older than me and across from a woman who, well, looked like the sort of character Dame Maggie Smith would grow into. She had a nice dress and a large hat, also a pair of owl-like glasses, and even walked with a cane. But unlike the Dowager Countess this woman was friendly; she didn’t say anything about my scuffed shoes and jeans, but chatted nicely with both of us. The man next to me told us he was from southern India. She said she’d been there and had always wanted to go back because she loved it so much. Then she turned to me and said she’d never met an American before but was “gratified” I was so polite and charming.

Source: The Guardian

When we got to Waterloo Station we all got out. The Indian man let her hold his arm and I carried her very large suitcase. While we were doing that she yelled out, “Oh porter! I say, porter!”

A guy in a railroad worker’s uniform came over and she said, “My dear porter, these lovely young gentlemen have been kind enough to assist  me with the stairs and my valise. Would you please hail a hansom cab for me?”

I was trying so hard not to fall apart laughing, feeling like I was suddenly in an E.M. Forster novel. It got even funnier when the railroad worker asked if we were together and the Indian said, “Oh no, we’re just strangers on a train.”

“No criss-crosses, though” I said and we smiled at each other.

I know this has taken a lot of turns, from horror to Edwardian manners to, well, a joke about a murder mystery, but that’s what’s great about trains. The lines and destinations are fixed but inside you never know what can happen.

Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, Wherever You Are.

The last receipt.

Every Thursday afternoon I have a ukulele lesson. Learning anything, especially music, requires a lot of repetition so it’s fitting that after each lesson I call the same restaurant and place a to-go order. Even more fittingly it’s almost always Taylor who answers the phone, and, after several months of repetition, she and I often laugh at the fact that I order the same thing every time.

The last time, though, was different. After my lesson I called the restaurant and Taylor answered with, “Hi, Chris! I’m ready so go ahead with your order.” They’d added some new menu items my wife wanted to try so what I asked for was completely different. And I added a piece of cake. Taylor, who’s occasionally suggested I change my routine, said, “This is the single greatest order I’ve ever gotten.”

I was laughing all the way to the restaurant but when I went in to pay and pick up my food Taylor told me it was her last week. She’d enjoyed living in Nashville, she said, but she had three kids and decided it was time to move back to the small town in Pennsylvania where she grew up. She wanted to be closer to her family who could provide support and she also wanted her kids to have a childhood similar to hers.

It was the longest conversation we’ve ever had and it didn’t last five minutes. I wasn’t in any hurry—the food could wait—but she had work to get to, and, having worked in a restaurant myself, I know there’s never a lot of downtime. She was also in the middle of training her replacement which meant she had even less time. We’ve had other brief conversations before. One night I told her I was such a regular customer because I was learning the ukulele and she said, “Oh, it’s really good to take up a new hobby late in life.” I smiled and said, “Yeah,” and I was on my way home before I thought, How old does she think I am?

It’s a bit like going from one song to another: a lot of notes will be the same but the tune will be different. Thank you for all you did, Taylor, and good luck.

Public And Private.

I just took that picture of flowers attached to a lamppost a few days ago but it’s not the first time I’ve seen flowers in that same spot. It’s near where my dentist is so I’ve seen flowers there before. I have a previous picture I took a year ago although, at the time, the flowers were looking a little shabby. They were plastic but still the elements had taken their toll. Why were they there, though? And this time they’d been freshened with a new more elegant cord wrapped around the lamppost. Someone’s keeping them up but who? It makes me sad to think this is probably a memorial, that someone died in that spot, or nearby, and someone who cared for that person, who loved them, is putting these flowers there as a tribute, and a way of dealing with their own grief.

And I don’t want to know who that person is. They’ve never left any information, nothing that says what happened. I sometimes see homemade roadside markers where people have been killed in accidents, and many of them have names. This one doesn’t and I respect that the person who made this memorial wishes to remain anonymous.

It reminded me of the “Poe Toaster”, a mysterious figure who, every year on January 19th, would leave roses and a bottle of cognac at Edgar Allan Poe’s grave. The figure was first noticed in 1949, one hundred years after Poe’s death, and in 1999 a note left at the grave said the original person had passed away but that the tradition would continue.

