Snow

Many years ago when I was in college and still driving that pumpkin orange AMC Gremlin, I set out for the Christmas holiday back home, normally a 90-minute drive. It was right around Calimesa on Interstate 10 that I came over a rise and was dumbfounded to find snow in front of me as far as the eye could see. The traffic slowed to a stop. This was Southern California; and no one knew how to drive in the snow. So we just sat in our cars, the engines and heaters running, because it was verry cold. The afternoon turned to evening and eventually the evening light slipped into darkness. A few hours later, my car stopped running. I’m not sure if it ran out of gas or if the battery just got too cold to restart. So I pushed the Gremlin to the side of the road with the help of some of my freeway neighbors, and discovered that in the car behind me was a woman that I knew from church. She had been visiting a friend in the hospital and was on her way home when she got stuck in the snowstorm. She was crying and her hands were trembling and she appeared to be very happy to see me. She grabbed my hand through the window of her car and asked if I could drive her car home. I didn’t play coy. I said you ‘betcha!’ So I took note of where we left my car, and climbed in behind her steering wheel. Finally the Highway Patrol took us as a caravan, single file through the snow to unobstructed freeway. It was nine hours after I began the trip that we pulled up to my parent’s house to let me out.

As I listened to the reports this week of heavy snowfall in the Northeast, I successfully defeated any romantic notions about sleigh bells in the snow. My one experience of December snow on a Southern California freeway was enough to last me a lifetime.

The Singing Gardner

Since my fingers no longer function due to the MS, I do all my writing with the use of voice recognition software. I speak into the headset and the words appear on the screen of my computer…like magic. My office needs to be quiet in order for the software to work. So washing machines, vacuum cleaners, lawnmowers; each is my nemesis. But the other day as I was sitting to write this piece, the sound of on edger out in the park outside my window caught my attention. Actually it was the operator of the edger that I noticed. As he worked, he sang. In a booming baritone voice he sang out loud. I'm not quite sure what the song was because the lyrics were in Spanish. But the song was so beautiful, and the singer so sincere that I'm sure it was a love song.

I fancied myself on the Via Veneto listening to a gondolier serenading his lovebird passengers. We went to Venice once, back in the days when I could still walk. We had dinner in a tiny restaurant that we found by wandering through the alleyways. We gorged ourselves on beautiful meats and pastas while an old dog slept on the floor in the corner. After dinner we made our way back to the hotel. We were surely lost but how lost can you get in Venice? Eventually everything leads back to St. Mark's Square. We were happy wandering hand in hand on tiny sidewalks, over picturesque bridges. And then we heard a little bit of heaven. In a tiny church, a choir and orchestra were performing Vivaldi, so we sat on a bench outside. The stars twinkled over our heads, water lapped the sides of the canal in front of us and the music flew over the windowsills and embraced us with eternal affection.

Thank God for the singer who sings without regard for who might be listening.

Watch

I thought I lost my watch yesterday.

Twenty years ago Tom gave me a wristwatch for my birthday. It was a beautiful gold Hamilton watch with a classic face. In those days I was in the habit of losing wristwatches; I must’ve misplaced three watches since I’d been living with Tom. The Timex I had been wearing that winter disappeared- I know not where. So when Tom gave me my new Hamilton, he said, “Watch where you put it. This is no Timex”. I’ll be careful, I promised.

I remember that winter distinctly, we moved to San Diego and the three of us, Tom, Skip (our dog) and I moved into a one-bedroom apartment. It was an exciting time full of new possibilities. Both Tom and I were starting new jobs and exploring our new city. Since our furniture was stored in a Mayflower warehouse somewhere, we slept on the floor in a sleeping bag while we scoured the new city for our house to be. On the first night in our sleeping bag, Tom gave me my birthday present. The new watch.

After my grandmother died I ended up with one of my grandfather’s old pocket watches, it was a classic old Elgin that didn’t run any more. I took it to several jewelers who agreed they couldn’t make it run again. I don’t know if that was literally true, or if jewelers today don’t know what to do with 75-year-old pocket watches. My new Hamilton has a face nearly as attractive as that old Elgin.

I’ve kept my lovely Hamilton lo these many years, changing the bands from time to time and the battery annually. In the last couple of years I’ve worn it on my wrist with a flexible band that stretches over my hand, since I no longer have the dexterity in my fingers to buckle a more traditional leather band.

Yesterday as I prepared for bed I noticed my watch wasn’t on my wrist. I checked the bathroom counter near the sink and I checked my nightstand. I checked the dining table-no watch. My heart began racing. I must have panicked for about 30 minutes. Finally I found it. It was just below my elbow all the time, hidden by the sleeve of my sweater. Since it was one of those unusually cold evenings in Southern California, I was wearing a sweater, an unusual garment for me. I was flooded with relief.

I don’t have many appointments any more; I don’t need to get any place at any particular time. But the thought of losing my watch left me shaken. After all- I had promised to be careful.

The Circle Game

When I was a boy we spent many Christmas holidays at my grandmother’s house 5 miles from home. Uncle Ralph or Uncle William would have decorated the tree in the most tasteful way. Flocked all white with pink lights or a slender green tree with red lights and red ornaments standing in the curve of the staircase and stretching from the first to the second floor. It was different from our Christmas morning at home where we tore through the wrapping paper with excitement. Here we sat in our Sunday best and took turns opening presents.

When the Uncles were responsible for dinner it would be something extravagant-and late. Like Yorkshire Pudding and Roast Beef at 9 PM. So we children were left to entertain ourselves until dinner. And one of our favorite toys was a tin chicken that laid little wooden eggs when the tiny lever was turned. There were also card games, Chinese checkers and pick-up-sticks. And then maybe a baked Alaska for dessert or cherries jubilee.

Last weekend my husband and I stopped in at my sister’s to visit them and our grand nieces, who were visiting for the weekend. Imagine my surprise to find the little ones playing with an old tin chicken that laid little wooden eggs. My sister had rescued it and saved it for the next generation 50 years later. The little girls didn’t care much about the historical implications; they just delighted at the way the eggs popped out. It made me mindful of Joni Mitchell’s thoughts on the passage of time:

And the seasons they go round and round

And the painted ponies go up and down

We’re captive on the carousel of time

We can’t return we can only look behind

From where we came

And go round and round and round

In the circle game

Swimmng Lessons

When I was eight years old my parents took me to Pauley Pool for swimming lessons. The public pool was probably 50 yards long but to a skinny little eight-year-old it could have been 1000. We lined up along the edge of the pool as instructed. I was shivering so much I’m surprised my swimsuit didn’t fall off. A very tall man in red trunks told us to jump in and swim to the other side. I thought to myself, “are you crazy?” The other side was very far away. Fortunately a rope with little buoys attached to it connected our side to the other side. This was obviously intended as a lifeline for me. So I jumped in, grabbed hold of the rope and started pulling myself across the pool.

The irritating man in the red trunks began pointing at me and shouting: “let go of the rope”. I thought to myself, ‘as long as you’re standing on dry land and I’m here in the water, I think I’ll hang on to the rope.’ He kept shouting and pointing, I kept pulling myself along the rope. When I got to the other side I pulled myself out of the water.

