Castles with Axles

It didn't occur to me that the mode of abode for most of my young life might have been atypical, déclassé, or second-rate.   I never gave it much thought.  Call it what you will: mobile home, manufactured home, prefabricated house…it was always simply a “trailer” to me.  When I was in third grade, my family moved from a rent house into a brand-spanking new trailer.  And it was so cool. 

It was the early 70s, and bold earth-tones dominated middle-class style.  The aluminum siding on the trailer was white, with brown and orange shutters and trim.  Inside, shag carpeting moved like fire, all over the floors in vibrant orange, gold, and brown, save for the slightly-elevated floor of the kitchen, which denied the flame with its mushroom-brown surface.

Plus, the house came with its own groovy-cool furniture: two swivel-rockers covered in saffron crushed-velvet accented with white buttons, a matching headboard for my parent’s king-sized bed, and harvest-gold kitchen appliances in stark relief against pearly-white cabinets.  I immediately fell in love with the place. 

During my time in our trailer, I experienced some of the most lasting memories of my childhood:

·        Producing, directing, and starring in plays and musicals in our backyard (yes, I was, and am, just that gay)

·        Watching my mom’s fish give birth to speck-sized guppies in our large tank on the kitchen bar

·        Helping my dad build a plywood shed for our riding mowers

·        “Playing sick” on winter mornings by placing a thermometer on the floor heater vents, so I could cut class and watch TV gameshows all day

·        Spinning for endless hours on the candy-apple red merry-go-round that my dad built for us

·        Playing baseball with my buddies so late in evening that pitches became bruise-inflicting grenades in the disappearing sunlight  

·        Calming my sister, who would wake me in the middle of stormy nights, asking, “Hey…do you hear a train?”  She thought that sound was a tornado’s voice, and firmly believed that mobile homes were twister-magnets.

·        Proving my theory that Santa was a big hoax by silently observing my dad putting presents under the tree in the wee hours of Christmas morning

We moved from the trailer when I was in eighth grade, and as happy as I was to move into the trailer, I was just as happy to move out of it, and into our new ranch-style house in the adjoining lot.  My honeymoon with the trailer was over, I had the five-year itch, and the grass, which was only 300 feet away, looked so much greener.

My grandparents moved into the trailer, so I visited often.  But it was no longer my trailer.  I’d moved up in the world, and my love affair with the trailer was over.  My grandmother passed away while she still lived there.  And my grandfather lived there as long as he could, before his move to assisted-living, due to the debilitating dementia of Alzheimer’s. 

I would live in a trailer once more in my life.  Shortly after I was married, my wife and I bought a mobile home from my aunt.  The home was across the way from my parents’ house and, as a result, my old trailer, as well.  It was comforting to see my two former cribs from my new bedroom window.

When my marriage ended, I got custody of my new trailer.  When I decided to move to Houston, I toyed with the idea of transporting the mobile home to a trailer park in the city.  But then, my city friends told me that trailer parks in the city were not lower-middle class; most parks were upper-lower class at best.  So I sold my trailer to my sister, and she became a Louisiana landlord.  Parting with the new trailer was not difficult.  It hadn't been my first love.

All these memory bubbles came up when my husband mentioned an interview that he heard on NPR with a county music singer-songwriter, Kacey Musgraves.  Musgraves is a young, but wise, artist.  Her major-label debut was released earlier this month.  And it’s full of musings on everyday life in the lower middle-class of rural-suburbia.  The name of the disc?  “Same Trailer, Different Park” 

Before hearing the music, I thought that I’d never miss my old trailer.  A sincere thank-you, Kacey, for proving me wrong.

Lighting the Way

“As we light a path for others, we naturally light our own way”

– Mary Anne Radmacher

It’s easy to get lost.  It’s easy to get turned around and lose direction.  When your world’s been shaken to the core, finding which way is up is sometimes impossible.

I have a family member, a young man, who has found trouble again and again.  To the point of finding himself in jail a couple of times.  As I type this post, he is incarcerated.

The Man has a close friend who has been in-and-out of the prison system over the last fifteen years.  It’s disheartening to know that this pattern (in too many cases) is circular.

I’ve learned from The Man.  He has never given up on his friend.  The Man writes letters to him faithfully.  The Man sends him money orders, so his friend can buy various personal items in the prison commissary (like special soap…yeah, it surprised me too).  Since the only way to make a call from the pokey is collect to a telephone land-line, The Man ensures that we have one so his friend can call and chat once a week.  If truth be told, The Man is the only stable person in this guy’s life.

When my own young man landed in jail the first time, I was upset: “Angry,” to be truthful.  I was angry because I thought that he had not listened to my “words of wisdom.”  His addiction to trouble and drugs was something that we all thought could be overcome outside of the system.  Not so.

 

Where Rule #1 is “Be nice,” I had forgotten Rule #2: 

“Listen, try your best to understand.  And if you can’t understand, just listen.”

