Christmas Renewal, Scene 3: The Veteran

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A Brief Introduction

Welcome to this episode of the Donald Jay Author Podcast titled Christmas Renewal, Scene 3: The Veteran. I’m Donald Jay.

Our last scene featured a heartwarming encounter between George and a stranger, Layla, in the candle-lit church. When George admired the cane Layla was carrying, she shared her inspiring story of overcoming a tragic accident, proving that strength can rise from despair. This touching moment left George reflecting on the alienation caused by bitterness and the restorative powers of resilience and faith.

In this scene, Lissa Dodson takes George to meet her very special friend, Troy Eldridge. Troy found a new purpose for his life after losing his leg in Afghanistan. Inspired by Troy, George begins to question his own limitations and finds a new perspective on moving forward.

And now, Christmas Renewal, Scene 3: The Veteran.

Christmas Renewal, Scene 3: The Veteran

CHRISTMAS RENEWAL

By Donald Jay

Scene 3 – The Veteran

“Mr. Gandy?” Lissa found me. “Whew! I thought I’d lost you. Is everything okay?”

I pivoted to greet her. “Yeah, I think so. I just met the most unusual woman and her family.”

Lissa spotted the cane, half-smiled a quirky, knowing grin, and beckoned me to follow her toward the door. “I spoke to my folks. Mom insists you stay in our guest room tonight. Let me show you to your accommodations for the evening. Oh, I hope you don’t mind, but I have one more Christmas present to deliver along the way.”

“I’m in no hurry. It’s not like I have anywhere else to go.” I scolded myself for my touch of sarcasm.

Layla’s cane offered welcome relief while we made our way to the door, my own cane being one of the many items I left behind in my haste to leave the house this morning.

Once outside, Lissa pointed across Back Street. “Let’s go this way.” She stopped. “Um, shouldn’t you call someone to let them know you’re okay?”

I shrugged. “I probably should, but I stormed out of the house in such a huff, I left my cell phone, my wallet, everything behind.”

“Want to use my phone?” she offered as we resumed walking toward Market Street.

I leaned a little heavier on Layla’s cane to keep pace. “I’m not sure what I would say. They basically told me they didn’t want to be around me anymore. They’re probably relieved that they’re getting their wish.”

Lissa looked at me, winced, and raised an eyebrow, so I explained.

“I’ve been pretty grumpy lately,” I admitted, looking away. “They don’t want to hear from me.”

Layla’s cane supported me as we stepped off the paved service road that runs around the town and onto cobblestoned Market Street, closed to traffic except for pedestrians and an occasional horse-drawn carriage.

“Why have you been grumpy?” Lissa asked, waving to a carriage driver as they passed.

“I don’t know.” I shoved my free hand into my pocket.

Lissa waited.

When I couldn’t stand the silence anymore, I added, “I should have said I don’t know … who I am anymore.”

Lissa shrugged. “Who were you?”

I pulled up short, flipped the cane up, grabbed its middle, and flung my arms wide like a carnival barker. “I was Vermont Southern Railroad’s Most Decorated Conductor, remember?” Returning the cane to the ground, I leaned on it. “Now, the VSR can’t use me, my wife is ready to kick me out of the house, and Sophie announced this morning that she’s heading off to college, out-of-state, to become a writer! What am I now? A lonely, grumpy, washed-up, old railroader.” I hung my head and resumed trudging down the street.

After a brief pause, Lissa hustled a bit and caught up with me. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” I quickened my pace as best I could.

“I want you to meet someone.”

Lissa walked, I hobbled, for about a block before we stopped in front of a nineteenth-century Victorian building.

“This is the library,” Lissa announced.

I admired the architecture. “This building is amazing.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Lissa ushered me toward the front door. “It’s one of the original buildings that Merritt Dickens brought over from London in 1893.”

“Merritt Dickens was not related to the famous author, Charles Dickens, was he?”

“That’s right.” Lissa pulled open the heavy wooden door. “They weren’t even contemporaries. Charles Dickens passed when Merritt Dickens was only seventeen.”

We walked inside, and Lissa stopped short. “Oh, what time is it?” She took a few quick steps farther into the foyer.

I followed and watched her consult a giant antique calendar clock on the wall beyond.