Later that day when I was finally dry and warm, I told my parents that I didn’t want to go back to swim lessons. I knew it would mean forfeiting the two dollars already paid, but I just couldn’t face another near-death experience. I was surprised that they put up no argument and just said ‘okay, maybe another time’.

The irony of this little story is that a few years later I joined the high school swim team, and swam the eight hundred freestyle and the 200 individual medley in competition. I still shivered sometimes but I swam a lot faster.

Scary Mask

Scary Mask

Ever since Cain and Abel, brothers have had a complicated relationship with each other. When I was a boy my parents kept a Halloween mask in the hall closet. It was a mask of a native North American, with a very big nose, a wart on his cheek, a prominent chin, and it scared my brother out of his wits. My brother was probably five or six years old and had trouble recognizing that when the mask was on me, I was still the one behind the mask. So he would follow me to the closet door where I would reach in and slip the mask over my head. When I turned to face him he would scream and run crying -like the banshees had just knocked down the door.

I would laugh with glee. I don’t know why as his brother I got such pleasure out of torturing him. I know it’s not a new dynamic. Tomes of psychological texts have been written about the brotherly bond. Now mind you I was the older brother, twice his weight and a foot taller. But I still took glee in dominating him. When we wrestled, as brothers invariably do, I would pin him to the floor and laugh out loud: “a ha”.

The miracle in this story is not just that we both survived, but that as adults he seems genuinely fond of me. When we visit each other today he bends over to kiss the top of my head. When I was coming out, I came out to him first. He was great with me, and encouraged me on my journey. I officiated at his wedding; Tom and I were at the hospital for the birth of their daughter. Maybe the writers of Genesis knew that at the core of jealousy is love and affection. Maybe they knew that a brother can be the best friend a guy can have.

Coming Out

The news has been rife lately with stories of young LGBT people killed in acts of violence, or by their own hand in the midst of fear or despair. As this is National Coming Out Day, maybe we can double our efforts to make this a safer world where people can come out.

It was almost 30 years ago that I told my parents I was gay. I remember how frightened I was, not because my parents were close-minded or cruel. I was scared because I thought I knew the life they wanted for me, and I was about to tell them I would be choosing a very different path to happiness. I didn’t know how they would take the news. I guess I had to prepare myself for the possibility that they would disown me. It didn’t seem likely, but it had happened to many of my peers.

I took a boyfriend, Mike, to stay at my gay Uncle Ralph’s house for the weekend. Uncle Ralph lived about 3 miles from my parents’ house, and I had not planned to see them during that trip. While out to dinner at a restaurant in Palm Desert, we just happened to bump into my parents. Needless to say, I was flabbergasted. What are the chances? So I made up some excuse about being in the desert for a meeting and promised I would call the parents the next day.

Six months later, I had a new boyfriend, Perry. I know- if you called me a slut you wouldn’t be the first.

I took Perry to Uncle Ralph’s for the weekend and we were having a nice relaxing time, sitting by the pool, enjoying each other’s company- when my parents stopped by. Uncle Ralph greeted them in the driveway and escorted them to a little table poolside. I cowered in the kitchen and tried to figure out what I was going to say. Perry put his arm around my shoulders and said something very loving and supportive. I don’t remember what it was he said, but I remember my teeth were chattering and my hands were shaking.

Finally, we all sat down together. I told my parents I wasn’t trying to avoid them and that I had come here with a boyfriend. My mom observed that even animals in the natural world sometimes mate with the same gender. My dad was curious about how the physical mechanics work for two men. I told him I’d send him a book. We embraced and then Uncle Ralph brought us some lunch. Later that same week my mom asked me on the phone how I had met such a nice man. I told her the truth; I picked him up at a church event.

Ewing and Geri Got Married

My parents got married in 1947 in the old Methodist church, which was later purchased by the FitzHenry’s and became a funeral parlor by the time that Dad died years later.

Their multi-tiered wedding cake was baked in Pasadena, California, and Mom's little brother William borrowed Dad’s convertible to go and pick the cake up. (I think the car William drove that day was a 1935 Buick Phaeton that Dad had rebuilt with his brother Carl, the best man.) Unfortunately, there wasn't any gas left in the car by the time William came back and Dad got to it. So he ran out of gas on his way to the church. Fortunately Dad was not afraid of walking. Everyone got there eventually and the nuptials took place without further ado.

They had a reception at the ranch house with cake and punch. Uncle Ralph and Uncle William had planted pansies all around the outside of the house. The ranch house was only seven years old at that time and a gleaming architectural jewel. Lots of neighbors attended including Carter Lodge, he was the partner of John Van Druten, and they lived on a ranch next door. Van Druten wrote the play Bell, Book and Candle and several other Broadway hits. Carter represented the Hollywood glitterati that day.

Millions got married that year as men returned from the war and resumed the ceremonies of normal life. But this particular wedding was important to me and my brother and sister, who arrived too late for the wedding, but in time to benefit from the marriage.

Hawaii

My hard-working big sister sent me some photos of her time in Hawaii with family. It was great to see her relaxing with the kids. She has worked hard her whole life and just retired after 38 years on the job.

A few years ago my husband, Tom, and I were invited to go to Hawaii with his cousins from the East Coast. There were six of them coming from New York. We flew from San Diego arriving first. I had made arrangements for an accessible van that we picked up on our arrival at the airport. When we arrived at the hotel we were greeted at the curb by some hotel staff with a tray of Guava juice. They explained to us in an apologetic voice that our seventh floor rooms were unavailable, and they hoped we could make do with a bungalow suite, nearer the beach. We said shucks I guess it’ll have to do.

We followed along from the lobby on a winding path past two swimming pools toward the beach. We finally came to a gate that opened onto cottage number two, a two bedroom, two-bath cottage with a kitchen, living room and a private Jacuzzi pool. Just for us. The bellman showed us all the cottage features, including the outdoor barbecue, and told us if we called the kitchen they would send a cook out to BBQ whatever we wanted. After the bellman left, we just looked at each other- wondering when they would catch the mistake and give us the bum’s rush out. The cousins were located in the cottage next door, and everyone had a wonderful week. They even got me into the pool and pushed me around like a deflated beach ball. All week long we got the royal treatment, all we had to say is we're ‘staying in cottage number two’ and the staff fell over themselves to be helpful. The mystery of our good fortune was never completely clear to us. Apparently cousin Caroline combined some timeshare credits that other favors, maybe I don't even want to know. In any event, thanks cousin, it was the trip of a lifetime. The photo here is our view from the cottage.

Bob n Bill

Bob and Bill have been together for 60 years. Now in their eighties, their home has become too much for them to handle. They are both frail. Their friend, Carl, is helping them sell and move to a facility with a dining room and linen service and emergency response as needed.

Bob and Bill have lived in many places during their 60 years together, Paris, New York City, Palm Springs. As I watch them navigate this difficult time I’m aware that many in their eighties rely on children or grand children to help cross these waters. Not so much with the gays who relied on peers through most of life’s transitions, now their friends are too old -or dead.