When my young man first went to jail, I visited him at the facility.  I talked with him through the cloudy plexiglas divider.  I was able to make it a couple of minutes into the conversation, and then I started crying.  He smiled and quickly changed the subject to ask about a rock concert that he knew I’d recently attended.  Then he proudly showed me his new prison tattoo.  God love him.

It hurt.  Badly.  I couldn’t hug him hello.  I couldn’t hug him good-bye.  I couldn’t good-naturedly knock him on his head and tell him to “Shape up!”

A few short months later, he was released.  He kept his nose clean for a while.  And then found trouble once more.  And to the facility again, about two months ago.

I wrote him a letter back in early January.  My communication was sharp and forceful.  I had to write and rewrite the letter four times over before it became a bit more pleasant and compassionate.  I wasn’t sure I’d get a response. 

Just a couple of days later, I received a letter from him.  He had been very excited to get my letter, comparing it to a Christmas present.

Like The Man with his close friend, I will always be there for my own young man. 

I remember taking him to New Orleans when he was four.  At night, we rode the ferry from Canal Street over to Algiers with him holding my hand as we stood at the rail;  I recall that he stared down at the dark water swirling alongside the boat and back at the lights of the French Quarter.  He looked up to me and smiled. “This is so cool.”

I'll always be there for him.  If just to hold the light to help guide the way.  After all, he is part of my own blood, part of my heart, part of my soul.

From "Tales of the Wise Fairy Queen"

Once upon a time, there was a fresh-faced blonde prince who had freckles all over his soft face and shiny forehead.  This young fellow had a fairy queen as a mom.  One day, the fairy needed some feminine napkins and Orange Fanta®, so she sent the lad to the store with a $20 bill in his pocket.  Along the way, an imp snuck into the pocket and swiped the currency.

 

When the prince arrived at the market, he checked his pocket and was astonished to find that it was empty.  Distressing at his bad fortune and possessing the knowledge that money was difficult to attain in the kingdom, he returned home expecting to face the wrath of his mother.  As he walked, he gnawed his fingernails and picked his nose.

When he arrived at the castle, he approached the throne of the fairy queen with his head bowed.  As she looked down on him, he began to cry.

“What is the matter, child?”  She asked, compassionately.

The lad stammered:  “I lost the $20 bill that you gave me.”

The fairy queen descended from her throne and walked toward the young prince.  She placed a single finger under his chin and lifted his head.  She smiled delicately at him.  “My son ... that was not the only $20 bill in the world.”

For June-Bug

Washing the Fairlane

I washed The Man’s car this afternoon.  This was not a last-ditch effort to make it rain this bone-dry late spring , but a directive from one of my co-workers:  a quiet but bold woman, who is both no-nonsense and humorous.  She said, that for all he does for me, I should wash The Man’s car on a regular basis.  I just sighed at her Friday afternoon and announced to The Man said-same Friday night that I would wash his car during the weekend.

Sunday, I pulled both his car and my truck from the garage to the drive.  I started on his car, of course.  I set Abbey Road by The Beatles on my iPod and began to spray his car with water.  When “Come Together” ended and “Something” began, the past sweetly bubbled up.  Suddenly I was a kid (mid-teens), washing my maternal grandmother’s early 1970s Ford Fairlane. 

I didn’t have a job back in the late 70s, not because I was focusing on school instead of work.  The reason was more that I was shy and a bit unsure of myself, a little too insecure to look for a job.  I had friends and cousins who worked, so I wanted money too.  And I had a girlfriend.  She never demanded anything.  But I wanted to be able to take her out and buy her gifts.

“Ma’am-Maw” was a quick and observant woman.  “My car always needs washing.” she’d tell me. “You know how much of a roadrunner I am.”  She and my “Pap-Paw” lived next to us.  So almost every week, I would show up at her house and spend an hour or so washing her car.

 

I would bring my boom box so I could listen to music while I worked.  The radio would be tuned to an AM station out of Shreveport.  AM radio in the 70s played it all.  And I guess that’s where "Something" by The Beatles got lodged in my head as car-washing music.

My grandma and I had a good routine.  She knew that I was not one for detail.  After I was done washing, I would let her know.  She would come out for an inspection.  Good naturedly, she would chuckle and show me all the places that I had missed.  I would smile and go at it again.   She’d give me a hug  and hand over 10 bucks.  10 bucks went really far back in the day.  Far enough to get me to the next Saturday.

When I married my girlfriend in my late teens, we moved into a mobile home on my parents' land.  My wife and I would visit their house for game nights with my extended family.  My mom and grandmother shared the same infectious laughter, and both of them would keep the rest of us entertained.

A rapid-fire succession of life changes occurred:  my mom passed away, my marriage ended, I moved to another state.  When I returned from my self-imposed exile, I may have seen my Ma'am-Maw once.  Then she was gone. Forever.

Being a good Southern Baptist man, I carried the guilt for a long time.  As I got older, I realized how lucky I was to have such a wonderful grandma.  I knew that she wouldn’t beat me up for what I had been holding myself accountable.  So I let it go.  Today...I would have given anything to have been washing her old Fairlane.
 

