'Tis the Season

‘Tis the Season. Shoppers gone mad. It’s been said many time, many ways, but when did Christmas get so-o-o out of hand? The shopping. The lines. The meanness. Unbelievably, one of the sweetest young women I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with was called a snotty little bitch. Twice. In one week. Two different women, who probably had waited until the last minute to get something we had been sold out of for weeks, called her that. Snotty and bitch seem like the perfect adjectives to be using at this time of year. They just didn’t realize that they were referring to themselves instead of an underpaid hourly retail employee who was doing her job and trying to be helpful.

Does anyone really remember what this time of year is supposed to be about? There are a few people, I’m sure, that do. But there are more than that who think if they don’t have the perfect Martha Stewart holiday, then everything will be ruined. So they rush around (some all year long) looking for that perfect tea cozy for Aunt Sarah because she loves her herbal tea so much and Niece Mary wants to get the perfect gift that will make Aunt Sarah remember Mary even more the rest of the year. Why wouldn’t she? Every day that Sarah get’s the tea cozy out to keep her pot of tea at just the right temperature, she’ll remember what a perfect and thoughtful gift her Niece Mary got her. Then they rush around making the most perfectly iced sugar cookies with hand drawn angels and snowmen on them. All this while decorating their homes to look like a spread out of Better Homes and Gardens. Honestly, who has all that time or energy without getting a little help from their local pharmacist?

But the reality is that Aunt Sarah will probably think “where the hell am I going to put this thing? I have enough crap now including the shiatsu massage that my brother Roy got me last year. The damned thing feels like someone’s digging their knuckles into my back every time I use it.” And Roy is out the $24.95 that he spent plus the time he finally dragged his ass out to the mall (in reality, the local Rite-Aid) to find something for his sister that he hardly even speaks to now that their parents have died. So why do people do this? Is it because it’s expected? I think that most people if they are honest would say that they do it because they are afraid of looking cheap if they don’t. That’s not what the season is supposed to be about.

I’ve noticed there are fewer people shopping this year. And the retail numbers are showing it. Yes, you have people lining up in droves for the super discount deals that many retailers are offering. But most of them are still spending less than they would have in a better economy. I suspect that a lot of them aren’t even using credit cards like they would have in past years as they are afraid that when the bills do start coming in, they won’t have the cash to pay them off. The ones that are out are looking for the deep discounts and, I suspect, not at what they are truly buying. False hopes, empty promises, and overpriced gee-gaws. Batteries not included.

My point is this: maybe, just maybe if people realize that the gifts aren’t the most important part of Christmas, maybe they’ll stop with the compulsive spending habits. Maybe instead of a tea cozy or shiatsu massager all Aunt Sarah needs is that time you would have spent at the mall looking for the perfect gift. And don’t forget the food! Some of my most vivid memories as a child aren’t of the gifts I received as a child. They are of the smell of my aunt’s Parker House rolls. The smell of yeasty bread pungent in the air, the pumpkin pie spices lingering along with the smell of savory turkey and stuffing the minute you walked in Aunt Sarah and Uncle John’s front door. And the laughter of aunts, uncles and cousins all gathered around the farm house reliving the past years and reminiscing about the relatives that had since passed. It’s a fitting way to end the year.

Maybe that’s what the holidays should truly be about. Reminiscing, reconnecting, reliving what brought us all together in the first place. But today it seems that so many families are fractured, split up all across the globe or just plain broken. They can’t get past distance or the past to enjoy today. If you are a member of one of those families, just remember that Robert Frost said “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” The “Hallmark, Norman Rockwell” Christmas for most people is either a myth or an impossibility. Don’t hold yourself to someone else’s standards. If you feel more comfortable or enjoy being around people other than your relatives, then be with them. You know who your “family” really is.

Or if you have a family that you do want to spend time with, then just spend time with, not money on them. I’m sure that they’ll hold those memories a lot longer than they will the stuff that they probably won’t remember past the time it takes to throw out the torn wrapping paper. It may be too late to do anything this year, but bookmark this page, mark your calendar for next November and take a look at this next year. Remember what made you so crazed this year and you can make it a different Christmas for everyone including yourself next year. Have yourself a Merry little Christmas by remembering the true meaning of Christmas, that the true gift is one of love, of time, and of yourself. For this is the time of year when we were given the ultimate gift of love, by the true Father of Christmas.

Merry Christmas

It's been quite a year. Moved back to Indianapolis. New job for Robbie. New car for me - OK so it's a used PT Cruiser, but it's new to me. And Riley, well she's growing quickly. She's become quite the little dancer. Check her out in this home video:

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies. - Proverbs 31:10

I have a favor to ask of everyone.

My sister-in-law Becky’s mother Dee passed away this morning after a short - way too short - battle with lung cancer that had metastasized to just about every possible organ. They had just learned only a few weeks before Thanksgiving that it was there and terminal. My S-I-L found out about it in the most horrific way possible. Becky is a nurse and was looking at x-rays of a patient before consulting the chart to see who the patient was and could clearly see how bad the cancer was. You can surmise the rest.

Dee's wishes were to be cremated and that there is to be no funeral. She wanted her family to try and enjoy the holidays and remember what this time of year is truly about. Becky said that after the holidays that the family might get together for a memorial tribute of some sort. Becky is also an incredibly warm and generous woman. I think that in itself is a very fine tribute to her mother.

My favor is this: please send any thoughts, energy, or prayers to Becky and her family. This has been an incredible shock for everyone. I only knew Dee for a brief amount of time and the loss is unimaginable for even me. Dee was an incredibly thoughtful, warm and caring woman that made the world a better place with her presence. I'm sure my brother Matt is feeling the loss particularly keen as well. Dee treated him like her own son, joking around with him, getting flustered with his bad jokes (yes they run in our family.) She treated him like someone who mattered and not like someone who could break her daughter's heart. She gave him a chance. To me, that is the ultimate in being a good person. Give people a chance every now and then and they just might surprise you with their potential.

Dee was always glad to see us and Riley. She seemed to adore our little one. And she was always interested in what ever was going on in our lives, making sure that we had settled in to our home, and making us feel like we were part of her family. In a way I guess we are.

Thank you everyone,
Jim

Christmas Memories Old and New

A big question I have of late is why I have such a visceral reaction every time I see Santa Claus. I can’t look at the mall Santa without getting choked up. I don’t know if it has something to do with missing the way my childhood used to be, but I’d bet that it does. I used to have the same reaction whenever I would watch Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer. I’d cry through most of it, missing how my family used to be whole and together.

The crying ended last year. I held my daughter in my arms and watched it with her for the first time. OK. So I did the watching, she mostly slept as she was only seven months old at the time. It was a great feeling to talk to her letting her know that one of my first memories was watching Rudolph. Of course all she heard was a sound akin to the teacher on another Christmas classic, Merry Christmas Charlie Brown.