I wish there were something funny or hopeful I could say about this situation. But I'm afraid it will be repeated over and over as this generation of LGBT seniors age past the stage of self-determination. They are great and brave men and women who helped shape a world where I could be comfortable being myself. Thank you Bob and Bill, and all your peers who paved the way for me.

hair today, gone tomorrow

When I was in my early 20s, I dated a man named Gene. I suppose there were signs even early on that we wouldn’t last, he had never been to college, he was not particularly interested in intellectual pursuits. But he was so cute and sweet and lovable. It was on our second date that he made it clear he was wearing a hairpiece. I was surprised. I guess I was still at that tender age that assumes all men have hair- so when I started to run my fingers through his hair and he warned me, it was a shock. He wore a nice piece that was apparently glued on and prevented the public at large from knowing how significant his hair loss was.

He took me to meet his parents, and they were nice, accepting folk, genuine and honest and caring. After about four months, I decided we needed to break up. I'm afraid that none of my relationships at the time lasted much more than four months. I’m not very good at this transition thing so I invited him over and asked him to sit down. Before I got even two words out of my mouth I started to cry. It seems inherently unfair for the one delivering the bad news to cry first- but that is just the way I roll. So as soon as I started bawling he knew something was up. He made it easy; asked me if I was sure. He left after a hug.

When I was growing up I was aware that my gay uncle, my mother’s oldest brother, wore a piece on his head. I used to watch him in his bathroom get it from the Styrofoam globe and apply it to his own scalp. I thought it was a lot of work to go through. In retrospect I know how difficult it can be in the gay community. We judge each other so quickly and harshly.

I went to the barber this morning and he carefully trimmed all the edges around my ears and neck. He didn’t mention it today, God bless him, but I know he was looking down on my head from above. And it’s getting pretty thin up there.

My Old Friend: Denial

For baby boomers like me, our parents and other relatives of the older generation, serve to remind us of the frailties of this mortal shell. Even though there are many reminders proffered by contemporaries dying in their fifties of heart disease and cancer, it is still possible for most of us to plow ahead through busy schedules, denying the inevitability of our own demise.

I remember sitting in a training for hospice volunteers 20 years ago and listening to the speaker talk about denial. She observed that denial of our own death was necessary to get on with the business of life. I realized that if I weren’t willing to suspend the awareness of my own mortality, I would never again sit in a 2000-pound lump of steel and go hurtling down the freeway at 65 miles per hour. In fact I use denial very effectively.

Wasps

In the mid-1960s our parents added a family room and master bedroom to our house, and a swimming pool to the side yard. With summer temperatures in the 100’s, my brother and I spent countless hours in the pool. We played Marco Polo and we swam races and engaged in under-water treasure searches. And we used our plastic sandals to kill wasps on the surface of the pool by swatting them. These were common stinging wasps that gathered in our yard and settled themselves on the surface of the pool. We managed to get stung more than once so I guess we thought it was well within our right to slaughter them. So we would swat them dead and then line up their limp bodies along the pool’s edge. Our competition consisted of a race to see who could accumulate the most wasp carcasses on the sidewalk before sunset. This is about the same time that Rachel Carson was writing her epic environmental text, Silent Spring.

Before we had our own pool, our family went swimming in the Olympic sized pool on the estate that belonged to Jacqueline Cochran. Our friends, the Laynes, rented one of the homes on her estate. It was an old pool, going back to the1940s perhaps. It had no recirculating/filtering system. After the pool began to get a little dirty they simply emptied all the water into the nearby date grove. Jacqueline Cochran was one of the first professional female pilots in America. During the war she ferried jets across the country to position them for wartime use. She was one of the Women Air Force Service Pilots, or “WASPS” for short. But I guess it is a little ironic that before my brother and I were swatting wasps in our little pool we were swimming in the big pool that belonged to a “WASP”. I’m glad she didn’t try to swat us.

Grandma

My paternal grandmother, Jennie Berkstresser Robertson Smith, ‘Grandma’ to us, lived in the house next door to us when I was growing up. It was the house where my father grew up with the fig tree and the tangerine trees that his father had planted. Born in 1887, Grandma came to California from Oklahoma via Colorado in 1920. Dad used to say part of her trip was by covered wagon. I know she didn’t fly on Southwest.

She gave birth to nine children. My grandfather, father of all those children, died as the result of an auto accident when the ninth child was still an infant. It being the onset of the great depression, Grandma sent three of her nine babies to relatives to raise, and her oldest came home from college to help support the family. She had six sons in a row, and then three daughters. All six of the boys joined the armed services during World War II. I often thought of grandma at home during the war years, worrying about the safety of six sons at once. Hers is a life story that wasn't uncommon for its time but it always impressed me as heroic.

In the 1960s when her rambling old house was too big for her to take care of she moved to a singlewide mobile home in our backyard. I liked the arrangement. It was very convenient for me to drop in on her where she was sitting on her sofa knitting and watching TV. Because grandma was losing her hearing I never had to ask her to turn the volume up, we got Password and the Price Is Right at maximum decibels. I liked sitting with her. Every now and then I would shout something to her, but mostly we just sat and watched TV together. Grandma was a member of the Rebekah Lodge, an organization affiliated with the Odd Fellows Lodge. I never knew much about them except when Grandma went to a meeting she wore a beautiful formal gown and smelled very nice.

As Grandma got older, her sight and her hearing grew dimmer. She spent her last years in a nursing home with very little that she could see or hear. As I become more dependent myself, I think of her often. I wonder what she was thinking as she stared at the wall, as others bathed her and dressed her. I hope she reran these stories of her life in her head that now, at long last, I get to put on paper.

Summer Solstice

This past weekend Tom and I went to Santa Barbara. It was the weekend when Santa Barbarians celebrate the summer solstice. They have a wild and crazy parade and the people of the community generally whoop it up. The origins of this dazzling celebration lie in the community spirit and appreciation of artistic expression; there is nothing like it anywhere else. Artist and mime Michael Gonzales, conceived the Parade in 1974, to celebrate his birthday. From its humble beginnings as a group of street artists, the Summer Solstice Celebration has evolved into a street carnival of more than 1,000 parade participants, complete with extravagant floats, whimsical costumes and creatively choreographed dancing ensembles.

We also went to see the play, “Loot”, by Joe Orton. The play was a charming little farce with a horny buxom nurse, stolen cash, a hidden corpse… well you get the idea. It was very appropriate for the Solstice Weekend. I was also reminded of the story of the play’s writer. Orton was a fast rising gay artist in London in the1960’s. The Beatles had asked him to collaborate on a movie. He'd written several plays and Loot was one of those that had made it to the West End. Orton was a colorful character, quoted as saying: “The kind of people who always go on about whether a thing is in good taste invariably have very bad taste”


On August 8, 1967, Kenneth Halliwell, Orton’s lover, killed Orton and then killed himself with an overdose of Nembutal. Apparently Halliwell was jealous of Orton's success and tired of being abused by his more attractive lover.

Maybe a lesson we can take from Mr. Orton’s brief, shining life is this: be kind to your friends and join a parade every chance you get.