“Eight fifty-five? Great! We haven’t missed it.” Lissa clapped.

“Missed what?” I queried, my head still on a swivel, marveling at our step back in time.

“Troy Eldridge.” Lissa headed deeper into the library and beckoned for me to follow. We entered a room where the seats that had been arranged for an audience were almost full. Lissa maneuvered me around to an accessible corner and motioned for me to sit. I was thankful for the respite and leveraged heavily on the cane to lower myself onto the metal folding chair.

When we were situated, she explained. “Troy Eldridge grew up best friends with my brother, Matt. I hung out with them a lot. Anyway, after high school, Matt went to the University of Vermont, and Troy went into the Army. Troy is back now, and since Matt’s not here, I’ve sort of adopted Troy as my best friend. He’s an intern with the education department attached to the library. Tonight, he’s reading Louisa May Alcott’s A Christmas Dream.”

A slender, blond young man, not much older than Lissa, stepped with a noticeable limp behind the lectern.

“What happened to his leg?” I whispered to Lissa.

“An IED in Afghanistan,” Lissa whispered back and then put a finger to her lips.

The crowd grew silent and listened to Troy’s reading.

When Troy finished, Lissa and I waited while others told him what an excellent job he had done. We were the last to congratulate him.

Lissa beamed. “Troy, your reading sounded so professional. I love to hear you read. It’s almost like you are living inside the story.” She then remembered me. “Oh, Troy Eldridge, this is George Gandy. George was a conductor on the Vermont Southern Railroad, recently retired.”

“Mr. Gandy.” Troy extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

I shifted the cane to my left hand to accept his gesture. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Troy. Thank you for your service.” I punctuated my last statement with a firm handshake. “Lissa told me about your leg. I’m sorry for your sacrifice.”

“Don’t be, sir.”

Troy’s pleasant but direct reply startled me. I must have looked it because he continued to explain.

“Oh, I can’t pretend that losing my leg wasn’t the toughest thing that ever happened to me, but it was also one of the best. I thought my life was over, but someone …”—he smiled at Lissa, eliciting a giggle—“taught me one of my greatest life lessons. I had to choose to move forward.”

“Choose to move forward?” I questioned, pointing half-heartedly with my cane. “Don’t you mean choose how to move forward?”

“No, sir.” He reached out and took Lissa’s hand. She stepped closer. “I was an athlete. When I lost my leg, that dream was over, but football was the only thing I knew. I kept wanting to find a way back. I couldn’t go back, though, at least not as a star wide receiver. I had to choose to move forward. That choice opened a world of possibilities. So, I’m using my GI money to go to college. I want to be a teacher and a coach. I intern here during holiday breaks.”

He continued, “But, how about you? You’re retired now. The rest of your life is an unwritten story. What are you going to do?”

“I was telling Lissa earlier; I don’t know what to do. All I know is railroading, and I can’t do that anymore. I went to school to be a writer, a hundred years ago.” I leaned back on the cane once more. “But if I tried to be a writer now, I’d just be pretending to be something I’m not.”

Lissa twisted her head and squinted one eye at me. “How’s that?”

“I’m not a writer! I’m a washed-up old railroader. Who would read stories written by a has-been railroad conductor?” I lowered my gaze and shook my head.

Troy grinned at Lissa before answering. “Have you ever heard of Wuthering Heights?”

“Sure.” I shrugged, looking him in the eyes once more. “I read it in college.”

“Do you remember who wrote it?” Troy asked, typing something into his cell phone.

“Emily Brontë, right?” I squinted and knit my brow.

“Um, hm. Eighteen forty-seven.” Troy finished typing and dramatically clicked the screen. “Here is a picture of a first edition of Wuthering Heights.” He showed me his phone. “Note the author.”

“It says Ellis Bell.” I pulled back, looked at Troy, and then squinted for a clearer look at his phone. “Why does it say Ellis Bell?”

His eyes met mine. “Because nobody would read a novel by a female author in eighteen forty-seven. Determined to publish their works anyway, she and her two sisters published under pseudonyms. The Brontë sisters became the Bell brothers. Being female in a male-dominated society didn’t stop them. What’s stopping you?”

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