The person, or persons, who took over, however, treated the tradition as a joke, making a Superbowl prediction in 2001 (which would be wrong) and a snide remark about the French in 2004 (Poe is more respected in France than the U.S., earning praise from none other than Charles Baudelaire, who’d also lead a turbulent and tragically short life). The Poe Toaster stopped appearing in 2010, which was a good thing. It was fitting–after all 2009 was the 200th anniversary of Poe’s birth–but also the torch should never have been passed. The person(s) who took over didn’t take the responsibility seriously and never should have carried on.

The tradition was revived by the Maryland Historical Society which held “auditions” in 2015, and while I think it’s nice that it’s being carried on it started as something deeply personal, meaningful in ways we’ll never know—in ways I don’t really want to know. A memorial may be in a public place but the privacy should still be respected.

Here’s the earlier picture of flowers in the same spot:

Not Over, But Easy.

Source: Pinterest

Every year on the day of Christmas Eve my wife has one wish: a dish of Eggs Benedict. It’s not named after either Benedict Arnold or the actor who played the Jeffersons’ British neighbor, although, in honor of the late and brilliant Norman Lear, I’ve been trying to think of one. It was on an episode of The Jeffersons that I first heard of Eggs Benedict—specifically “My Maid, Your Maid”, season eight, episode four. It just sounded very fancy and I was thrilled when I finally got to try it a few years later. That may be too tangential a connection, though. Eggs Benedict is allegedly named after a New Yorker named Lemuel Benedict who wandered into the Waldorf Hotel and asked for eggs, bacon, toast, and a shot of Hollandaise as a hangover cure.  Here’s the recipe I use for anyone who’d also like to give it a try. This recipe serves three, or six people if you’re serving it with a side dish, or one person if they’re really hungry and are trying to send their cholesterol level off the charts.

You will need:

  • About three billion eggs, or maybe only a dozen
  • A pound of butter (or two eight ounce sticks) at room temperature
  • Six tablespoons of lemon juice
  • Three English muffins (which are neither English nor muffins)
  • Canadian bacon (purely optional)
  • Wooden shoes

First halve and toast the English muffins. Classic Eggs Benedict calls for a slice of ham on the English muffin halves, but for some that may be too much. Tasty alternatives include slices of avocado or smoked salmon or nothing or whatever you want.

Poach six eggs. If you have an egg poacher you can use that. I’ve also poached the eggs by adding water and a small amount of vinegar to a shallow pan, but that’s tricky because you have to keep the water just below boiling. Place an egg on each of the English muffin halves.

You can now set this aside in a warm oven.

The Hollandaise sauce is the hard part, but it comes together quickly. Oh, wait, that’s why it’s hard. This ain’t a recipe you can walk away from. First separate the yolks from the whites or, to be more accurate, from the clears. It’s okay to leave some of the clear with the yolks. Since this version of Hollandaise sauce is basically a savory lemon custard–yes, you’re serving eggs over eggs–some albumen will help it hold together. 

Combine the egg yolks and the lemon juice in a pan over low heat.  

Add half the butter. Stir slowly.

Once the butter is melted continue stirring for about a minute then add the second half of the butter. Stir vigorously. At this point the eggs will start to cook and the sauce will thicken. This is when you have to work fast. Just after the butter is completely melted the sauce is culinary nitroglycerine. It won’t blow up but it is seriously unstable. Get it off the heat and evenly distribute it over the English muffin halves and poached eggs.

For some color sprinkle on a little paprika or some parsley or both for a seasonal red and green effect. In fact this is a recipe and those aren’t written in stone, so if you want to substitute actual muffins and Cadbury chocolate eggs go for it. Earlier this month I went out for brunch and had a version that substituted fried green tomatoes for the English muffins and skipped the Canadian bacon because it would have been too much. It was excellent, though.
Serve on hubcaps because there’s no plate like chrome for the Hollandaise.