I’m stuck at my grandfather’s house right now. I can’t actually get online to post this after I write it, since for some reason, AOL will never, ever, ever! connect from this place, no matter what access number or phone jack I use. Many frustrated hours have also been devoted to discovering that this home is conveniently located in a black hole—commonly called Massachusetts—where one can’t find a single decent modern rock station on the radio, but can manage to come across no less than seven—yes, SEVEN—whiny, country, I-lost-my-dog-my-wife-and-my-pickup stations. Death to any who find themselves low on batteries or have forgotten their CD cases. Fortunately on this particular evening, I’m not in that uncomfortable position. I’m still uncomfortable, though. This house lacks central air, and true to the proud tradition of old people, my grandpa insists on closing all windows and stifling any possible influx of air, so as to make the place as unbearable as is humanly possible short of a heatstroke. Once, when we came up in the middle of July, we found that the man actually had the heat on. Yes, the heat. In July. We almost turned around and went home.

Amazingly, he’s not actually senile. A little confused, perhaps—tonight at dinner he informed me confidently that my dad died in 1993. He mixes it up with the date of his wife’s death. He also has a habit of calling my sister Janice, my aunt’s name. Still he manages to drive, put on clothing, and bathe, which I suppose is good enough. There’s never any food in the house, not my kind of food anyway, since I have an aversion to things that must be microwaved before they can be consumed. Being a man who lived in the domestic era of the twentieth century, he never troubled himself to learn the function of a stove beyond the burners that make hot water. It’s been nine years since my grandmother’s death, and cooking is still yet her domain. Unfortunately, dead people seem quite loath to cook for the living. Perhaps it’s envy that we can eat and they can’t. Maybe it’s a lot cooler where they are and they just don’t feel like getting all hot and sweaty over a stove. My dad has still not yet answered several requests to return and make me some pancakes. He made the best damned pancakes ever. He probably learned it from my grandma; she was even better really because she used to make little animals out of the batter, rabbits and mice and anything with ears. Those were so fun to eat. It’s a sadistic streak in children that whenever they see something edible with ears, they rip the ears off and eat those first.

You know what’s funny? When there’s been something you’ve known since childhood and never questioned, and only later realized something else about. Today I figured out that the two nice lady teachers who’ve lived across the street from my grandfather for my entire life aren’t just roomies. You should have seen my face. I was like “Dude, they’re lesbians? Really?” I’d never even considered that possibility before; I just sort of took for granted that they were two unmarried women who shared a cute little house. So it goes.