This year, we made a date to watch it together again. She did really well for being only 19 months old. She sat next to me on the sofa (for the most part) only getting up occasionally to grab or look at something else. But she always came back on her own to watch the rest of the show. The whole hour long show. I don’t have an attention span that long. She was most fascinated with the singing. Any singing or music will capture her attention like nothing else.

Yup. It was the best hour I’ve spent this holiday. And last year too. I can imagine one of the days Riley will look at me and roll her eyes and say “Not again, Dad. It’s just cheesy.” But until then, I’ll relish every single moment that I can make new memories with her, sitting on my lap seeing what I saw for the first time 40 some years ago.

December 2, 2002 - Maxx

I was missing my Westie puppy Max. The psycho had popped back up after being gone for three months and said he wanted his dogs back. I put up a fight. After all, Max was supposed to have been my dog. And he sure wasn't concerned about his Scottish Terrier for those three months. But then the psycho called the police, told them I stole his dogs, and that was that.

A few months later, I was sitting outside of work with my friend Connie when a man went walking by with his Cairn Terrier. I told Connie that I missed my dog. She asked me what kind of dog I had and I told the story to her of my Westie Max. Connie said that she had a friend who was looking for a home for a dog, she thought it was a terrier of some sort and she would get me the contact information the next day.

The next day at work, Connie dropped by my cube and just dropped a piece of paper on my desk with a woman's name and phone number on it. Under it was written the words Westie and Max. I made the call and set up a time to see him that evening.

Max had been rescued by a groomer,Sara, who when she went to go look at him told the owners that they didn’t deserve to have a dog and took him home with her. Sara originally planned just to see what kind of dog he was and place a notice in the shop where she worked. She took one look at him chained to a barn, covered in dirt and grease and that was it. Sara said he was so dirty that she didn’t even realize that he was a Westie until she started cleaning him up.

He was malnourished and had lost most of his hair across his back. What little hair he had left was so matted down that Sara had to shave him almost completely down to his skin. His right ear was broken and flopped over from apparently a very bad case of ear mites. The ear mites had caused him to shake his head so violently that he developed a hematoma which, when it finally healed, caused the ear to flop.

I met with Sara and Max that evening, took him for a walk to see how he would do with me (just fine) and took him home that night. I know it's kind of cheesy, but I added the second x to his name since I already had a Max before and didn't want to rename this one.

It wasn't the easiest of relationships in the beginning. Maxx and I had our times with deciding who was going to be the alpha in the house. I don't know if it was him thinking I would be a pushover, but every chance he got, he would try to steal pizza from me when he thought I wasn't paying attention. I'd be sitting at the coffee table watching tv, eating pizza, and Maxx would try to help himself. After a few times of me pushing him away, him snapping at my hand, me thwacking a finger across his nose, Maxx finally got the idea that I was in charge... or so I thought.

Robbie and Maxx didn't get along very well in the beginning. I had only just started dating Robbie the previous month and it was like both of them were competing for my attention whenever Robbie was over at my house. When you're fresh in a new relationship a needy dog can be irritating to the new boyfriend who also wants all of your attention. Maxx would literally get between us on the couch and growl slightly if he thought Robbie was getting a little too close to me. Any other time, Maxx would have been more aloof. He needed to be in the same room with me, sometimes just laying at my feet, but he was never the affectionate lap dog type.

Over the next few months, we three settled into an understanding. Maxx reluctantly let Robbie into his life, Robbie would bring him treats, and I watched in amusement as we slowly became a family. Our first Christmas together, Robbie even bought Maxx a dog toy which he promptly ignored... until he thought we weren't watching.

Spring came, Robbie moved into his new house and Maxx became more intertwined in our lives. Maxx's first visit to the new house was not his best moment. He sniffed out each room very carefully on the first floor, and then promptly peed on the back of the sofa in the family room. To be fair to him, the sofa was passed on to us from friends who had dogs. Maxx must have smelled the ghosts of the others before him and decided he needed to make it his own. And Robbie? Let's just say that the man who didn't want to hang pictures because it would have put holes in the new plaster, wasn't too happy to have his boyfriend's dog use the sofa and new carpet as his personal indoor toilet.

But we finally settled into a nice little family unit. Fall came and with it cooler temperatures, but Maxx and I never moved out of Robbie's house. We started taking Maxx with us when we went to visit Robbie's parents. I think his dad enjoyed those visits more when we had Maxx with us so we never left him with someone again. It was on one of those trips back to Michigan when Maxx got sick. It was Thanksgiving and we were on a five day visit instead of the usual two day mad dash that began after work on Fridays.

The evening of Thanksgiving we returned to Robbie's parents place where we had left Maxx for the day and discovered that he had developed, well there's no polite way of saying it, uncontrollable diarrhea. Luckily we had left him closed up in the kitchen dining room and was able to clean up the mess fairly easily. What worried us though was that there seemed to be some blood in it. We cleaned Maxx up and tried to get him to eat. He wouldn't touch his food.

The next day we called our veterinarian back in Indianapolis to see what we should do. The vet recommended trying to get him to eat some boiled chicken breast and white rice. He said we could also give him a small dosage of Imodium to try and stop the diarrhea. He did eat a little of the chicken and the Imodium seemed to do the trick. That night though, at around 3 am, Robbie woke me up and said we needed to get Maxx home. During the night he had gotten worse. While driving home I was able to call the veterinarian's office and they said to bring him in as soon as we hit town.

The vet's office ran tests to see what was going on with him and called us later that day to come in and discuss what they had found. It wasn't good. The doctor said they had a difficult time finding a blood cell count of either red or white blood cells. He also said that Maxx's system was simply just shutting down. He told us that we could give him daily shots and that would probably prolong his life for a little longer. We told him we'd take Maxx home and think about it.

Once we got home though, there wasn't much thinking to be done. He was an old dog. He had a good life with us. But it was time to let him go. Any other decision would have been selfish and the wrong one. We called the doctor back and told him that we had decided that the best thing to do was just to let him go. He said that he thought that was the best decision but was afraid to suggest it to us knowing how attached we had become to Maxx.

We made arrangements for the doctor to come to our home that Monday to euthanize Maxx. We couldn't stand the thought of his last moments not being at home. When the veterinarian came to our home to put him to sleep, he told us that the assistants were fighting over who would come to be with us that day. While I was holding him, the doctor gave Maxx the shot that would literally put him to sleep and stop his heart. He died in my arms looking at Robbie. It was one of the most difficult things We've ever had to do. It was the right thing to do. Days later, we dropped a thank you note and picture of Maxx off at the vet's office and one of the women working there just burst into tears when she saw us.

Today marks six years since we had to have Maxx put to sleep. And I had to give Maxx his due. He was a very old dog when he came to us and we had him in our lives for a little over two years. I think we made his last few years the best.

Nightingale

The nightingale sings
of a boy in pajamas who waits
on a bed covered in sheets of blue.
A solitary note rings sharp against
the quiet, as darkness creeps in.

