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.

What to Do? AKA "Mystery Dance"

I miss him.  For about 20 years, he was a constant in my life.  And then we weren’t there for each other.  I wish I could understand, but I can’t figure it out.

When I first came out in my 20s, I began to go to Shreveport, Louisiana to experience the nightlife.  As luck would have it, my first trip to the gay bar in the city was a bit of a jolt.  As I approached the door, I saw the younger guys (like me) pulling out their IDs to show the man just inside.  I pulled out my driver’s license and walked into the bar.  Who was working the door?  A guy from my hometown.  Not only a guy from my hometown, but one of my old school mates.  He had boxed with my cousin in middle school.  He and I were in high school band together.  When I saw him, I almost turned around and made the hour drive back home.  But I took a deep breath.  I approached his podium and handed over my ID.  He raised his eyebrows as he looked at me.  “I thought that was you!” he smiled.  “I didn’t know you were gay!”  The truth be known, I had always had my suspicions about him. 

Although we had not been close in school, he and I became good friends:  he introduced me around the gay scene, telling me who to avoid, helping me when I didn’t take his advice, being a mentor in my early queer years.

One night, he had a party at his house.  He had invited a photographer from the city paper.  Let’s call her “Sherry.”  Sherry brought a guest.  A tall thin guy with fair skin, high cheekbones, green eyes and glasses.  He was a bit quiet.  He and I played darts in the gameroom.  He was horrible at it.  He had a bit too much to drink and seemed to only hit the drywall around the dartboard.  I liked him.  Let’s call him “Greg.”

Another night, another party at my classmate’s home.  When the party got a bit rowdy, Greg suggested that we hang out at his place and have a couple of beers.  Before I got into his car, he had to move a pile of cassette tapes from the front to the back seat.  When I got in, I looked at the back seat.  It was stacked with tapes.  I laughed.  He smiled sheepishly.  I was a big music fan.  When we got to his place, I was really impressed.  He had about a hundred albums and a turntable.  “Play anything you want.” We drank beer and listened to music until late in the night.

Another night, my classmate and I were at the bar.  Sherry was there and more than a little drunk.  “Greg loves you, you know.” She slurred at me.

What?

“He told me so”

The next time I came to Shreveport, I dropped by Greg’s house.  We were just hanging out in his kitchen as he prepared coffee.  I decided to drop the bomb.  “So…Sherry told me that you are interested in me.”

He blushed and turned to face me.  “Yeah, I guess I am.”

It didn't work.  It’s as simple as that.

We maintained the friendship, and it became stronger than ever. 

He began looking for work in Houston.  I visited Houston myself and ran into a man who fell for me.  So I began looking for work in Houston myself.  I got a job and relocated.  About a year later, Greg found a job in Houston.  We never missed a beat in our friendship.  We hung out together a couple of times a week, went to the clubs together, listened to a lot of music.

He saw me through a lot of men.  I would go through a new one about once a year.  He would roll his eyes a lot.  He would say that people didn’t need to be coupled.

I met “The Man” about five years ago now.  Around three years ago, Greg, The Man and I had breakfast together.  I was in an especially cantankerous mood, complaining about the long lines and generally making a scene over nothing.  Greg was distant as we said our good-byes. 

I called him about a week after that breakfast.  I had to leave a message.  I called again the next week.  I had to leave another message.  I called a couple of weeks later.  Another message.  He never called me back.  After a year and a half (about six months ago), I called again.  Another message.

A couple of weeks after that call, I grabbed a six pack of his favorite beer and headed to his house.  I knew he’d be there, since he works from home.  I knocked on his door.  He answered the door with a look of bewilderment.  “Hello?”

“You want a beer?”

“I’m working right now.”

“Can’t you take a break?”

“I really can’t.  Can you give me your number?  And I’ll call you.”  (He deleted my number?)

I was shocked as I drove away. 

Greg did call that evening.  “You want to come over?”

“Sure!”

When I got to his house, Greg was quiet.  We made small talk until I couldn’t take it anymore.  “Greg, did I do something wrong?  You just disappeared on me.”

“I just thought that we needed a break from each other.”

We made plans to meet for lunch.  And then we did a couple of times.  We made plans to meet one day for lunch, and work got busy for me.  I called him and asked if we could reschedule.  “Sure,” he said.  “Just call me next week.”

Work didn’t slow down until a month later.  I called him and got his voicemail.  I left a message.  A couple of weeks ago when I didn’t get a call back, I sent an e-mail.  No reply.

It’s a mystery to me.  And it hurts.  Does there come a time when you just let go of a friendship?  This guy introduced me to Elvis Costello, to the Clash, to the Pretenders, to Rancid, to Joni Mitchell.  I may call him again.

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

Jimmy and Mr. Raney

And now, a bit of fiction...

The October wind was blowing multihued leaves down the road, accompanied by swirls of dust.  It had been a dry early fall, with hunters complaining of not being able to move through the woods without alerting the squirrels.  Jimmy had gone back to the truck early.  It was only 8:45 in the morning, but he had fallen asleep against a white oak earlier.  He thought it best just to come back to Tommy’s truck and lie in the bed.  He dropped the tailgate and climbed in, resting his shotgun beside him and hanging his legs off the edge of the truck. 