I was enjoying the nostalgia, then “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” ended abruptly (as it always does) and the opening strains of “Here Comes the Sun” entered.  I looked up.  The sky was dark with clouds.  And I was back to the present. 

The Man walked up. “Do I hear thunder?”  I smiled.  I thought he was coming out to inspect my work and slide me 10 bucks.

Dallas & Chris

Nineteen years old.  Not a lot of reasoning during that time of my life.  Almost nil foresight.  And in hindsight, everything turned out o.k.

But let’s rewind just three years from then. She and I came together at a weekend teen church retreat.  She was a beauty.  Hair – long, soft, dark.  Almond-shaped eyes with ebony-colored irises.  A soft laugh that she hid behind her hand.   I made up my mind that she should fall in love with me.  So I played piano for her.  I sang to her.  I clowned around on the basketball court for her amusement.  I invited her for walks along the red-dirt roads under the tall pines in the campgrounds.  It all worked.

And we dated.  Over the course of three years, she became like part of my family, and I of hers.  And then carelessness made the theoretical bond real.  A positive pregnancy test.  We broke the news to her parents to receive uncomfortable and unexpected laughter.  We broke the news to my mom and received an exasperated scolding (“Don’t ya’ll know how to use condoms?!”).  I broke the news to my father separately.  I’ll just say it was not pretty and leave it there.

I went from college to construction work, from walking across the green university campus lawns to inching my way across iron beams hundreds of feet above concrete.  She went from high school to housewife, home ec to home making. 

About six and a half months into her pregnancy, she woke me in the middle of the night.  “I think my water just broke…”  We headed to the charity hospital in Shreveport.  She and I, just kids, had  no money and no insurance.

At her initial examination, the doctor said, “I believe I hear two heartbeats.”  An X-Ray tech was brought in.  When the images came back, there they were:  curled like yin and yang.  We were excited.  Twins!  “This is not good news.” the doctor warned.  “This is much too early to deliver.  We need to keep the babies in the womb as long as possible.  Every minute counts at this stage.  It will be especially difficult with twins inside.”

There was the risk of infection since there was no longer any amniotic fluid.  But that danger was not realized; she only lasted a couple of days before going into labor.  I was banned from the delivery room and was upset about that.  I understand now the doctors knew best.

October 25, 1984.  And they were there.  Both indescribably tiny.  Dallas – 2 lbs 3 oz.  Christian – 2 lbs 1 oz.  My heart swelled and burst at the same time.  Dallas was on his stomach with his eyes open.  Chris, on his back with closed eyes. Both of the boys were on ventilators.  They were bruised, but beautiful.  The doctors did not sugarcoat the truth.  “It does not look good for either of the babies.  The smaller one sustained serious damage during the birth.  Survival for either is slim at best.”  Chris lasted for only 19 hours.  Dallas slugged it out and held on.

A hearse took our second-born son to the funeral home.  My sister’s boyfriend greeted us there.  This hardened police officer was a pool of tears.  “I don’t think you want to see the baby.”  We couldn’t listen.  We had to see Chris.  And I found out something that I never wanted to know:  one of the worst experiences in life is selecting a headstone for your child.  But Chris’ brother was in Shreveport.  We had to keep pushing.

My weekdays through this time went something like this: 

Up at 5:30 AM
30 miles to work until 4:00 PM
30 miles home
70 miles to Shreveport
Stay with Dallas until visiting hours were over at 10 PM
70 miles home
Bed at Midnight.

Suddenly I was all the adult that I never wanted to be.

One beautiful Saturday in early January, we arrived at the hospital to smiling nurses.  “He’s off the ventilator and under an oxygen tent!”  And there he was:  the first time that we had seen his face without a breathing tube and medical tape obstructing the view.  He looked so tough!  You could see that he was a fighter.  He even smiled a couple of times.  To this day, that smile is one of the most beautiful images that I’ve ever seen.

We returned the next day, and he was on the ventilator once more.  When my wife saw him, she started weeping uncontrollably.  I could do nothing but hold her.

A couple of weekends after that, even the ventilator was not working.  At the doctor’s recommendation, we shut everything down.  The nurses handed him to us and led us to a room right off the neonatal unit.  He took his last breaths as my wife held him close to her and I rubbed his little hand.

Against state law, the hospital allowed us to take him in the truck with us to the funeral home in our city.  The drive was long and silent.  For both her and me, the deaths of Chris and Dallas were our first experience with the loss of a close family member.  And these losses were of our sons.  It was painful beyond expression.  I remember that it rained on the day of Dallas’ funeral, and still the cemetery was filled with family and friends as we laid him to rest next to his brother.

We both stumbled through a fog for the next couple of months.

The doctor told us to wait for a year until trying for another child.  One year and nine months later, our third son was born.  Full-term. 7 lbs, 8 oz.  Spitting image of his brothers (only larger).   He was perfectly perfect.  After the loss of the twins, his mom and I knew how precious he was and how fortunate we were.

And here we are.  27 years later.   I still call the boys’ mom each October 25^th.  With the passage of time, the memories we share are bittersweet.  She and I are no longer kids.  We’re no longer irresponsible.  Shoot, we’re no longer married.  But together we went through a heartbreaking experience.  Plus she still loves me (and I, her).  So everything is o.k.