He waits for sleep to take him
past bitterness swallowed.
For nests to empty of fledglings
learning to wing their way.
Most to be devoured before
they grow to escape the others
who feast on the weakest.
The indignant mothers squawk
to empty forests.

The crow gives the boy more
water, waiting for him
to heave up scarlet secrets
hidden deep in the well
where bottom can not be seen.
A murder forms to see what
the boy guards so earnestly,
urging him to surrender
what they have gathered for.

The nightingale sings a solitary note,
sharp against the quiet of the darkness.

Six word memoir - part II

In the closet, came out, twice:

Let me fill in the rest of the story. Sher was partially right when she asked if I tripped the first time out. Metaphorically, yes, I tripped on a lot of b-a-a-d men who hurt me emotionally in ways they probably didn't even realize. I came out the first time when I was 21. Had a good time for a few years dating around (read sleeping for dating and that's closer to the truth) and got tired of it after a while. I wanted more, but most/all of the guys I was meeting at the time wanted the NSA relationship... No Strings Attached. And I was lied to a lot. If I could have been distilled into one word, that word would have been naive.

When I was 24, I met a girl who was a cashier at the grocery store I shopped at. It all started with sandwich spread. You know that pink stuff you get from the deli and it's supposed to resemble ham salad? The first time through her line with a container of that, um, goo and the conversation went something like this:

She: You aren't going to eat that, are you?
Me: Well, I wasn't planning on spreading it between my toes.
She: You don't want to eat that. Really.
Me: But I like ham salad
She: So do I. But that's not ham salad. Trust me. I've seen them make that stuff and you really don't want to eat it.
Me: Really?
She: REALLY!

So I put the carton of sandwich spread down, paid for the rest of my groceries and left. There was something about her. So I made sure to go through her checkout every time I went there. She was friendly, I mistook that for flirty, and asked her out. And she said yes. There's more to the story, but that started my journey back into the closet for the next nine years.

We didn't date for very long, but I've ended up with one of the best friends I've ever had. It's a short, special list. It takes a lot to be on it. But it doesn't take too much to get kicked off of it either. I found out the hard way that the true definition of a friend is that they are someone who is there for you when you need them. They return your calls when they say they will. And they don't constantly blow you off for someone or something else. In other words, if it seems like you are doing all the work all the time, the other person really isn't your friend.

When I was 33, I had a long and difficult talk with myself (Gemini curse, one side wanted to talk, the other side didn't) as to why it seemed like I was dating all the wrong women. They were either unattainable, undesirable (and not just physically) or just plain bitchy to me. The conclusion of that talk was that if I dated the wrong women then I wouldn't end up married to one of them. Because if I were to marry a woman, I would end up hurting her beyond all belief by cheating on her with a man at some point. I may have been lying to myself, but I couldn't live a lie married to someone else.

The thing about being in the closet is that you lead a dual life. The life that you let everyone see and the one that you hope no one ever discovers, the life where you sneak off to dark little bars out of town where you hope no one recognizes you. Because the worst part of it getting out isn't that other people would know, the worst part is that you have to admit to yourself that you are a phony and have to make changes. And it's just damned exhausting trying to cover your tracks all the time.

So, I came out again. To everyone that time. Slowly, but I didn't try to hide who I am anymore. I'm not "in your face - confrontational" about it either. But I won't hide who I am or my family (who means the world to me.) The best part though? The fear of being ostracized hasn't proven to be true. I'd venture to say that with few exceptions most people who know me are supportive. And if they're not they've kept that to themselves. That's all anyone can ask.

Six Word Memoir

Tough assignment... write your six word memoir. Thought about this one for quite a while. This is what I came up with.

In the closet. Came out, twice.

Totally true.

Thanks to everyone for being so patient. I've had a cold the past few days. I've been working on a few personal projects (one in particular that I hope will live to see the light of day), and just trying to figure out what direction I would like to take this blog in. I still don't know. It seems to be working with just winging it. So for now, feed me a can of Red Bull, sit back and let's see what happens

I wrote this yesterday for Robbie:

Realization
The sky opened up on that cloudy October day
Illuminating your face in a manner I’d not seen
Before the rains washed the dust and ash away

But no, that’s not it at all, my mind
Opened to see what had been there all along
To imagine what everything would be with you.

You in your brown burro jacket and Doc Martins
Waiting for me in a dusty gravel lot
For me, to catch up with my heart

I realized what wonders life could bring
Joy, happiness, contentment can exist along
with the sorrow rooted deep within

This morning, early, while night still slumbered
I awake, with the words in my heart, Oh
yes, this is my reason as I curl

up to your side wrapping my self
around your warmth.
Like the sun, you warmed my heart

Yeah, I know, pure sap. But it's my sap. Then the thought entered my head that with this three line format, I easily could turn this into a villanelle. HA! You can blame one Ms. Kimmel for that. She's like that, sneaky in getting me to try new things. But once I get an idea in my head, my mind is like a pit bull and just won't let go until it's done playing with whatever it's got clenched in its jaws.

I finished it tonight. Fair warning, this is purely an amatur at play. Here it is:

Realization

The sky opened up on that cloudy October day,
Illuminating your face in a manner I’d not seen.
Before the rains washed the dust and ash away..

But no, that’s not it, it was my mind I’d say,
Open to see what all along, there had been.
The sky opened up on that cloudy October day

In your brown burro jacket under skies of grey,
Waiting for me and my heart’s desires to glean.
Before the rains washed the dust and ash away..

I suddenly knew that life’s wonders would stay
With stunning clarity in a vision so clear and clean.
The sky opened up on that cloudy October day.

Last night you slumbered, before the start of day
I awake, while thoughts of love in my head careen.
Before the rains washed the dust and ash away.

Come good times, come bad times, come what may,
I love you with a confidence I’d never before seen.
The sky opened up on that cloudy October day,
Before the rains washed the dust and ash away.

I wil say that I had fun with this form of poetry writing. It was challenging in the fact that I don't do rhyming and I've never written a villanelle. You can go to Haven's blog to see more on the villanelle and her take on the insanity (?)of trying such a thing. Insane on my part anyway. I will also freely admit to pilfering the words "come what may" from Moulin Rouge... one of our favorite songs. Yup. Pure sap.

The author of this blog is taking a short (he hopes) sabbatical. Too many things to say, read, teach. Too many other things need tending to at this time. He'll be back shortly with hopefully some new material, new insights, and maybe some things that are a little lighter and more humorous.

In the mean time drop in on some of his favorite blogs. Leave him a comment, if you have a chance, and let him know what's going on in your life. Ask questions. I'm sure he'll get back to you as quickly as possible.

Our Next President

Our next President of The United States of America!

What a wonderful dawn to a new era. I can't think of a better gift to our baby girl than this... hope. And a great gift to our country... unity.