Another Door

I was diagnosed with primary progressive multiple sclerosis in 1997, after a year of being poked and prodded by neurologists trying to figure out why my feet were numb. Immediately following the session with the doctor where he showed me the MRI scans and told me there was no treatment, I went to my husband’s office and we cried together. 13 years later I’m in a wheelchair all day and in bed at night. Mind you I have a fabulous wheelchair, and a very comfortable bed.

For some reason years ago, my immune system decided to attack the myelin sheath on my nerves. I’ve read lots of theories about why this attack takes place. I changed my diet – gave up ice cream and milk – and anything else a human being might enjoy eating. I’ve had mercury fillings removed from my teeth. I’ve prayed and meditated and tried to stop thinking unpleasant things about other people. I continue losing feeling and control in my fingers and hands.

For five years after I was in the chair I drove a van equipped with hand controls. Even after I had to retire from full-time employment I was able to volunteer for efforts important to me. Then one day I pulled out of our parking garage and found myself unable to turn onto the street. After a little rest I returned to the parking place and never drove again. I couldn’t bear the thought of running into some poor innocent because I suddenly stopped being able to control my vehicle.

I comfort myself by thinking things like: at least I can still see (MS frequently blinds its victims), at least I can still talk (the progression of paralysis will eventually take my vocal chords and swallow capability), at least it’s not ALS (Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis takes people from healthy to paralyzed to dead in about five years). I am fortunate to have Tom who is always thinking about better ways or different ways to get things done.

Through the years Tom and I have had a good laugh at my foibles like bathroom accidents in unusual places. But even those eventualities lose their humor after awhile.

A friend of a friend recommended that I fly to Monterrey Mexico to receive a special infusion treatment using stem cells. Since it would have cost about $40,000 I paused to think about it. I'm glad I did because last month 60 minutes on CBS ran an exposé on the medical clinic doing stem cell treatments in Monterrey Mexico. I decided not to pursue that treatment option. I've had trouble getting Steve Croft's face out of my dreams, "and you spent how much on this cockamamie idea?"

On Wednesday I had an appointment to get my haircut. As the hour drew near I began to open the door, which has a powerful automatic closure device attached. Every time I pulled the door open a few inches it would slam closed again. I called my neighbor Hallie from down the hall to help. She wasn't home. I called my neighbor Chris, the police officer, to see if he was home and could help. I left a message since he wasn't home. Finally on the fourth try I got it open and got myself out. With some relief I locked the door and headed for the barbershop. Tom and I were both at the barbershop at the same time, when we got the call. Our lobby attendant called to alert us because the police had arrived and wanted to look in our apartment. We assured them I was fine. I rolled home as soon as possible and was glad to see the door had not been knocked down. Another day another adventure.

The Phrog Pack

When we were in high school, football was king. Football tryouts for freshmen began in the middle of August when average temperatures hovered around 100°. I went out for football for one day. I ran around the track four times, threw up and decided there had to be a better way.

In the spring I tried out for the swim team. As I remember it everyone who tried out made the team, if you didn’t drown. We were a ragtag group of farm boys. Some of us swam very well, most of us managed to make our turns without hurting ourselves. As one of the spring sports we knew we swimmers had to distinguish ourselves or we would get lumped in with tennis and golf and track. So we gave ourselves a name (The Phrog Pack), published a regular newspaper and created a team flag that was flown at all of our meets. We were coached by a unique individual named Al Robelot. He was a Cajun who grew up in Louisiana and fostered rumors about himself as a wrestler of alligators. During football season he was a coach for the defensive line. He brought intense dedication and enthusiasm to the swim coach assignment. At one point in our junior year he had us reporting twice a day for practice, before school at 6:30 AM and after school as well. That year I almost developed gills.

Thanks to Coach Robelot and our band of brothers we won the league that year. (I would be remiss if I didn’t mention our one girl on the team. Shakeh put up with all our teasing and swam for the team as well as for her own glory.) The Phrog Pack was a formative phase in my development. Never have so few worked so hard for so little glory and enjoyed it so much.

Our First House

Tom and I went looking for our first house together during a very hot real estate market in Southern California. We had our measly down payment ready. Our realtor, CJ, said there were only three houses in our price range and she would take us to see them all. We got into her car and she drove us to the first house. Aside from the fact that it was in an unattractive neighborhood and was missing the front wall… I’m sure it was perfect for someone… else. We went to the second house and had just stepped inside when a loud rumble began. I grabbed the doorway thinking that maybe this was the big one. It turned out that the railroad tracks where a dozen yards from the backdoor. We moved on to the third house, CJ said that the tenants had just arrived home and we could only get a quick peek inside. It was the worst house on the block, always a good investment choice. It had been rented for many years and suffered from obvious neglect. The carpets were avocado green, the yards were overgrown and we never saw the bathroom because someone was in it. We made an offer the same day. Well, at least it had a front wall.

For a couple of gay boys, Tom and I plunged in with uncharacteristic gusto. We tore out all that old carpeting and had the hardwood floors refinished. We replaced the hardware on every door with the best that Home Depot had to offer. We painted everything inside and Tom’s dad painted the entire outside. The kitchen was paneled in that knotty pine so popular in the 1950s and we thought we could modernize it by sanding it down and bleaching it. So we got a belt sander at Sears. We discovered that when you press a belt sander against the wall it has a tendency to travel. So we struggled for a full day trying to keep the belt sander from leaving the kitchen on its own power. At the end of the day the walls were sanded, albeit with several deep gouges- and there was sawdust all over the house. For weeks thereafter our favorite exclamation was, “How did sawdust get in there?”

There was no hardwood on the floor of the third bedroom, so we decided to purchase a carpet for that space. Back to Home Depot we went and purchased a very modern charcoal gray floor covering, like you might see on the floor of an Amtrak train. I measured for the new carpet keeping in mind what they say, “measure twice cut once.” So imagine my surprise when we got the new carpet home and I unrolled it in the bedroom. I had to look up from the floor at my husband and say “really- I measured.” Since the carpet was about 3 inches short of the wall we determined the best course of action was to paint that strip of the floor the same color as the carpet. Problem solved!

A year later Tom got a fabulous job offer 200 miles away. So we reluctantly said goodbye to the new flooring, freshly painted walls, gleaming doorknobs… I could go on but I can’t see through my tears. Our first house together turned out to be a glistening jewel of our mutual labor embedded in our memories forever.

Cyrano and Mr. Casper

When I was in high school I was privileged to learn from a teacher named Bill Casper, who was affectionately known by his students as “the ghost,” because his name invoked the memory of a friendly cartoon character and because he had a habit of sneaking up on you when you were thinking of doing something wrong. Unfortunately he had a congenital defect that left his limbs short and all his joints painful. He had responsibility for speech and drama programs at the high school and he dedicated long hours to preparing students for their best presentations. I participated in both speech and drama, therefore I spent some long hours with Mr. Casper. One memory of our long association stands out for me.