Support the March of Dimes for stronger , healthier babies
(Photo credit - Enrico/One from RM)

"I Really Don't Wanna Go" AKA Magic Happens

Mid-March 2010.  And I had dreaded it all week.  I did not want to visit my family.  I wanted to stay home.

It had been since Christmas that The Man and I had been for a visit.  Typically we visited the family back in Louisiana once each month.  This was the longest stretch that I can remember with my going without a visit since I lived in Los Angeles almost seven years ago.  But still ... I didn't want to go.  I wanted to hang out at the house, listening to music and working in my yard. 

But I knew we had to go.  My son had increased the frequency of his "when-am-I-going-to-see-you" calls.  My step-mom had posted "Hey ... when are ya'll coming in" on her own Facebook page (she’ll get the hang of it one day).

Saturday morning, we were packing the truck.  I turned to The Man and sighed, "I really don't wanna go..."

"We don't have to, baby." He smiled.  (He is so perfect).  "We can unload the truck and call your family.  We'll just tell them that we need to stay home this weekend."

"No."  I said.  "We have to go."

So we headed out.  Our normal trip routine.  Gas up.  Breakfast at Whataburger.  Rock tunes on the radio.  And we're off.

Now here's where you can add a tally mark in the "Dork" column on the Queer's sheet.  We were listening to a mixtape that I had made from downloads of last season’s American Idol performances ... yes, yes ... I know...  But anyway, Lee Dewyze's version of Shania Twain's "You're Still the One" came on.  And I started singing to The Man.  Total cheeseball... yes, I know.  But he got all teary-eyed (he's apt to do that often).  But it was beautiful.  After the song, he grabbed my hand and said, "I'm so lucky!"

I just agreed.

We arrived in my hometown and checked in at my sister's house (always the first stop), and then we headed out for something to eat.  We called my son to see if he and his fiancée wanted to join us.  He had just eaten and his fiancée was at a family party, so he asked us to just stop by after our meal.

We got to my son's place and hung out, just watching movies, laughing and shooting the breeze.  It was a blast.  One of our cousins showed up, so we made a beer run.  As the evening moved along, my son suggested that we crash at his place.  We were going to get a motel room.  But this would be the first time that The Man and I would stay with my son.  So we took him up on the offer.  It was an ideal evening.

Later that evening, The Man and I headed to the local pizza joint to pick up some grub.  As he was waiting at the counter, I ambled over to the juke box.  I checked out the tunes, not at all surprised that Shania Twain’s greatest hits CD was in the machine.  I paid my money.  I made my selection. And then I stepped slowly and silently to the far side of the room.

 

As the music came in, I watched as The Man began to reflexively tap his toe to the rhythm.  Then as he started to recognize the tune, his head turned back and forth a bit like a puzzled pup.  When he fully realized what song was playing, he began to look for me.  When we finally met eyes across the room, he smiled broadly. I waved.

I’m glad we visited the family that month.  I got a magic moment out of it.

The Onions Are Watching the Kings on Pluto!

Surfing the web to cure my boredom, I came across a site that generates random sentences.  I had to refresh the page about eleven times before I came across something that was somewhat amusing.  And even "The Onions Are Watching the Kings on Pluto!" barely qualifies.

I then surfed on to another site where a random question was posted:  “Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18, and find line 4.”  The book?  The Dhammapada.  The line?

        We are what our deep, driving desire is.

What are the chances...? (My fight with fatalism continues).

My deep, driving desire?  I achieved it simply by becoming a father.  Doesn’t sound like much of an impressive goal, does it?  Oh, but it was and is.  What I wanted most in life was to be a dad (I can only imagine that many other guys feel the same). But when I realized long ago that I was gay (in those days when gays and lesbians were not allowed to adopt),  the thought of having children of my own seemed far-fetched.

So some may laugh and say, “You can’t build a life on being a father.”  Well, maybe.  It’s a lot of fun to try.  I know enough not to crowd my adult son.  I mostly leave him be and let him initiate contact.  I’ll call if I haven’t heard from him in a week or so.  But the best way to get his attention?  Random texts.  For example: 

I knew he was excited about seeing an upcoming film.  I was at the gym and saw an ad for the movie on the TV.  I sent him a two-word text. 

“SUCKER PUNCH!”

He sent back:

“LOL.  Ur weird, Dad.”

Yesterday, apropos of nothing, I sent:

“YOU ROCK!!!”

This morning I got: 

“You rock :-P”

To which I replied,

“I’m lining ‘em up like ass cracks.”

He just came back with

“Ur bizarre, LOL.  Good morning, Dad.”

Surprisingly, in the midst of all this mature modeling that I provide, he’s turned into quite a responsible adult.  In the future, I hope Random-Gramps doesn’t scare his children.

(but I'm not the only one who does it...)

...and how was your weekend?

 Here was mine:

240 miles: Saturday morning – Houston, Texas to hometown Natchitoches, Louisiana.