Halloween - In the Spirit of Things

I owned a 1915 bungalow south of Fountain Square here in Indy that came with it’s very own spirit. People would see a shadow over by the upright piano in the dining room that came with the house. I’d not mention it, but notice people turning their heads in that direction from time to time and ask them what they saw. The reaction was invariably “what was that?” To which I’d say, “I think that’s the original owner of the piano and I don’t know why, but I think they want it fixed.” One of the first times that Robbie was over to my house, we were watching TV (which was on a stand by the double doors to the dining room) when I saw him whip his head around in that direction. He then slowly turned to me with this puzzled look on his face and quietly asked "What was that?"

The other odd thing that kept happening was that things would disappear only to reappear moments later in a place you’d already looked. Car keys frequently would not be where I thought I left them. Misplaced checkbook that was always kept in the same place. Remotes that would vanish and reappear later. I would just chalk up to me being an airhead.

The strangest time was when I was playing with a Westie puppy I had at the time and told him to go get his ball. Nine months old and as smart as a whip. We were in the living room and he started looking all over the place and kept coming back to me like he was trying to say “help me, I can’t find it." So I started looking under all the furniture, and moved into the bedrooms thinking maybe he left it under a bed. Well, neither I nor Max could find it.

We went back into the living room and there was the ball right in the middle of the room. A bright yellow ball on brown carpeting would have been easy to spot if it had been there to begin with. That’s the only time I really felt uncomfortable living there. I owned the house for a while and rented it out after moving in with Robbie. The renter freaked out when she saw it and called me to say that she didn't want to be there with a ghost.

The new owners got rid of the piano. I've wondered if the spirit is still with the house or if it's with the piano now. And did the person who ended up with the piano fix it?

Home

At the top of my blog is a quotation from Robert Frost. This post is about home. My/Our home.


Today is our anniversary, Robbie and me. Four years ago today, we had a church ceremony. It's not legally recognized in this state, but that matters not to us. What matters are these things:

We were surrounded by family and friends who have had a significant impact on our lives.

We wanted to declare what we meant to each other in front of our friends, family and God.

We wanted to build further on what we already had and make the foundation of US stronger.

The next day in church, the minister introduced us as having been married in the sanctuary the day before. If the minister and our friends can call it a wedding, then it was a wedding and not a commitment ceremony.

And I've never been more sure of anything in my life than knowing/believing that by committing my heart to be intertwined with Robbie's, that my life would be forever richer.

In those short four years we have:

Brought home (at different times) two Westies and lost the first one to theft. Oh, how we grieved with that loss.

Gone through an emergency appendectomy (mine) and several bouts of kidney stones (also mine) that on more than one occasion required a hospital stay.

Had a car die on us (literally) on the way to Robbie's parents over Easter weekend two years ago.

Bought a huge honking SUV to replace the dead car because we knew (hoped) that we would get a baby soon and wanted the extra protection while on the road to visit family five hours away.

Finally brought home a baby girl last year who couldn't have been more perfect for us if we had tried. Of all the jobs I've had in my life, this by far is the most rewarding, being Daddy.

Moved back to Indiana to raise our daughter here, where things just seem a little more true. A little less frantic. Let's face it. Chicago is a great city but it's exhausting to live there.

Built a life together that makes me blink and stare wide-eyed in amazement at what we have, when I have the time to take it all in.


For those of you who don't know, I'm kind of an animation freak. (It's the child inside.) My favorite one is Lilo & Stitch. There's a line toward the end of the movie where Stitch is talking about the family that he found and wants to be part of. He says "This is my family. I found it all on my own. It's little and broken... but still good. Yeah. Still good."

There are a few places I could go and they would take me in if need be. Good people I have the honor to call friends. But there is only one place I want to be, and that's where ever Robbie and Riley are. My own family may be little and unconventional, but it's still good. Yeah. Still good.

Ursa Minor

For H who was first, K who was next, and R who was last. Without you, any/all of you, I would still be wandering, lost in the night.

Why do I still after all these years seek you out?
You are my guide through the minefields. You give
me safety, a haven, leading me over hillocks and ditches.
Ditches I’ve dug till my palms have bled,
dug to hide the wounded, the infirm.

The markers and flares that burst over head cast a
sallow light allowing me to see who I’ve left in
waters so cold that their very bones ache.
Aching as does my beating heart bound in
the sounds of despair and pain that wind round us.

I need to go on, for the flares also light our path
forward, your hand lightly holding my arm.
Your whisper, soft, in my ear, says not to worry,
for they will find their own way even back to dust.
They are not to be buried. Burial would be forgetting.

You remind me that the furrows I’ve dug
are not meant for me, that new tasks await me
as the little bear shows us my way home, that three
isn’t five in my new world. The three remaining strayed
as I kept an eye on the dragon, turned their backs, gone.

Three isn’t five, you whisper again, placing a soft
hand gently on my back, giving me momentum to glide
across the new landscape stretching infinite before me.

And at once I see it all.

The day my head caught up with my heart

There are times when I've had the most breath taking moments of clarity, where everything around me - the people, the places - comes into such sharp focus that I can't breath. I call those moments hyper-reality. It's just too much to take in and I feel my brain withdrawing from it all by focusing on something mundane outside of my visual path.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Robbie and I had been dating since around the Fourth of July. Kind of casual, seeing each other several times a week and spending weekends together. I, for one, had no intention of getting into a serious relationship again after the psycho. I'd just see how this relationship played itself out and then move on, content with the notion that if I was dating, fine, if I weren't, that was fine too.

That October, my neighbors invited me and Robbie to go away for the weekend with them to Union Pier, Michigan. Just a little trip north while the weather was still good. Maybe do some antiquing (my neighbors ran a booth at an antique mall) and just enjoy Lake Michigan. So, Robbie and I packed up the convertible and hit the road.

We arrived late Friday afternoon and spent the rest of the day talking, drinking some wine with the neighbors and just enjoying each others company. The cottage we stayed in was on a bluff overlooking the lake. We went to bed that night listening to the waves crashing onto the shore below us.

The next day we went to a late brunch and then shopping around with the guys. One of the places we stopped at was actually a tent set up in the middle of a gravel parking lot. Robbie and I wandered around for a while making small talk while my neighbors shopped and tried to figure out how to get an antique stove home - they were in a Dodge Neon. When Robbie and I had seen everything we went outside to wait for my neighbors still chatting about nothing in particular.

It was getting late in the day and the wind had picked up. The sun was behind me and was shining on Robbie's face. I remember that we had stopped talking and were just standing there. I have no idea where my mind was, but Robbie got this smile on his face, tilted his head and said "I know, me too." It was like someone had snapped a rubber band against my brain. I saw everything with crystal clarity and knew at that moment that I was hopelessly and forever in love with him. And knew that he felt the same about me. I can still picture him standing in that parking lot, wearing brown Doc Martins, denim jeans, brown carcoat, and a dark blue ball cap, smiling at me, loving me. I've never been more sure of, nor more aware of anything in my life than at that moment.

