Charles Wallace the Magnificent, a tribute part 6
Editor’s note: Bruce Bouchard is former executive director of The Paramount Theatre. John Turchiano, his friend for 52 years, was formerly the editor of Hotel Voice, a weekly newspaper on the New York Hotel Trades Council. They are co-authoring this column to tell short stories on a wide range of topics.
Author’s note: A short recap – in Part 5 our big guy regally contemplating the universe. He had taken flight on a large dose of THC brownies, brazenly stolen off of a picnic table at the late summer music festival known as Harvest Moon.
And so, the weeks became months, and the months years and Charley grew into a well-muscled English Lab. His hundreds of journeys, jaunts, and swims in the hills and hollows of Middletown Springs had toned him into his maturity.
I could go on and on about Charley stories of mishaps and delights. For every bath in pork sauce, there was his love of children; for every gut pile he rolled around in, there were endless nights of his delightful and easy company.
However, one more must be told… I was terrified of two potential dog disasters: 1) getting skunked, 2) getting porcupined.
Coming home every day, I pulled into the farmhouse driveway, opened his door and Charley would bound out to take his daily dash around the house. On one occasion, his leash was still on, and for a reason I cannot re-construct, I brought him into the house on the leash. We went to the living room window, and right there, an enormous porcupine lay supine on the grass just outside the house. Charley went crazy, and for one second, I thought he might try to jump through the window. He whined like strained high precision gears, stood on his back legs (with paws punching the air), and fell over, slamming to the floor. He next tried in vain to escape the house, bolting from one closed door to the next. He turned on me with a look, I can only describe as completely deranged:
“You gotta be kiddin’ me right now!! I’ve GOT to get out there and play with, uh…that…uh, ah, that THING out there! Lemme out, lemme OUT!!”
I took his jowls in my hands and looked into his crazed and bulging eyes. “Dude, lemme tell ya, if you were to jump on that big animal with sharp quills all over his body, we would be spending the most painful hours of your life pulling quills with sharp barbs on the ends out of your nose and your mouth.”
My words of caution were having zero effect, as he jumped in circles, whimpering and drooling. Thankfully, we never saw the quilled beast again.
“And the seasons, they go ‘round and ‘round
“And the painted ponies go up and down
“We’re captives on the carousel of time
“We can’t return, we can only look
“Behind from where we came,” wrote Joni Mitchell in her well-known song, “The Circle Game.”
I could go deep into “Both Sides Now,” as well, but, on second thought, that is a much longer and more complex story for another time, another place.
For the seasons went round and round and the painted ponies — well, they were everywhere — went up and down. There was yet another home (for a brief time, I won’t pause there) and complex personal transitions that were heady, complicated, and very sad. Lots of looking behind from where we came, and through it all, there was Charley, paying close attention.
During this time, I had sent a message to six key members of the board of The Paramount, seeking a new place to live and begging for their patience and understanding during a challenging period. The day after I wrote that message, I walked into my office with Charley to find Baird Morgan, a fine friend from Pittsford, and today the co-founder of the enterprising Pittsford Village Farm, awaiting me in my office.
“I don’t need to know your personal situation, that I leave to you, but I understand you are in need of new housing. I have told Bob Harnish who has a terrific carriage house behind his home in Pittsford, and he is waiting to hear from you.”
– Bruce’s bruises show the discomfort of dental surgery.
I knew the glorious Harnish property. Charley and I jumped in my car and headed north. When I pulled up to the house, 3/10ths of a mile up a private road, there she was, a beautiful building with an apartment on the second floor. We ran up the stairs, turned right and stopped — it was a breath-taking space.
Charley was looking all around, his tail going a mile a minute. “OHHHH, wheeee, lookit this cool place, and no other houses in sight, MAN! I bet there’s lots of critters up in here! Wow, lovit lovit LOV it!!”
“We’ll take it!!”
Given Charley’s over the top enthusiasm, I made it a “we.” Bob was delighted.
The walls and vaulted ceilings were made of wood, two magnificent triangular sets of windows rose to 8 feet high, facing east and west, on opposite ends of the building. There was even a whirlpool in the bathroom and a small balcony facing north. It was a big, glorious loft. It is a dream transition home. Charley is going to love it; another place to roam.
Through all of this altering transition, Charley was right by my side, closer than ever before. He seemed to know that “the big stuff” was happening and no matter what, he would be there. We settled in quickly and easily. The afternoon sun through the west-facing windows, cast the entire loft in a lovely salmon glow, a place for quiet contemplation. Charley seemed to be curious about my state of mind and spent time sitting up straight, still as a cat, looking directly at me, as if he was waiting for an explanation of my new circumstance.
– Charley sits in the bedroom in the Pittsford Carriage House .
“Hey yeah, boy – uh this seems like um – ah, quite a, a time for you, but HA! Ya got me, and I got you babe.” (As if Sonny and Cher were warbling in the background). “Let’s have some fun. Come to me for as many hugs as you need.”
We settled into a rhythm and fell in love with the place and the amazing forests, fields and trails. After work, when I came to the long private road onto the property, I got the mail, let Charley out of the car, jumped back behind the wheel and made my way up to the house, with the boy churning and straining in my rearview mirror as he ran full tilt after the car, over a quarter mile run every day.
“Whew, whooo, uh uh uh, that’s a great run up that hill — it almost takes everything I got! But nope! Theres MORE you betcha.”
And he loped away for more roamin’ time in the surroundings of an early summer sunset.
9.5 Level Dental Surgery Pain – Antidote: Charles Wallace the Magnificent
Two days before my 70th birthday, I had gnarly dental surgery to remove a wisdom tooth buried in the elbow of my jawbone. My dentist had told me that any delay might result in mortality! Yikes! At the end of a rugged surgery there was a miscommunication about pain meds, they were not there as I staggered out of the operating room. My magnificent caregiver for the day, Jill Maynard Nolan, rushed from Middlebury to Pittsford — where I was staying for the day/evening in her guest house — and then to CVS in Rutland to pick up the pain medication. When she blew back through the door in Pittsford, the Novocain had worn off, tears were streaming down my face and I was jumping up and down. I pounded one of the small pills (yes, those) into a pile of white powder and poured it directly into the hole in my head. 30 seconds later the pain disappeared like water rushing out to sea before a tsunami, and as I went weak in the knees I muttered to Jill, “You better get a towel — cuz I think I’m gonna bleed.”
She did that just in the nick of time. I passed out like a tree falling in the forest, onto a guest bed for 10 hours of sleep. When I awoke Charley was looking directly into my eyes next to the bed with a look of grave concern. The towel was stuck to my face by coagulated blood.
“DAD-UH!! Woah-Uhhh! You look awful! But no worries, I gotcha! You’ll be up and at ‘em in no time!”
The non-stop face licking commenced. It was pretty bad. Blood bruises went straight down my neck, into my chest, right and left to both pectorals. I was a limp rag of a wreck and spent the next two days in bed. As to the Grand Master Charles, I had never, to this date allowed him on the bed. In my state of mind and body, I let him IN THE BED for two days. He stuck to me like Velcro, looking into my eyes and licking the wounds.
Other than to eat and rush out quickly to take care of the essentials, he did not leave my side. Man’s best friend and nursemaid! The next day I turned 70!!