40 miles:  Natchitoches to Kisatchie Bayou Campground, where son, nephew and friends are staying the night.

Son’s car – Flat tire. No spare. No jack. No lug wrench. No air pump.  No joke.

Son’s friend – “Leesville is only about 12 to 15 miles south.”

Me – “Oh, ok.  We’ll just run to the Wal-mart there and get what we need.”  The Man, my son’s fiancée and I jump in my truck.

40 miles later.  Wal-mart.

Leesville, Louisiana.  Picture?  Ok.  Leesville is a small city in east-Jesus, Louisiana.  It is known for its close proximity to army base Fort Polk.  Bible belt meets Military brass.  Imagine the weirdness. 

40 miles back to the camp.  Somewhat quicker.  At least seeming that way from the familiarity of the route.  And furthermore, by a moment of levity. 

Me:  “I hope we are getting close to the turn-off at the ranger station.”

The Man:  “Oh, we are.  I saw that “moderate” sign on the way south.”

Me:  “That ‘what’ sign?”

The Man:  “Moderāte”

Me:  “That’s ‘moderăte’ as in ‘Moderăte Fire Danger.’"  The fiancée and I got a good snicker. 

A bit further down the road.  The fiancée:  “I’m a bit chilly.  Do ya’ll feel that?”  Beat.  “It’s moderătely cold in here.”

Flat tire problem solved.  Hung out for a couple of hours.

40 miles back to Natchitoches.  Watched “Juno” with The Man and the fiancée.  Crashed.

10 miles to my sister’s house.  Hung out for an hour.  Nap.  Hung out for another hour.

2 miles to my father’s house.  Coffee.  Wonderful cake, compliments of my stepmom. Sat outside.  Weather, perfect.

240 miles:  Natchitoches to our front door (where our dogs were mega-excited to see us; our cats were completely apathetic).

Simply adding the miles:  612 miles.

 

We could have driven to Destin, Florida to some breathtaking beach.  We could have driven to Memphis and listened to some amazing blues.   We could have driven to Wichita to see the The Old Cowtown Museum (a replica of an 1870s Midwestern cattle town, complete with a blacksmith, dance-hall girls and sarsaparilla).

We could have done all of those things.  I would have missed my family.

For the record, from the Pendleton Bridge that passes over Toledo Bend Reservoir at the Texas-Louisiana state line to our front door - 188.7 miles.  This is of no interest to anyone but me, but after this weekend you’ll indulge me.  Please?

G’nite.

Keeping It Clean

I got on a cleaning kick this morning.  Amazingly.  I tend to be somewhat of a slob.  Not a terrible one.  Just a bit disorganized, and more than a bit lazy about housework.  Of course, living with a former Navy man has spoiled me a tad.  The Man cleans about everything that does not and a few things that do move.  This morning I tackled my bathroom (yes, we do have separate bathrooms – I recommend it for all housemates.  It cuts down on conflicting grooming schedules).  He cleans his bathroom.  I clean mine.  Mine stays quite clean.  It’s the clutter that gets out of hand.  But I cleaned and cleared this morning.  And the mind jumps.  It landed rather logically on “Cleanliness is next to godliness.”  And my mind jumped again.

I did not know when we first started dating, but The Man does not believe in God.  I write this with some reluctance.  Some of my family members read my essays, and my relatives are largely Christian.  I do not want them trying to redeem him and save his soul.  The Man’s father, heart in the right place, does much of that already. 

When I did discover that my guy was a “non-believer,” it made no matter to me.  Though I was raised a Southern Baptist, I had given up on church.  After coming out as a homosexual, it was not so much a decision as a result.  I heard from friends and relatives that I was going to Hell.  People would tell me that they were praying for my soul.  I endured sermons about the evils of homosexuality.  Really Christians?  Really?!

Abandoning the Christian faith, I still felt the need to worship.  So I started attending a local Buddhist temple.  I enjoyed the serenity of the religion, though I did not delve too deeply in the tenets of the faith.  Not doing my homework resulted in the following anecdote: 

One Saturday morning, The Man and I were relaxing at the house.  The doorbell rang.  The Man walked to the front window.  He returned to the living room.  “Don’t go to the door.  It’s two ladies with bibles.”

“Oh, geez.”  I stood and rolled my eyes at The Man.  When I opened the door, the well-dressed women began by telling me about Jesus and his “infinite grace.”  Then they invited me to their church.  I thanked them but told them that I already attended a temple. 

“Temple?” They asked.

Yes, temple. I replied.

“What kind of temple?”  They asked.

Buddhist temple. I replied. I’m a Buddhist.

“Oh!  Tell us about that.” They requested.

I babbled something about our belief that all beings were naturally good and that by striving to do well we meet our highest evolution.  It even sounded like bullshit to me.

“Is there another person here?”  They asked.

Yes, my partner is here. But you probably do not want to talk to him.  I said

At ‘him,’ their eyes widened.

He’s an atheist. I explained.

Eyes wider still.

They offered me a pamphlet and left quickly. 