Robbie has been my salvation. He has shown me that it is possible to love and be loved by someone and not regret it. He has given me a family that I absolutely adore. They are everything my family is not. They are loud, they are opinionated, and they love completely. It's been an honor to have been accepted into their lives and hearts, and I would do anything that they would ask of me.

But more importantly, he gave me a life. We have a modest little house, a beautiful baby girl and the sweetest dog. We have each other and I know that no matter what, we'll be there for each other. He supports me in trying my hand at writing and doesn't complain when I've been struggling with a story idea until 5 am and he has to get Riley ready for daycare.

It would be a cliche to say the he is my other half and he completes me. It also wouldn't be true. He does more than that. He lets me be myself and is happy when I succeed. He truly is my best.

Obama/Biden vs McCain/Palin

I received the following email today. I think it's appropriate to post this in as many places as possible:


I hope no one will be offended by this email, but I have verified that these facts are true and I know that if these things were switched around it would make a difference in my choice. How about you? I do not expect or even necessarily desire a discussion about this, since I do not want to have a heated debate with people I love and respect. I just thought I would put it out there for you to think about.

Obama/Biden vs McCain/Palin

What if things were switched around? Think about it.

Would the country's collective point of view be different?

Could racism be the culprit?


Ponder the following:

What if the Obamas had paraded five children across the stage?
Including a three month old infant and an unwed, pregnant teenage daughter?

What if John McCain was a former president of the Harvard Law Review?

What if Barack Obama finished fifth from the bottom of his graduating class?

What if McCain had only married once and Obama was a divorcee?

What if Obama was the candidate who left his first wife after a severe disfiguring car accident, when she no longer measured up to his standards? (*It should be noted that McCain did not leave her immediately, though he did begin cheating on her soon after his return.)

What if Obama had met his second wife in a bar and had a long affair while he was still married?

What if Michelle Obama was the wife who not only became addicted to pain killers but also acquired them illegally through her charitable organization?

What if Cindy McCain graduated from Harvard ?

What if Obama had been a member of the Keating Five? (The Keating Five were five United States Senators accused of corruption in 1989, igniting a major political scandal as part of the larger Savings and Loan crisis of the late 1980s and early 1990s.)

What if McCain was a charismatic, eloquent speaker?

What if Obama couldn't read from a teleprompter?

What if Obama was the one who had military experience that included discipline problems and a record of crashing several planes?

What if Obama was the one who was known to display publicly, on many occasions, a serious anger management problem?

What if Michelle Obama 's family had made their money from beer distribution?

What if the Obamas had adopted a white child?

Would anyone believe McCain is a Muslim? Why not?

You could easily add to this list. If these questions reflected reality, do you really believe the election numbers would be as close as they are? This is what racism does. It covers up, rationalizes and minimizes positive qualities in one candidate and emphasizes negative qualities in another when there is a color difference.

Educational Background:

Barack Obama:
Columbia University - B.A. Political Science with a Specialization in International Relations.
Harvard - Juris Doctor ( J.D. ) Magna Cum Laude

Joseph Biden:
University of Delaware - B.A. in History and B.A. in Political Science.
Syracuse University College of Law - Juris Doctor (J.D.)

vs.

John McCain:
United States Naval Academy - Class rank: 894 of 899

Sarah Palin:
Hawaii Pacific University - 1 semester
North Idaho College - 2 semesters - general study
University of Idaho - 2 semesters -journalism
Matanuska-Susitna College - 1 semester
University of Idaho - 3 semesters - B.A. in Journalism


Education isn't everything, but this is about the two highest offices in the land as well as our standing in the world. You make the call.

Remembering Dan

Today would have been Dan and Joe's fourteenth anniversary. Unfortunately, Dan passed away last February after battling pancreatic cancer. That's Dan on the right holding Riley, with Joe on the left. The photo was taken last summer when we came down one weekend to visit them at their lake house. We were still living in Chicago at the time and Riley had been with us for only a few months.

Dan was truly one of a kind and his passing has left a huge void in this world. He taught high school English for over 30 years at the same high school. Over the years he sponsored the year book staff, the drama department, coached boys swimming and fought on a daily basis to make his students lives a little richer and broaden their views of the world beyond Central Indiana farm country.

Dan didn't always succeed with the latter work, but when he did, the results were amazing. One of his former students happened to be a friend of mine, briefly, before I met Joe and Dan. Troy was an amazing artist who I believe got a little inspiration from Dan to try larger dreams than what would normally be expected of him. Troy attended art school after graduation and went on to become a set designer for The Indiana Repertory Theater and other local community theaters here in Indianapolis.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I met Dan the spring that Joe and I worked together at the same place. I was fairly new to town, having moved just a few months before and didn't know very many people. Joe had asked me over, if I wasn't doing anything, to help them demolish an old garage to make way for a swimming pool. Believe it or not, hard labor sounded a lot better than the plans I had of making the divot in my sofa a little bit deeper that weekend.

If you've ever done demo work on a building, you can understand how gratifying in some ways it can be. And tiring. So what do Joe and I do after working hard all Saturday? We hit the bars. Big mistake. Dan was up early Sunday morning, swinging a sledge hammer against the stucco walls of what remained of the garage. I weakly tried to help for about 10 seconds, realized the the sledge wasn't the only thing pounding and went back to bed for another hour or two. By the time I got up, Dan had reduced the rest of the garage to rubble and the only thing left to do was help throw the piece in the dumpster.

That was the weekend that Dan gave me the nickname Jimmy Ray. Only he said that Ray was spelled with an E and not a Y. Anyone who ever met me through Dan after that always thought my middle name was Ray. (For those of you who are curious it's really Allen.) Dan and Joe's favorite movie was "Coal Miner's Daughter". Most of their time speaking to each other was like they were extras from the movie.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And this is where I get stuck. I can't seem to describe what Dan meant to me. From that first moment of meeting him, I knew that his was a good soul. Oh, he could be just as catty and bitchy as the rest of us. But the underlying truth was that he would never make you feel less important than any one else in the world. Everyone was instantly at ease in his presence and feel that you had known him for years.

He would cook these amazing meals whenever I was over at their place. And do it while putting the roof on the replacement garage that he built. He was meticulous, careful and precise in everything he did and said. He never met a stranger, even though he would tell you he wasn't comfortable meeting new people.

When Dan found out that he had cancer, he and the doctors had hopes that he would be able to beat it. The tumor was on a duct leading away from his pancreas giving hope that a successful treatment would be possible. He did his rounds of chemo, steadily gaining weight back throughout, and never getting sick. His doctor said that gave hope that he could beat it.

A year ago the treatments stopped. Not because the cancer had come back, but just because that was the end of what could be done. Dan told us that he asked the doctor what they would do next. The doctor looked at him and said with a puzzled look on his face, "Are you sure you're ready for this talk?" Dan asked what he meant by that. The doctor replied that that was it. There would be nothing more to do.

So Dan and Joe waited along with family and friends, anxious, hopeful, silent. It wouldn't be until sometime in December that he would know if the treatments had worked. Dan finally got the results back and the doctors couldn't find any signs of the cancer. The doctor said that if the cancer would return it would happen in 12 to 14 weeks.