            He had a headache from too much beer the night before.  Tommy, Tommy’s cousin Jon, Jimmy, and Jimmy’s cousin Matt had stayed up too late at camp, drinking and talking about girls.  At fifteen, with the other boys being a year or two older, Jimmy missed the times when girls were not such a large topic of conversation around the campfire.  He was a bit confused about the others’ all-consuming interest in the opposite sex and more than a bit worried about his lack thereof. 

            Jimmy looked up as the wispy clouds passed above in the turquoise sky and into the tops of the tall pines.  He groaned a little at the pain in his head as he threw his left arm over his eyes.  In minutes, his chest was rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. 

            Hearing the pounding of slow, heavy footfall, Jimmy woke a bit dazed.  Realizing where he was, he thought “That’s got to be Jon.”  Jon was the largest of the three other hunters.  Being three years older than him and a nose guard for the high school football team, Jon dwarfed the slim but tall Jimmy.

            Jimmy pulled himself to a sitting position and said “What’d ya get?”

            “Well, hello boy.” 

            Jimmy, surprised that it was not Jon, simply said, “Hi,” and scratched his cheek.

Jon was big but this person was a man.  Taller even than Jon, broad shoulders, thick neck, full dark-red beard flecked with grey, camouflage clothes and cap, big smile, hands like catcher’s mitts.

            “You waiting on your buddies?”

            “Yessir.”  Jimmy replied, a bit intimidated as the large man drew closer.

            “I ran into a big fella down in the creek bed a couple of hundred yards that’a way.” The man pointed south.

            “That was Jon.”

            “Jon Fuselier?”

            “Yessir.”

            “I thought I’d recognized him from the football field.  Who do you belong to, boy?”

            Normally, Jimmy would have bristled at a stranger calling him “boy,” but he knew that this man was using the term in a way that was not deprecating.  “I’m Will and Peggy Gauthiex’s son, Jimmy.”

            “Ah, haven’t seen Will in a long time and longer than that for your momma.  You look like her, Jimmy.”

            “Yessir, so people tell me.”

            “I’m Gerald Raney.”

            “Good to meet you, Mr. Raney.”  Jimmy instinctively extended his right hand.

            “Call me Gerry,” Ramey grabbed the boy’s hand and shook it, the man’s large paw enveloping the other’s.  The man’s direct gaze from green eyes locked with Jimmy’s dark brown ones.  “How’d you do this morning?”

            Jimmy smiled sheepishly.  “I just went into the woods and fell asleep.  So I came on back to the truck.”

            “You must have stayed up too late last night, kiddo.”  The big man laughed, eyes dancing.

            “Yessir.”  Jimmy grinned.

            “I’d better get home and start dressing these squirrels, buddy.”  Mr. Raney raised his large hand.

            “Yessir, Mr. Raney.  Have a good day.”

            “Gerry…”

            “Yessir, Gerry.”

            “See you around, Jimmy.”  The man gave Jimmy a slight smile and a wink of his dark green eye.

            Jimmy watched at the man walked away.  The sun went behind a cloud, shadowing the field where the truck was parked; the wind kicked up a bit more.  About a hundred yards away, Mr. Raney turned.  He squared himself with Jimmy and lifted his hand once more.  Jimmy signaled back.  The man turned and resumed his trek.  With the image of Mr. Raney fixed in his mind, the boy positioned himself in the truck bed again and closed his eyes.

Stuck in the Gridlock

I used to road rage ... a LOT.  I moved to Houston from a small Louisiana town, population 5,000.  The gridlock of Houston was overwhelming for me.  When I first arrived in the city, I worked in one of the busiest districts and had to commute a simple four or five miles home.  I say simple.  Most days it took me 45 minutes to an hour to get home.  In Louisiana, I was used to a 10-minute commute with the same distance between home and work.
So I'd grind my teeth, get red in the face, and generally raise my blood pressure all the way home in Houston.
Then I got a new job where I was able to take the bus.  It took a bit longer than the drive, but I saved on parking fees plus I got to read and listen to my MP3 player to and from work.
My next move was to Los Angeles, and some may think "Oh, My God!"  But I did not have that experience.  I found the drivers there to be more aware and more courteous that those in Houston.  Certainly there were certain freeways to avoid:  the 405, the 110 South (the Harbor Freeway).  But my commute was beautiful.  I lived in West Hollywood and worked in Pasadena.  I would take the 101 South to the 110 North, drive through a big tunnel in a hill and BAM...there were the San Miguel Mountains shining in the distance.  I started thinking that Angelenos were more chilled out on the road just because so many of the surroundings were pleasing.
I did return to Houston (my life called me back from La-La Land) and what did I observe comparing Houston to Los Angeles?  More aggressive drivers.  More vehicles with body damage.  More accidents.  I laughed when one of my co-workers told me over morning coffee that she had seen a bumper sticker on the way in to work that said "Howdy, DAMMIT!"  And that about sums it up.  Cowboy drivers in our big beautiful Bayou City.

I finally took a different point of view and it's been recent that I came to this revelation.  There is nothing that I can do about traffic.  I just have to go with the flow.  And maybe that's just what the people in Los Angeles have been doing for years.  They've had more practice being a big city than Houston.
I just need to remember what I would always tell my son while navigating traffic: "The only vehicle that I can drive right now is this one."
Above all, whether it's to pick up your kid from soccer practice, meet your friends for happy hour, or just  head home to your loved ones; we are all just trying to get to where we really want or need to be.

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.