And after hearing myself having a difficult time describing my new religion, I stopped attending temple.

Ultimately here I am, sharing a home with the most holy, righteous, cheerful, kind, and caring man that I have ever met.  Ok, so he’s not Godly.  He doesn’t force his views on others.  He doesn’t go door to door preaching of an untended universe.  He keeps a smile on his face without the assistance of a spiritual family.  Ok, maybe he is godly.

Cleanliness was the first priority with my grandmother.  Also, she was one of the godliest women I’d ever met.  Before she passed, we had a conversation one afternoon.  I had recently come out and was raw-nerved due to my separation with the church.  I asked her.  “Maw-maw, do you think that I’m going to Hell?”

She gave me a direct look to the eye.  “Of course not.  You’ve got a good heart.  God knows that.”

My cleaning this morning brought my grandmother back to me.  And today that was the only godliness I needed.

Always There

She has always been there for me.  But more importantly than that, she has always just been there.  She has been the most constant presence in my life.  In my earliest memories my sister and I were together, somewhat forced to spend time with each other.  In the late-60s, my family lived on the grounds of a plant in east Texas where my dad worked.  On the property, there were only two houses:  ours and one across the road.  The family in the other house did include a teenage girl, who spent a bit of time with my sister.  But most days, my sister and I passed time exploring the creeks and woods near our house, riding our bikes on the dirt roads around the plant, and listening to our mom’s 45 records on our small plastic stereo.  We learned to get along, which we did very well.

My sister went to live with our grandparents in Louisiana when she was five.  The earliest that children could start school in Texas was at age six.  So she spent her first school year away from the family.  I do not remember being especially broken-hearted when she left.  Maybe it was the knowledge that I would have our mom all to myself; maybe it was the assurance that I knew my sister would return.  She did.

My dad was transferred to Tennessee when I was five.  I didn’t have much fear of the move.  Given our living situation in Texas, I had not had the opportunity to make close friends that I would miss.  Above all, I knew that I was taking my best friend with me.  My family spent a year in Tennessee before returning to our hometown in Louisiana.  And there we stuck.

Living in a small suburban area outside of a small town, other kids were available for friendship.  So my sister and I began to spend less time together.  Over a long period of time, I had to be weaned from my want of her company.  She would expressly state that I did not need to hang out with her and her friends.  So, I started to hang out with the boys in the neighborhood. I enjoyed it, almost as much as I enjoyed being around my sister.  Almost.

As we entered adulthood, we stayed close.  She was the best aunt possible to my son.  And when my wife and I divorced, she helped out immeasurably.  I had the delight of seeing her become a mother (four times over).  And as good of an aunt she is, she is an even better mother.

Now we both are busy with our lives.  But we talk on the phone once a week; more frequently when there is some crisis or tough situation brewing with either of us.  She is the person that understands how I work, probably more than I know how she does.   She had a two-year jump on figuring me out.  But I have a pretty good handle on her as well.  She is thoughtful and sympathetic.  She possesses a sharp wit and a quick mind.  She can keep her head in the craziest crazy circumstances.  In a word, she's incredible.

I love being in her presence.  We laugh together at the most inappropriate times. We cry together when all seems hopeless. We relax in each other’s company, secure in the knowledge that we can just be ourselves: no masks, no shields.  When I look into her lovely blue eyes, I know that all will be just fine.  Everything.

My best bud

Although I’ve talked a little bit about him, I think it’s time to direct a bit more light toward my awesome son.  Many people may think they have the best child in the world; I’m one of those.  And he came into my life totally by accident.  Well, just in a matter of speaking…

He wasn’t planned.  Being young and carefree, my wife and I were not concerned with birth control.  So I guess the arrival of a baby should not have been a big surprise.  When my wife was pregnant, I insisted that we not find out what the gender of the baby was with a sonogram.  But not able to withstand surprise (she even read the last few pages of each new book to determine if she wanted to dive in), she asked the doctor anyway.  I did not accompany her on that visit, but she greeted me with a huge smile when I arrived from work that evening.  I knew what had happened, so I asked her.  98 percent certainty that the baby was a girl.  I was disappointed; she was elated.  In the delivery room, the anesthesiologist kept telling my wife “Here comes that beautiful girl.”  I’m sure that I was grimacing.  The doctor lifted the baby up and said “Does a girl have these?”

Our son was such a low-maintenance child.  All he craved was attention.  And he got it in big doses.  Having lost a set of premature twins a year and a half earlier, my wife and I had a ball with the new baby – cheering him on at each milestone:  his crawling, walking, talking.  Since he was the first baby in the family (first grandchild to both sets of our parents), he was doted on incessantly.  He was almost always smiling and happy.  When he did manage to get a little grumpy, all you had to do was tickle him a bit and he would break into infectious laughter.

I’m sure many parent were and are enchanted by their children, but I was mesmerized.  I had gotten what I wanted – to have a son and be a father.

Before he was three, I had come out and his mother and I had divorced.  I became a weekend dad.  It didn’t make much difference.  I would pick him up from his mom’s every other Friday evening, and we would spend a whole weekend of just dad and son time.  I would always ask him, “So, what are we doing this weekend?”  He loved to call the shots, and we would do almost anything he wanted.