Thirteen weeks later, I received the call from Joe that the cancer had returned. It had spread everywhere. There would be no hope this time. Dan had asked if we could come down for the weekend. We drove down Sunday morning and went straight to their lake home. As sick as Dan was, he still was trying to make sure that everyone was taken care of.

At the time we didn't talk about it, but after leaving we knew that Dan was saying his goodbye's. Ten days later he was gone. He died at home, surrounded by his dogs, and with Joe by his side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dan gave me (and Robbie) possibly the best compliment I've ever received. When we told him and Joe that we were adopting a baby, he cried. He thought that us becoming parents was the most wonderful thing he could think of. I'm just so sorry that Riley won't get to know her Uncle Dan in person.

My apologies to Joe and Dan's family if I got the time-line or facts of Dan's illness wrong. I'm working from a very clunky memory. I have an easier time remembering the man. I think Dan would want it that way. Forget the cancer! Remember the trips to Florida! Remember the cookouts! Remember the laughter! Remember?

Driving Lessons

I really don't have a story here. I just happened to like the title. It seems that sometimes I get a thought or even just a few words together that I think would make a nice title. I suppose it could be about how my dad used to take me out on country roads and let me steer the car while he worked the pedals. Maybe throw in how he would try and teach me a lesson by punishing me. The driving part could be fun considering he died when I was twelve. I must have been sitting on his lap the whole time and I'm sure the way cars were made in the 60's that I could barely have seen over the steering wheel.

Or maybe it could be a story about golf. My grandmother played golf for a while when she was young. I think she was in her late 60's early 70's when she told me. I just for the life of me couldn't picture the tiny woman sitting at the kitchen table with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth ever playing golf. She said she didn't play that much. It was boring. Her and Mark Twain... "Golf is a good walk spoiled."

Just why is it that certain words or phrases will stick with me. It's annoying. Am I supposed to make something out of them? I feel like Rainman sometimes the way they keep revolving round and round in my head. Maybe there's a pattern or connection among the whole lot of them. Should I keep track of every stray phrase that wanders into my consciousness? Maybe I should have a cork board and pin them up like an entomologist would with insects. If I have to lable them in Latin, I'm in big trouble.

It's like the "Fun, Fun, Fun" syndrome. For those of you who don't know the syndrome I'm referring to, "Fun, Fun, Fun" was a song by the Beachboys (a group from the 60's who, believe it or not, gave the Beatles a run for their money) that once it gets in your head it won't leave. EVER! Until something else comes along to take it's place it just keeps repeating itself. Or "until daddy takes the T-bird away." Dammit!

And that makes me wonder who programmed the DJ in my head. Today, I woke up with the Mary Jane Girls singing "In My House" IN MY HEAD! Now where in the hell did that one come from? What overstimulated neural synapse sparked some life into that oldie? And why won't it leave? I've listened to the radio for at least two hours today. You would think that something, anything would have caught hold to knock the MJG's out of the top spot of my personal TRL. But no, they're still swaying back and forth, singing their biggest hit, and being just as trashy as ever in my brain.

I don't know if other people have their own sound track running through their lives, but mine is weird and unpredictable. Sometimes it will get caught on current songs, other times it's an old one that I've not heard or thought about in years. And in trying to think of some to list as examples, I've managed to do a mash up of "In My House" and "I Kissed a Girl" by Katy Perry. (Don't fear for my sanity. It apparently left with The Mary Jane Girls years ago and revisits me from time to time. From what I understand, they and my sanity are having a great time somewhere in southern California.)

Back to Driving Lessons (dammit! where is that missing headmaster?) I also get an image of my dad driving us through through thunderstorms when I was little. He absolutely loved being out in the wild weather. The more lightning flashing and thunder pounding the better. If you could see through the windshield it wasn't storming hard enough. I was terrified the entire time. I just wanted to be at home, safe and dry, not worrying about if a tree was going to fall on our car to crush us. Or if a tornado was going to show up in our path and pick us up and fling us down in a cornfield three counties away. Or even worse, get struck by lightning. But those things never happened. We always made it through safely to the other side of the storm. Although the rain was still falling on us, the sun would be shining; downed tree limbs and shredded leaves all around, but we would be just fine. And there was dad smoking a Pall Mall, his right arm across the steering wheel and his left hanging out the car window, on the lookout for the next big storm to drive us all through. Guess I had a story after all.

5 am

Not sure when or why this one popped into my head. It's been raining here since yesterday afternoon. Off and on, just a soft rain. Nice, calm, soothing. I awakened to the sound of the rain falling through the maple tree that's in the backyard outside our bedroom window and I had the first part of the following poem resonating in my head. Indulge me. It's not often anymore that I do poetry, neither the reading nor writing of it.

5 am

I lie awake in our bed
hearing the rain whisper
through ancient oak
on its descent
to inescapable
fate.

Around me the house slumbers
and I aware and listening,
hear each drop when
upon meeting fate,
utter softly
“oh!”

Our House in the Woods

Since I've started this post, I've meant to write about the differences between living here and in Chicago. The most obvious place to start would be with the size of the cities. But I'm not typical.

Robbie awoke the other morning thinking he was in some "damned Disney movie, what with all the birds and stuff making a racket outside our windows." Here, we hardly have had them closed. When it's been so hot and humid (the equivalent to two or three weeks, I think ) that we needed to turn on the air conditioners have we closed them. Even when the temperature has fallen into the 50's at night we've kept them open.

In Chicago, we rarely had the windows open. And never at night. We lived at the corner of Halsted Street & Roosevelt Road which has to be the busiest intersection for ambulance, firetruck and other rescue traffic in the entire city. Roosevelt Road is the fastest way to get to the Illinois Medical District and Halsted is only one block off of the Dan Ryan Expressway. Noise. 24 hours a day. I also don't think there is a single driver in Chicago who isn't emphatically in love with the horn in their vehicle. So, yeah, the windows were shut most of the time.

It's easier to get together with friends here. But it was easier to walk to restaurants (gawd, I miss Hashbrowns restaurant) or grab public transportation if we were going out of our neighborhood. I don't think it's humanly possible to experience just half of the great places to eat in Chicago. Everything from the bistro right off Michigan Ave. to the breakfast and lunch diner on Roosevelt Road that seemed like small town restaurants the way the waitresses remembered us on our second time there.

When the people I worked with in Chicago heard that we were moving back, they couldn't imagine why on earth we would do such a thing. After all, there is no culture outside of Chicago - well, maybe in New York. As luck would have it, The Chicago Tribune did a piece on Indianapolis that same week. I took it to work to show people and they were surprised that there WAS more here than a two and half mile oval racing track. There are theaters, restaurants, libraries, museums, festivals - everything you can find in Chicago, just on a smaller scale. Except, we do have the largest children's museum, the largest cultural event with Black Expo, and a hospitality and warmth that truly is an institution unlike anything found in Chicago.