I had stayed after school to work on a speech and we were the last ones left in the classroom. I was sitting on the floor and Mr. Casper was sitting on the chair of one of those student chair/desk combos. I had encountered a speech from the play called Cyrano de Bergerac, by Edmond Rostand. Mr. Casper volunteered to tell me the story of the play so I settled on the floor at his feet. For the better part of an hour I listened with rapt attention to the story of the fabulous swordsman with the extremely large nose. I heard how he fell in love with Roxanne and had no hope of capturing her attention because of his common looks, and how he then helps his handsome young friend, Christian, woo Roxanne by ghost writing his love letters. Finally when Cyrano returns wounded from the wars, he sets the record straight with Roxanne and dies in her arms as the plume from his hat flutters to the ground.

Mr. Casper was a superior storyteller. As we sat in the fading light of late afternoon I was completely transported by the tragedy of a man, beautiful on the inside, not so perfect on the outside. Cyrano and Mr. Casper, my hat’s off to you both.

The barbershop

I get my hair cut at an old-fashioned barbershop downtown. The two barbers there have been on the job for many, many years. They have Playboy magazines on the table, a shoeshine stand in the corner and a striped barber pole outside the door. It is the quintessential barbershop of Norman Rockwell’s youth. In a nod to modernity, a television set sits in the corner and plays Fox News all the time. The other customers are an interesting mix of retirees, downtown professionals, and curmudgeons.

During a recent haircut I was seated next to a customer in his mid-60s who spoke to his barber in a loud clear voice. He was reciting the typical tea party political line about how the proposed health insurance revision in Congress would sink our country. I sat and listened politely for as long as I could take it. Then I spoke up saying something like, “it’s not health insurance that will sink our country; but another ill-fated Bush war in the Middle East.” He exploded into a diatribe about socialism, taxation without representation, and how the hard-working people of America are being crushed by socialists in the White House. His barber quickly finished him up and ushered him out the door. My barber began apologizing to me and explained how the fellow just likes to hear himself talk.

When I left the barbershop and crossed the street I encountered a man with a handheld sign that said: “Obamacare will ruin this country”! I rolled up to him and asked what that meant. He said something about the hard-working people of America being crushed by Socialists in the White House. We talked for a few minutes more and I explained the benefits of universal health coverage. He didn’t seem particularly interested in dialogue, but was rather wed to a half dozen catchy one-liners. “The cost of this program is way too high, we can’t afford to insure every illegal immigrant, the debt will weigh down our children and grandchildren.” I thanked him for the conversation and rolled along the sidewalk, grateful that I live in a country where we could all have our say.

Moms

Moms

When Tom was about 12 years old, his mom went to the rectory to help prepare a special Lenten dinner. It was to be enjoyed by the Bishop and some visiting priests and clergy dignitaries from the diocese. Since the dinner was being prepared on a Friday night during Lent, she was surprised to see roast beef and ham on the menu. She had always been brought up to believe that a good Catholic did not eat meat on Friday, much less a Friday in Lent. She watched carefully as the Bishop spread his hands in the air over the meal and announced a special dispensation allowing the eating of meat on this occasion. So when her husband and her children got home for dinner that night, they were more than a little surprised to find a pot roast on the table. She passed her hands over the pot roast a couple of times, and announced a special dispensation. From then on they ate meat whenever they pleased.

I was eight years old before I realized what the roadside market was. On frequent occasions we would have some fresh corn on the cob or some succulent squash and when my father would comment on how good it was, my mom would respond by saying, “It’s just something I picked up at the roadside market”. I finally came to realize that in our agricultural community lots of fresh vegetables fell off the trucks that were transporting them from the field to the market. These serendipitous culinary discoveries were referred to by my mother as “shopping at the roadside market”. One Saturday afternoon as we drove along the freeway returning from an orthodontist appointment, Mom pulled the car over onto the shoulder of the road. She woke my sister and me, asleep in the back seat. Pointing toward the railroad tracks she said, “Go pick up that box”. We roused ourselves from our slumber and scurried across the empty desert space to a forlorn looking cardboard box near the railroad track. One corner of the box was bent where it looked like it might have hit the ground when it fell off a railway car. Imagine our delight when we got home and discovered inside the box was a television set. The hard plastic exterior of the set was broken a little bit on one corner where the box had apparently hit the ground. But it worked beautifully and it doubled the number of TVs in our house from one to two. We never made fun of Mom’s roadside market again.

Magic

When I was a student at the school of theology in the mid-1970s, I lived in a big house with seven other students. Penny, who lived in the basement apartment, made some magic brownies. I had never had magic brownies before so I was a little fuzzy as to their magic qualities. Most of my contemporaries had lots of experience with marijuana and hashish, and related herbs. But I was something of an herbal novice. We all ate one brownie and headed to the movies to see the new film called “Star Wars”. As we sat in the theater before the movie began I leaned over to Penny and whispered "I think I need another brownie, I'm not feeling any effect yet". Penny looked at me carefully and then reached into her oversized macramé purse from which she procured another brownie. After eating my second brownie I began to feel a little tingling in my feet. As I remember it, “Star Wars” was a fabulous film. When it was over my friends ushered me out of the theater because I was shooting storm troopers with my ray gun.

When we got home I watched TV with wonder and amazement. The program called “Fernwood Tonight” looked something like a late night talk show, but it was a little askew. And in my altered state, I couldn’t tell what was going on. So I went to bed and lay in the dark watching red and white pinwheels spin behind my eyelids. I was due at school the next morning for the first day of classes. Already a little late, I hurried to my Old Testament class. It was nearly full when I arrived- the only seat available was in the front row. So I took it and sat through the full hour not more than 6 inches away from Dr. Knierim, who had a habit of spitting when he lectured. It was just as well- I hadn’t had time to shower before I left. But I was still a little under the effect of the brownies from the night before. And I must say the herbal haze combined with the tall German professor shouting in my face, “VAT SEZ ZA TEXT!” created a very scary foreign film effect.

catheter anyone?

I’ve had more interaction with medical professionals in the last month than I like. It all began three weeks ago when I found myself unable to urinate. As you might imagine my bladder began to fill to overflowing, but it didn’t overflow. After eight hours of this situation my husband tried to catheterize me. When that didn’t work, he called for emergency medical attention, and they sent us two young emergency medical techs, Rhonda and Eileen. They were 22 and 25 years old respectively. I’m not sure how many penises they had seen in their lives. Eileen decided to try her hand at the catheter. So she pushed it on in, then to the left a little, then to the right, but she ultimately had no success. Everyone decided I should go to the emergency room. So I was loaded into the ambulance and off I went.

In the emergency room, five more people, nurses and doctors, tried to catheterize me. I imagined myself sort of like a carnival game. There was probably a sign outside my curtained alcove that said, “win a giant panda, catheterize the rube inside”. After four hours of this, a urologist showed up. He said, “I’ve got a little trick to this; it will only take a minute.” 10 minutes later he too gave up on the catheter. So he made a tiny incision in my abdomen and inserted a tube directly into my bladder. Finally, there was joy in Mudville again. He collected A LOT of urine.

I was discharged to home with the tube coming out of my belly and emptying urine into a clear plastic pouch. I went back to the urologist’s office four days later to see if the trauma had cleared enough in my penis for him to insert a scope and look at what was going on. No success. So we made arrangements for me to go to the hospital the next day and have a catheter surgically implanted into my bladder through the penis, under general anesthesia this time.