When I moved to Houston, I had a difficult time withdrawing from our biweekly contact.  But I did make the trip back to Louisiana once a month to share a weekend with him.  And we talked on the phone a couple of times a week.  The closer he got to his teen years, he wanted to talk on the phone every day.  I understood and reveled in his want of daily conversations with me. 

When he did get to his mid-teen years, he moved to Houston to live with me.  That lasted about six months.  With my not being much of a disciplinarian and with his lack of interest in conventional education (and not bothering to attend school at all), his grades went south quickly.  His mom and I decided that it was a good idea for him to return to Louisiana.

When he graduated high school, he again came to live with me.  Once more, he lasted about six months.  Turns out that he is more of a county boy than a city one.  One night he looked up at a sky bright with urban lights and told me “I miss my stars.”

24 years passed so quickly.  He just started college.  He is engaged to a wonderful young lady.  I am so proud of him.  I tell him just that and frequently.

My partner and I are going to Louisiana to visit him and his fiancée this weekend.  His mother will come to visit as well.  We will play dominos, watch movies, laugh and just enjoy each others’ company.

Over the course of his life, I have told him repeatedly that he is the best son that I could have ever hoped for.  I began to get it back.  I started hearing that I am the best father in the world.  While he and I were talking on the phone the other day, I heard the words “You’re my best friend, Dad.”

Sweet.

Bah, Humbug?

I wonder exactly when it happened.  I have an idea how. 

When I was a kid, Christmas was such a big event each year.  I grew up in a town that is famous for its Christmas festival.  The streets would be strung with a cosmic number of multicolored bulbs at the beginning of December.  The first Saturday of the month was the date of the fest.  The town would swell from the resident population of around 15,000 people to over 100,000.  I looked forward to the festival, because most of my family would come from all over the state to enjoy the celebration.

There would be two parades:  a short junior parade with groups like cub and girl scouts, junior high bands, and baton twirling squads, and a larger parade with elaborate floats, high school bands, horses, and the Grand Marshall.  One year, the Grand Marshall was (wow) Vanna White. After the parades, bands would play on the grandstand at the edge of the river that ran through the city.  When darkness closed in, a magnificent fireworks presentation would erupt over the river to the oohs and aahs of the crowd (and the cries of frightened young children).  As the end of the display, the city Christmas lights would suddenly illuminate the downtown district.

Throughout the month of December, the Christmas lights would twinkle, a tall tinsel tree on the grandstand would flash and play carols, and Santa would be in his small shop near the river with a ready knee to bounce the wishes out of children.  In addition to the festival, I was involved in many church-related activities that added to the spirit of the season:  live nativity presentations, cantatas, and candlelight Christmas Eve services.  Between the doings in the city and the goings-on in my rural neighborhood, I was in a constant glow of the season.

Then I grew up … fast. 

At nineteen, I got my girlfriend pregnant and we were married.  She was unknowingly carrying twins; we found that out when her water broke two and a half months early.  We rushed to the big city charity hospital (we were young kids… no money, no insurance).  Born so prematurely (and long before more modern medicine), the two boys had the odds stacked against them from the start.  One of the twins lived only 19 hours.  The other lived on life support from late October through early January, innocently throwing a shadow on the holidays.

When I was 22, my mother had a massive heart attack the Sunday after Thanksgiving.  By the time she was transported to the local hospital, she had slipped into a coma.  That holiday season, my family passed time visiting in the hospital with her unaware.  She never regained consciousness and perished in early February of 1987.

So there you have it:  the two most heartbreaking events of my life occurring during the holidays.  Lots of hospital-time and sadness; little celebration and merriness.  Each Christmas after those experiences reminded me of loss.

I will write off my lack of holiday interest to these two life events.  My wife and I had a son after the twins.  When he was a toddler, his mom and I divorced.  He would visit me during the holidays and ask why I never put up a tree.  As he grew older, he must have realized that it just wasn’t Dad’s bag.

Maybe it’s just the passing of time and my getting older.  I really wish I could be more celebratory during Christmastime.  Nowadays with the season beginning before Halloween ends and all of the pressure of shopping for the perfect gifts, it is a long two and a half months for me.  Even the Christmas celebration in my hometown has been extended to include fireworks for every weekend of December, which seems a bit too much for my take.  But I make sure not to complain about the holidays to others (as some do).  It’s one thing to be outside of the spirit of the season; it’s another thing to rip the tinsel from the tree.  I will not be a Scrooge

Average ... Maybe Not

After a long day at work, it's great to come home to a house full of life.  The Man is here with dinner on the table.  The two dogs are outside, getting their paws muddy with more than a little help from the rain that has carried on for the better part of the afternoon.  One cat is crashed on the bed.  The other is following me around like a puppy, but whining loudly for attention.  I give her a little, and then she jumps up to join her brother and curls up on the bed.
Sounds as if we have the average household.  In my mind, we do.
Just The Man and I plus our four pets.  I would say "kids," but they're animals (c'mon folks).  The Man and I enjoy each other's company, a lot.  How many couples can say that after four years together, but every time I look into his eyes, I see the rest of my life reflected back to me.  I proposed to him earlier this year.