Yes, there's more than corn here. But we Hoosiers have known that all along. It's a one of the best kept secrets about the Midwest.

If you havent' been to the bottom of the page, I've posted two pictures there. They dramatically show the contrast of our lives in just a few short months. From towering architecture, to towering maples. Chicago is a great city and I'm glad we took the chance to live there. We have Riley because of that choice, and Indianapolis will always be home.

Dad? Daddy? Pops? Father? Dad One? Dad Two? What's a girl to call her two dads anyway?

One of the most asked questions of us about our daughter is "What is she going to call you?" My answer is usually "anything she wants as long as she doesn't call me late for dinner." Badum bump. Thank you! I'm here all week.

It's a good question. Until recently we didn't really have an answer except for "we'll leave it up to her." Well, the question now has an answer and from none other than the girl herself. She's calling me Da-ee and Robbie is just Da. I'm sure that those are the toddler equivalents to Daddy and Dad. However she came up with them, they're our names now.

I'm not surprised that she came up with different names for us. Since we first brought her home she has been very attentive to her surroundings. Put her in a new situation and she'll just watch for a while before opening up to people. If she has a choice during those times, she wants Robbie to hold her. She's decided that he's her protector.

Fiercely independent most of the time, when she's not feeling well or wakes in the middle of the night, she wants me to comfort her. I love those moments (few that they are) when I can hold her across my shoulder, rubbing her back, humming softly while swaying slowly back and forth. After a few moments I'll ask if she's ready to go back to sleep and she'll just go limp in my arms. I place her back in her bed, she throws her arms over her head and drifts back to sleep.

Visual Changes

Just for the few people paying attention here, I've made a few (slight) changes to the page format. I hope it's easier to read. I only show two posts at a time now. The others are archived. Also, I added my own photo to the masthead just to personalize things a little. If you noticed a difference, great. If you didn't, PAY ATTENTION FROM NOW ON! I'm just saying.

Connections...

I've been reading Little, Big by John Crowley over the past week, but only a little bit at a time. Usually I can devour a book in about a day if I have uninterrupted time on my hands. This book is different. Tonight, I thought about what it is that makes this book different. Usually, I can't wait to get to the end of a book, not because it's bad (usually), but because I can't wait to see how it ends. How will the characters I've come to know and care about (or in some instances loath) make out in the end.

Then there are books like Little, Big where I find myself lost in every single word on the page. The language, the pacing, the timeless nature of this book is astonishing to me. If there is a writer to aspire to, John Crowley is surely at the top of my list. He's created an entire world that somehow manages to be of this world, and yet, not be a part of it.

"Little, Big" is a gift that I have to thank Haven Kimmel for. She writes a blog (as well as some of the finest novels I've had the pleasure to read) and recommends books from time to time. Another book she mentioned in her blog entitled "The Dreaded Desert Island Decisions" (read this entry here: http://havenkimmel.wordpress.com/2008/09/01/ ) is South of the Big Four, by Don Kurtz. Haven says "Simply the finest novel ever written about the Midwest" which I have to admit I wasn't so sure about. Especially when I found out it is set in the farm country of Indiana. A place that I left long ago and had no desire to ever revisit. I was wrong.

Just into the first part, I found myself quietly weeping reading it. Weeping for a familiar place in both time and geography that I'm not sure exists anymore. A place before farming became big business. An age when a man's worth was measured by the sweat and time that he put into his land. A place where a man can screw up and still in the end find redemption at the edge of a corn field during a late autumn harvest.

Over the past month, I've probably read more books than I've read in the last five years. I could easily blame it on being in Chicago and having so much to do there. But the simple truth is, I just didn't have it in me to be a reader. Coming back to Indiana re-awakened something inside of me. Call it, searching for my roots, figuring out who I am by looking back at what I used to do/be. But there seems to have been many things leading to this. Random things. People popping up that I've not heard from in years. Ideas wafting in on a breeze making me remember what my aspirations used to be. A convergence of events that make me think the universe was/is trying to tell me something. Robbie thinks it's all just coincidence, and if it were just a few things I would agree.

That leads me to the biggest question about what makes a great writer and here's what I think. A great writer isn't totally of this world. They see and hear things that most people don't. The pay attention to the details like all good writers do. But the truly great ones have a knack for feeling and seeing the undercurrent, the charge in the air, the things in the shadows that most people only catch a glimpse of from time to time - if they are lucky.

There is a connection to things and people in this world. Great writers/artists only have to pay attention to those tendrils to see what others don't. There is some randomness I'm sure, but most of the time, if you look closely enough, you'll find something that loops around something else that loops around another thing and before you know it, you've circled right back to where you started.

In future posts, I'll talk about how, after my dad was killed in a horrific car crash, what our pastor said to me finally has been revealed. (George, you are so right about "the worst accidents happen on the most beautiful of days.") Dad crashed his car on a straight stretch of road in the middle of the afternoon on a gorgeous, sunny June afternoon. The pastor said to me that there is a reason for everything, that we might not know the reason right away (if ever), but God has a reason for even the worst of tragedies. I'll just end this with saying that everything I have, everything I am, can be traced directly back to that moment in time. And I have my reason.

(this post was updated/edited 9-24-08)

Anger

I'm angry.

Yesterday, for the first time as an adult, I had a stereotype lobbed at me. I don't know if it was meant to hurt me, but...

I'm angry.

I've been thinking about it since it happened. Someone I work with, hopefully out of ignorance, stereotyped me. Here's how the drive by shooting went:

"You're gay, right?"

"Um, last time I checked I was. Why"

"I need your help with figuring out what color would work well with these sheets."

"Why ask me?"

"Well you guys are good at that sort of stuff."

" 'You guys?!?' You know what? That's really offensive!"

"Jim, I'm sorry. I was just kidding around. You know what I mean. I just thought you'd be good at this sort of thing."

OK. Yes I am "good at that sort of thing." But not because I'm gay. It's because of my unofficial/undeclared art background in college. It's because I've watched a gazillion home decorating shows on HGTV, TLC, Discovery Channel, or any other channel that had a show about decorating on a budget over the last 15 or so years. And all because I was trying to make my surroundings as nice as possible for as little as possible. When you don't have much lining your pockets, you make do with what you're given.

And it's because I pay attention to the aesthetics of my surroundings no matter where I am. If it makes me feel comfortable, then I analyze the shit out of it to see why and what it is that I can translate back to my own surroundings! Anybody can do that. It doesn't take a "gay" gene.

I'm angry!

I've been stewing on this for a little over a day now. Dammit! I hate being labeled something one dimensional! Yes, I'm gay. But that's not what defines me as a person. It's a part of me, yes, but just one part. ONE PART!!!

I make no efforts to hide my life. It's all out there for anyone to see. I freely talk about my partner, our daughter, and the life we make together. I don't offer up intimate details about our sex life - I don't think anyone should know details about ANYBODY'S sex life. Assume all you want. I ain't sharing and I ask the same of you. Funny, I'm a bit of a prude that way.