When I awoke from anesthesia, the little incision in my abdomen was sewn up, and there was a catheter coming out of my penis and connecting to a clear plastic bag. Ah, what a beautiful ignorance anesthesia provides. The urologist told me that the catheter was held in place by a small balloon that had been inflated inside my bladder. Now I could definitely qualify as a circus sideshow with balloons and everything. The next morning as Tom was digitally cleaning the tip of my penis and the area around my abdominal surgeries, the catheter slipped out and fell on the floor. Tom shrieked. Then he called for emergency medical assistance again. This time the entire crew from firehouse 11 showed up. There must have been 15 firefighters in full regalia wandering around our apartment looking at the art, evaluating the furniture. I wondered to myself: are these actually realtors dressed like firemen? Eventually they got me to the hospital where the urologist inserted a new catheter.

Today after three weeks, my penis has finally stopped bleeding. I’m still connected to a clear plastic jug and will discover this Friday if I ever get to have it removed and return to the more typical urinary configuration. I’m sure my little story here has made many men wince as they read it; I’m sorry for that.

My Father Loved Basketball

My dad played high school basketball and while he stood only 5’9” tall, he even played a little college ball after the conclusion of WWII. When we were kids, he mounted a backboard and hoop at home so we could shoot hoops anytime we wanted. He was an elementary school principal and his students told me that he left his office sometimes to join the kids on the playground, and play a little b-ball if a game was in progress.

Unfortunately for us both, my growth spurt came fast and early, and I was lucky to be able to walk without falling over. I’m afraid dribbling a ball and running simultaneously was out of the question. I’m sure it must have been a little disappointing for him to have a son incapable of the game he loved, although he never stated as much. He did seem happy that I found a high school sport in swimming, where I couldn’t hurt myself or anybody else too badly.

Because I had friends on the basketball team, they encouraged me to try out for the final season of our high school years. They reasoned that even if I didn’t play much, I could earn another letter and we could have a good time on road trips. So I turned out for three weeks of conditioning; running endless drills up and down the court. At the end of the try-out period, Coach Wood, always a thoroughly considerate guy, invited me into his office. We sat on either side of his banged up wooden desk and he said: “Tomorrow I’m going to post the names of those who will be cut before the final roster is complete. I wondered if you might want to withdraw today and then I wouldn’t have to put your name on the cut list.” I don’t think I would be accused of being the dimmest bulb in the box, but it still took me a good 20 seconds. Then I realized he was offering me, a senior and a leader in our class, a graceful way to exit the tryouts without my name appearing on the cut list for all to see. I accepted his kind offer.

In the last months of my final year of high school, we stumbled onto a venue where Dad’s love of the game coincided with my limited talent for it. He was a Mason and I had joined a Masonic related organization for teenaged boys. In May, our chapter entered a six game basketball contest with other chapters in the region. Our ragtag band of boys could rustle up at least five players per game, (except one we had to forfeit). We played hard, and although probably the worst on the team, I played regularly. I don’t remember how many games we won or lost, but I remember the final 2 minutes of the final game. With Dad as our coach, we managed to keep up with the other team, a few points ahead, and then a few points behind. With the score tied and as the second hand on the clock swept toward the 12 for the last time, I found myself with the ball at the top of the key and my teammates said almost as one, SHOOT! I shot, and held my breath, and it whooshed through hoop and net without a bounce. Everyone was a little shocked, I more than most. I got lots of cheers and backslaps from my teammates for that shot. They hoisted me to their shoulders and carried me around the gym. (That last part about being on their shoulders is, I’m sure, a figment of sweet memory enhanced by imagination.)

One part of that day’s memories that I hold close and take out from time to time probably has to do with the fact that Dad’s been dead a few years now. And I miss him. As we prepared to get in our cars after that momentous game, my father put his hand on my shoulder and looked up at me. “Nice shot son”. Some words of appreciation come from the right person, at the right moment and last a lifetime.

My Sister's Drawer

When I was 12, my older sister had a room of her own. My younger brother and I made it our avocation to torment her. We put tiny Radio Shack speakers under her bed and wired them to a microphone in our room, so that we could make spooky sounds and frighten her in the night. The speakers were so small, she never heard anything, but we felt devious nonetheless.

I was at that awkward age when nothing fit. Even the teeth in my mouth. They were what could be called "buck-teeth". And so my parents had the foresight of taking me to an orthodontist. He decided that the only way to rein in those buck-teeth was with a head gear. You’ve seen them: a wire apparatus that fits into the mouth and then connects to a headband around the back of the neck. I was supposed to wear it all the time. But sometimes in the middle of the night it would come unhinged from one of its rubber bands and go flying across the room.

One night when my parents were having a dinner party, and my sister had joined them in the dining room, I decided it was time to explore the locked drawer in her dresser. I had no idea what the drawer contained. But it was locked, so its contents must have been juicy. I decided that my headgear was the perfect device to pick the lock. I inserted the curved end of the wire apparatus into the keyhole of the drawer and twisted it to the right, then to the left. The drawer was not unlocked, but my headgear was stuck. I tried every way of removing it short of wire clippers. Finally when the MacGyver excitement was too much for me, I crept into the dinner party and whispered in my dad’s ear. He quietly rose from the table and walked the length of the house to my sister’s bedroom. Of course everyone else at the table also rose and followed. I stood red faced in front of the room full of people as my dad extracted my headgear from the lock. “Shall we finish our dinner?” And he escorted the crowd back to the table.

Dad never said anything about the incident to me. He never had to. My future as a professional thief had been thwarted forever.

A Desert Home

I grew up in the desert. The Coachella Valley occupies a corner of the Colorado Desert, south of the Mojave Desert and west of the Colorado River. It provided me a playground for a beautiful childhood. When I was nine, my friend, Bruce, and I played in a large undeveloped lot of desert terrain behind his house. We would form cannonballs from mud and leave them in the sun to dry, then we would hide behind our respective dunes and lob the soil-based armaments at each other. We took pride in forming perfectly shaped mud balls. Is that the sign of an impoverished childhood? Toys made out of mud? I didn't think so at the time.

Mixed in with the sand all around us were tiny little seashells, remnants of the day when the whole valley was covered in water from the Gulf of California. By the time I came along, the water had receded to the Salton Sea, but it left a ring around the Valley and millions of tiny shells in the sand. Bruce and I spent hours playing in that sand. Every now and then a black tailed jackrabbit would run by and scurry away through the creosote scrub brush. After a spring rain, even this barren plot would bloom with occasional color. Yellow and purple flowers would appear briefly before the hot sun baked them away.

One afternoon when Bruce and I were finished with our mud creations, we returned to the house and found an unusual greeting. From a corner of the patio came an angry sound unfamiliar to us both. It stopped us in our tracks. We quickly located its origin in a cool shady corner; a big coiled rattlesnake was enjoying some afternoon shade. We were both old enough to know that we shouldn't tangle with him ourselves. So Bruce got his dad. He chopped the snake’s head off with a shovel. My heart pounded in my ears and the sweat on my back was not the result of the sunny day.