Sound as if we have the average household.  And in my mind, we don't.
The average household is not made up of a gay couple and their pets.  Furthermore, I get more than a little frustrated about the fact that he and I cannot just run down to the justice of the peace and get hitched (my style) or plan a big elaborate wedding ceremony and after-party (his style).  Our friends ask questions like "Why do you need your union validated by marriage?"  Or say things like "Don't worry.  The tide will turn one day and same-sex marriage will be adopted in the States."  When?  When I'm 64?  I reside in a state that will be one of the last in the Union to allow gay marriage.  Texas is not exactly the most liberal of the great 50.
I can't wait forever.  Maybe same-sex marriage is for the next generation of gay and lesbian couples.  I'd like to get in on the action.
When I first proposed to the Man, we immediately started looking to have the wedding in Toronto.  We had visited the city the year before and fell in love with it.  We caught a Blue Jay's game.  We toured the city in a double-decker bus (a bit cheesy but total fun).  We ferried over to the islands that skirt the harbor of the city and biked around the paths, around the parks, fountains and cottages.  We enjoyed it so much that we talked of getting married there and then relocating to the city (much to the chagrin of our family and friends).  We've pulled back from those Pollyanna dream (much to the delight of our family and friends).  With winter approaching, we gave it a second look...we live in Houston, and Toronto is COLD during those winter months.
So, we'll have to wait to truly be an average family.  I guess that's good in a way.  Right now...I can feel as if I am part of an above-average family.

Incurable

That's it. They are no two ways about it. I tried to figure it out. I tried to understand if there was some reason. Now, I know that there is no rhyme to it. But that's fine. I live with the most ardent non-fatalist in the world. He believes in chaos. I see patterns. We don't try to convert one another.
I only know that when my hormones started raging at puberty, they did not push me toward the girls. It was difficult to try to act like one of the guys, when all the guys started to talk about getting busy with the girls. So I tried to keep my mouth shut and analyze how this happened.
Although I played shy for the first few years, my true personality rose to the top. I'm fairly outgoing and friendly. I made friends pretty easily. Most often with girls. In my analysis, I just attributed this to the fact that I had spent the first few years of my life with only my sister as a playmate. We lived in rural southeast Texas on the plant grounds, where my dad worked. We were isolated from other children, and she was older. She got to set the mood for a lot of the play, and I got used to playing house and putting on lip-sync shows for my mom. As I grew older and my family moved to a city in northwest Louisiana where there were lots of other kids, my sister grew a bit impatient with my wanting to hang out with her and her new girlfriends. So reluctantly, I started befriending the boys in the neighborhood.
Now that was a bit tough. Each of the boys were rough-and-tumble, and hell, I'd been playing with my sister and her dolls, twirling batons, singing Beach Boys songs and talking with her about Donny-freaking-Osmond.
I tried to analyze my friendships with my childhood male friends. At the onset of my interactions with them, I took a lot of ribbing. They called me names like "sissy" and worse. We would hang with the teenagers sometimes at the park up the road. The teenagers used to get special joy out of telling me that I had a spider on my back.

Being a wimpy little pip-squeak, I would flail all over the place, screaming and clawing at my back, eventually working myself up to a crying jag (I know, folks ... pitiful, but true). My friends would try to help me, telling me that there was no spider. I would eventually settle down and my friends would lead the crying little queer away. They did stand by me, but I could tell that they were more than a little ashamed at the affiliation.
I tried to look at my relationship with my father. It was less than ideal ... oh, to be honest, there was almost NO communication, so there could be NO relationship. (And Dad ... if you ever read this: I understand that you loved me then, you love me now, and you'll always love me. Ditto back to you, big guy). I thought that the absence of a chummy dad might have fueled my need for a loving relationship with another male.

When everything first came out about my sexual orientation, I got a little surprise one day. I was replacing the toilet seal in my bathroom one Saturday afternoon, covering in sweat, dirt, and nasty black wax. I sensed someone looking at me. I looked up to see my sister, who had come into my house quietly. She was just standing there and looking at me as tears ran down her face. "I just heard." she said. "Is it true?"
I just sighed and nodded.
"Was it something I did?" she asked.
"Yeah," I smiled at her. "You hit me too much when I was little."

In the time since that day, I have gotten a better perspective. I tried to date women after the break-up of my marriage ... once. Still, it didn't work. I finally ventured to the larger cities of Louisiana, where there was an actual gay nightlife, making friends and actually running into some old ones (I'll have to write a post on this one day...) I'm on my fourth and (I know) last live-in relationship. I've come out to everyone in my personal, professional and past lives.

Getting to this point in my life. I guess I really don't have to figure it out. I realize now that I'm an incurable: sometimes incurably romantic, sensitive and kind, sometimes incurably rude, thoughtless and narcissistic. But I'm always incurably queer.