Now when I visit the desert I think back to that solitary rattlesnake. I’m aware that there is even less wild space for the likes of him today. The Wal-Mart parking lots, the acres of new housing tracts, the tony restaurants and fashionable golf courses have replaced his habitat. I guess he had more reason to fear us than we had to fear him.

Flash Takes Flight

When I got an invitation to speak to some colleagues in New York City, we jumped at the opportunity to combine that trip with a visit to Tom’s cousins, who had invited us to visit them in New Jersey. We of course had to include our dog, Flash, who loves a family vacation as much as the next guy. After a month of preparation, we headed to the airport, looking a little like a traveling circus. Tom pushes me in a wheelchair, while Flash, in his crate, sits on my lap. Our luggage is checked with the curbside porter or the check-in desk as soon as possible. The TSA loves to see us coming. They start right away disassembling our circus. They wheeled me into a small corral, where I suppose, they feel confident I won't buck and run. They removed my shoes (those dreaded shoe bombers, you know) and began patting me down. Fortunately my inspector was a twenty-something guy who I didn't mind getting intimate with. He had to check my shirt, my pants, my underwear (those dreaded underwear bombers, you know) my stocking feet and my chair.

Simultaneously, Tom and Flash were getting an inspection of their own. Out of the corner of my eye I could see them taking Flash out of his crate while requiring that Tom take off his shoes. I got the giggles then as I imagined Flash running wildly around the airport with Tom chasing him in his stocking feet. Soon enough we were reassembled and waiting at the gate. One of the reasons I travel with a titanium chair with removable wheels is so that the chair can be placed in a closet on board the plane just behind the first-class section. But on this particular flight, the on-board staff wanted to put my chair in the luggage compartment under the plane. I can think of no quicker way to lose a wheel, and if you’ve ever seen a wheelchair with just one wheel, you know why I didn’t like the idea. So Tom stood up to the attendant and said “no” this is how you fold and stow the chair. What a guy! My hero.

When we arrived in New Jersey we discovered Tom’s cousin had constructed a ramp with a very gradual incline (ADA compliant). The ramp went all the way up to the front door, and it stretched from Paramus nearly to Hoboken. It was festooned with crepe paper and helium filled balloons- I felt a little like FDR arriving for his third inauguration. Flash loved the ramp too and traveled with me in and out of the house, thinking to himself I’m sure, “I like ramps, who needs stairs”.

Our next stop on this trip was New York City. Thanks to our hosts, we had a room at the Peninsula Hotel, at the corner of 55th Street and Fifth Ave. Flash thought that perhaps he died and this was heaven. To quote their brochure: "a double glazed cocoon of peace and quiet in probably the most comfortable bed you'll ever experience." We could almost hear Flash thinking as he lay on the 600 thread count sheets under the goose down duvet: "now this is a bed, when can I get one of these at home." Flash seemed to enjoy his walks down Fifth Avenue and in the tiny grassy area in front of the Plaza hotel. There are a heckuva lot of interesting smells in Manhattan and Flash got good at avoiding hordes of feet while seeking out the odors that interested him most.

Finally we made a detour to Princeton University, where Tom got his masters’ degree. We thought Flash might be more interested in a college degree if we showed him a venerable old campus, and frankly, we could picture him looking fabulous in Princeton Orange. He liked the huge bronze of the Tiger, and the students lying on the lawn, reading. Beyond that, the place had difficulty capturing his attention.

Dominoes

I am a lucky man. Besides being blessed by a loving husband, I have some very generous friends. One of my friends, Ginny, used to play poker with me in a friendly neighborhood poker group. As my MS progressed, holding the cards in my hands became more difficult. Shuffling them and dealing them became comical. Our poker host found a battery-operated shuffling machine, a great innovation, that lengthened my poker career another year or so. Finally I had to bid them au revoir because I just wore out too quickly.

But Ginny was determined to find a game that I could manage. So we settled on dominoes. (My voice recognition software sometimes prints a word that sounds a little like the one I actually said, but implies something very different. I laughed out loud just a second ago because when I said ‘dominoes’ my system printed ‘dominance’. That's a whole different game, for a different conversation.)

Now, Ginny and I play dominoes about twice a month. We go out to lunch first and then come back to my place. If I get tired of sitting up, we take a 10-minute break and I stretch my chair out so I can fully relax. I win about as many games as I lose and that's very good for my spirits. We play at a leisurely pace, giving ourselves time to gossip and laugh a lot.

Ginny is a busy self-employed professional who spends three or four hours with me just because. When I’m with her I feel like my old self, you know, funny and catty and significant. Hers is a thoughtful gift of time and attention. I don’t think I ever did things in my life to deserve such a friend. I am a lucky man.

Hiking Mt. Whitney

In the 1970s, when I was a young minister with lots of ambition, I agreed to lead a junior high summer camp. This particular camp took only about a dozen campers and guided them along the Sierra Trail, a total of 36 miles over six days and culminating in a climb to the top of Mount Whitney, the highest peak in the continental United States at a height of 14,495 feet. I don’t know what I was thinking.

The only reason the hike was even possible was because we were co-led by Frank Goodycoontz, an experienced mountaineer. Our hikers were mostly seventh graders, and the youngest, 12 ½ years old, would turn out to be the anchor dragging from our tail. In the interest of confidentiality for hikers everywhere, we’ll call him ‘Slug’. At the front of our band, was our 8^th grader, Charlotte. She was mature, already full figured, and blond. She knew what effect she had on boys, and I would have been in trouble if we’d any boys on the hike who knew what to do with her. Charlotte’s closest friend, Lucy, was also present- a 90 pound tomboy who loved the natural world.

Everyone carried their own pack, with their own food and water and cooking utensils. We hiked most of every day, and then prepared our hot meal as well as our lunch for the next day. There were no crafts or games like you might expect at some camps. Our daily challenge was to get all 12 youth the five or 6 miles of our allotted journey safely. We didn’t have the same kind of challenges that some youth camps have. The boys were too exhausted at the end of the day to develop any pranks. The girls were too depleted to flirt themselves into any trouble.

My most memorable day of the hike, turned out to be the last. It was a cool day for late August but we were plenty warm since the trail was mostly uphill all day. We were all in shirt sleeves and shorts as we approached the saddle where one could turn left and climb to the peak, or right, and start down the steep eastern slope called Whitney Portal. As we hiked through the day the sky clouded over, and began a gentle rain. At 13,000 feet, the rain became more like snow. As ‘Slug’ and I brought up the rear of our band to the saddle, we found every one huddled against a cliff face. Lucy was sitting on the trail with her arms around her knees, shivering. Frank was crouched beside her and the rest of the kids in a circle around them. Frank whispered in my ear that Lucy was quickly becoming hypothermic and we needed to act. I instructed the rest of the hikers to put on warm clothes while Frank broke out his pack and began heating soup over a sterno flame in the middle of the trail. He put Lucy into a sleeping bag with Charlotte right on the side of the trail and quickly fed her a cup of hot soup. In less than 20 minutes, her blue lips turned pink again. We packed back up and headed down toward the base of the mountain.

In retrospect, our whole group agreed it was better to bypass the peak and return to the desert floor than to risk the life of one of our group. I was so glad that sometimes God appears at just the right moment, and looks just like Frank Goodycoontz.

“The Internet Is For Porn!

On a recent trip to the theatre, I laughed and clapped and cried at the current Broadway Tony Award winning show, Avenue Q. One of the songs from the show, sung by a big fuzzy animal puppet is “The Internet is for Porn!” The character’s joy and enthusiasm is fully life affirming, and he seems unaffected by his fellow characters urgent attempts to quiet him.

The unmitigated enthusiasm the audience unleashed on the performance of this number reminded me that almost all contemporary stories about sex are focused on sexual exploitation. Consequentially, the public’s experience of sex gets split between the tragic results of sexual exploitation or the individual (should I say secretive) experience of sex on the internet.

I hear there are some people who still enjoy sex with other people.

This line of thinking got me to look back at Chaucer’s Canterbury tales, a collection of sometimes-ribald stories from the 15^th century. Those were the days.

I guess sex and sexual innuendo have always been popular. The sad reality today is that sex gets heavily burdened by the threat of disease and deception. One of the great sex moments in my life came as I helped facilitate sex education workshops for youth and their parents in the context of religious communities. We always began carefully, because everyone brings baggage to the topic. But before long, we could see young and older faces relax and even laugh as the topic of ourselves as sexual beings came out of the closet and enjoyed the effects of sunlight. In reality, we are a species incarnate.

I hope you get a good laugh, or at least a warm smile, from some aspect of your sexuality this week.

Dancing

Dancing

In the early 80's, soon after Tom and I first met, I invited him to go dancing with me. We hadn’t known each other long and I was excited to consider the possibilities for the evening as I dressed and blow-dried my hair. We took my old Ford Pinto from my place toward the Oz of every gay boy’s fantasy, West Hollywood, where the drinks were stronger and the acid washed jeans were tighter. Driving my shortcut through Laurel Canyon, I was much relieved the Pinto managed to climb the grade over the hill and reach the apex, then we could coast the rest of the way. After a couple of stops we found ourselves at the dancing Mecca for LA gay boys, Studio One.

For those of you who were there, I don't need to say much to describe the scene. It wasn’t New York's studio 54, but it was fun and had a lot of interesting people in it. There were your leftovers from the disco days, your body builders, the coke freaks, and your suburban boys in town for a night of revelry. We had a blast! We danced and laughed and drank our gin and tonics. And then danced some more.

After a long night, Tom and I were exhausted. And I wasn’t sure the Pinto would be able to climb Laurel Canyon again. So we two underpaid professionals sought out the cheapest accommodations we could find. We settled on a motel on Santa Monica Blvd., whose name shall go unspoken here. We’ll just say that Tom Bodett wouldn’t have stayed there, even if the lights were on. We got a queen-size bed but that was the only queenly thing about the room. You could hear the roaches scurry when the lights went off, so we left the lights on all night. The sheets were so thin, you could read the name of the mattress company through them. I don’t really remember how I slept that night; I guess sleep was not the point of the journey.

Road Trip With Flash

A few years ago, Tom and I took a road trip with our dog, Flash, a 9 pound toy- fox terrier. He was relatively new to us at the time of our trip but he was about two years old when we adopted him and you can never be absolutely sure what went on in those pre-adoption years. He seemed to like riding in a car. But he made some of the most God-awful noises while on the road. Especially when leaving home, arriving back at home, turning corners, driving on winding roads, well …you get the picture. The noises were a combination of barking, howling and screeching. We were terrified for a long time that he got car sick or sick in some other way or injured, so we stopped and checked him out; he appeared to be unhurt.

We drove north because I wanted to show off California's most beautiful sights to Tom, a native New Yorker. We spent a couple of nights in Yosemite National Park, where a deer wandered up into our backyard and held a staring contest with Flash. Both Flash and the deer escaped unscarred. We continued north to Mendocino where we stayed in a hotel designed to look like a western town. Our room was the general merchandise/feed and grain store. It was more comfortable than it sounds. We were an odd looking Trio of tourists; I in the wheelchair with Tom pushing and holding the leash for Flash. We decided we would take our odd-looking troop out for some sightseeing

Mendocino is the queen of cities for cute shops. Old plank sidewalks lined with little stores and cafés. We found one shop specializing in pet clothes. The friendly proprietress showed us several dog coats and sweaters. We chose one, a sweet little turtleneck, and tried it on over Flash’s head. We said we’d take it and since it was a chilly morning we decided Flash could wear it. Unfortunately, the price tag was still attached to the sweater, so the store-owner came over with scissors to clip it off. Flash is nobody's fool, and when you see someone approaching with a pair of sharp scissors you go into alert mode. Right? Barking, snarling, teeth bared, he was taking no prisoners. If your finger happens to be attached to the sweater…. You're probably thinking I end this story by telling you we now own a pet clothing store in Mendocino. But no, we got away that day. We paid for the sweater. No animal control police followed us from the store or down the street. Flash still has that sweater.

Nothing To Do

In the mid-1980’s when I worked as a chaplain in a midsized suburban hospital, I would sometimes get paged to the ER. Such a page usually meant one of three things: 1) someone had died or was about to, 2) family members of the sick needed attention, 3) the ER staff didn’t know who else to call. On one particular afternoon I got a page to the ER for what turned out to be all three reasons.

I found a young woman in her mid-20s in the trauma room. She was standing next to the stainless steel table and a body covered in a sheet. The ER staff introduced us and explained to me that her husband had just died. Her red-rimmed eyes were still wet. Her name was Laura. I introduced myself and asked her if she would like a quiet place to sit and talk. She wrapped her arms around me and put her head on my shoulder while we stood next to her husband’s body.

I escorted Laura down the long hallway to the lobby, and through the crowds to the small chapel, which was located just off the east entrance. It was a small dark room with six upholstered pews facing a stained-glass window. We sat in the hush for a while and then I learned that Laura had been married for less than a year. That afternoon her husband was flying a one-seat plane when he went over their house and dipped his wings to say hello. Laura was in the backyard pulling weeds. Twenty minutes later she got the call. He’d hit a nearby mountain.

I asked Laura if there were any people I could call for her. She told me she’d already spoken to her parents in Arizona, and his parents in Illinois. Her sister who lived in Los Angeles was on her way. So there was nothing to do. We sat for a while. She told me about how they met and married, she told me they got a chocolate Labrador retriever and painted the bedroom of the house they rented a very soft baby blue. She told me he liked listening to baseball on the radio, and eating Red Vines and flying. They would wait a couple of years before trying for a baby. She cried hard for a while.

Her sister arrived after another hour. Laura and I stood in the aisle of that little chapel made holier by her tears. We hugged before she left.

I got a note from her a month later. She moved to Arizona, at least for a while. Her dog, Dusty, loved riding in the car with his head out the window.

I was struck that day that sometimes there’s nothing we can do. We hope to help, and to heal, and to make a difference. But that afternoon taught me again: sit still and listen. Could it be that a high and holy calling is to sit and bear witness to the wonderful, terrible, beautiful, tragic unfolding of this life of ours?