But, I'M ANGRY!

I'm might as well had the slur FAGGOT thrown at me. It would have had the same effect. It would have been more efficient.

And dammit! I just wasn't expecting it in this day and age. I thought (wrongly, apparently) that Indianapolis had grown beyond this over the past few years. And, yes, I know it was just one person out of countless others who have been far more gracious. But that's one person too many.

How ARE we to live?

On a friend's blog, the question came up this morning of "How are we to live?" For the past thirty to 40 minutes I've been pondering that question while reading other peoples responses. And it was humbling to read what everyone else had to say on the subject. Humbling because "My Brilliant Response" never came to me.

It did lead, however, to several things I consider essential. The first is: Make plans but expect them to change. I never wanted to be in another relationship after "the psycho". But then I met Robbie. All through that first summer I just expected us to be a fling of sorts. Oh, I missed him when I went on a vacation to Rehoboth Beach with my neighbors in August. But I wouldn't allow myself to realize that I was falling in love with him.

That all changed with four words from him the first weekend trip that we took together in October that first year. Robbie and I were standing in the parking lot of a flea market outside of Union Pier, Michigan waiting on my neighbors to finish buying some monstrous old castoff for their antique booth. I remember I daydreaming and looking at Robbie from across the lot. What brought me back to reality was me him looking me right back in the eyes and saying "I know, me too." And that was when my head caught up with what my heart had known for most of the summer. I loved him with every measure of my being. Eight years later, I still can’t believe how incredibly lucky and blessed I am to be with him.

That brings me to the second part: Live honestly. From an early age I had been taught that our lives are to be hidden from everyone. I grew up in an alcoholic household. I don't mean to garner any pity here, that's just the way it was. For those of you who aren't Adult Children Of Alcoholics, it's akin to having an elephant in your living room, but no one will acknowledge it. And you're not allowed to. EVER. So that gave me plenty of training to be able to deny any "elephants" in my own life.

As an ACOA it was easy to deny that I was gay. I denied it so well, that I ended up coming out twice. L-o-o-n-g story! I won't go into the details, but after several bad relationships (OK, all of them) I decided I couldn't live that way. So for many years after, I would always pick the wrong women to date. Or try to date anyway. They were either unattainable, mean, or just plain wrong for me. And the simple truth was that I picked those women because deep inside me I knew that I was gay and would one day end up cheating on them. And I just couldn't do that to another person. I didn't want to be one of "those guys", hooking up on the sly ( I think it's called "being on the down low"), hoping not to get caught. But eventually everyone does. So after much soul searching one evening, I came out. Again. And irrevocably.
(As a footnote to the above disastrous dating of women mentioned here, I did receive the gift of a very good friend. She's been there, supportive of me for 24 - 25 years now. Thanks for everything Kim.)

And that brings me to my third part of "How are we to live?": Live for the moment. I have a tendency to get way ahead of myself. I stopped writing years ago when a college professor of mine told me that I had talent as a writer and that while he enjoyed reading what I wrote, my grammar sucked! I also apparently had never met a comma I didn't like. (I think I would put in a comma where I would naturally pause when speaking. Not, such a great idea in print.) This was from someone who freelances and is published numerous times every month. So he knew of what he spoke.

Hey! Great! No pressure there! Now, I have to continue writing, learn grammar, and come up with new story ideas FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE!!! I hadn't even had the first article written, let alone published. But in my head I had already won a Pulitzer and was agonizing over how I was going to follow that up. So I did the only thing I could, I walked away. Besides, how could I write the truth if I couldn't be honest about myself. [Ed. note: see previous paragraphs about being in the closet.]

So, here's the last truth for today. I worry too much. I worry that all the things that are important and meaningful to me will be taken away. I worry that the people who mean the most to me won't be there when I need them the most. I worry that being a writer means success and failure. I worry too much (although not as much as I used to) about what other people think of me. And I worry that this is just an exercise in futility, that any talent I think I have is all in my imagination.

And now, I'd like to hear from you. Let me know your thoughts on all this. I'm letting go of my fear of criticism so that I can fully live in this moment, and with your help, become more of the person I'm supposed to be.

Running into old friends

I've been back in Indianapolis since the beginning of April. Robbie stayed in Chicago to wrap up things there until mid July. I don't think a week or two has gone by without bumping into someone we knew from 5 years ago. Or at least talking with someone who knows people we know. That hardly ever happened in Chicago. It's almost like our own version of "This is Your Life." It's been a lot of fun getting re-acquainted with old friends.

It's also a little freaky thinking about five years of our lives flying by as fast as it did. But a lot did happen in those years away. We got married. It's not legal, but we did it in a church with a real minister (and not by some weird person acting on behalf of the universe waving a switch around over our heads.) I've passed more kidney stones than Starbucks has coffee houses. I also had an emergency appendectomy (4 years ago today.) I would highly recommend it if you can avoid having one. Got a puppy that someone stole 3 months later. Got another puppy who is now 4 years old - and yes, he's spoiled. But best of all, we brought the love of our lives home a little over a year ago.

If we had not taken a chance on Chicago, we never would have found out about Adoption-Link. It was a long process, but as I've said so many times, Riley was worth the wait. She's been a joy to have in our lives. It's been a challenge too, especially working weird random hours. But at the end of the day, seeing her face light up when I walk into her room to tell her goodnight makes any difficulties all worth it.


And the girl loves to eat! There are days (most of them) where it seems like she'll never stop eating! Last night she used a fork all by herself, spearing grilled chicken and corn kernels off her plate. She was so proud of herself the first time she actually made it to her mouth with food still on her fork. And so were we. (The pictures above here were taken last week.)

Oh, and Happy Birthday to our nephew Parker! Hope you get what you want.

God? Is that you?

This last television season, I fell in love with one new show. Other than Lost, Eli Stone is the only show that I feel compelled to watch. A few weeks ago, I was watching a repeat of the show where Eli is arguing for a man whose wife was trying to have him declared mentally incompetent because he didn't want to continue his cancer treatments. The dying man said that God had told him to just enjoy the time he had left and not go through a painful procedure that would only add few more painful days to his life. He was asked by the opposing counsel what God sounded like to which he replied "it was only a feeling, I didn't actually hear a voice." The attorney then asked how he could be sure it was God and the defendant said that he just knew.

When it came time for Eli to argue for the man, he said that God speaks to us each in different ways. God spoke to the defendant through feelings. God spoke to Moses through a burning bush. And God speaks to Eli through George Michael. (You need to see the show to understand this. I could explain, but, eh, I don't want to take the time. Plus, I think you just might enjoy it.)

It brought back something that I had spoken to Robbie and a few others about. Just because we don't hear an actual voice doesn't mean that God isn't speaking to us. God spoke to me a few years ago through bouquets of flowers.

Now, before you start questioning my sanity, let me explain. Four years ago, on September 10th, I was supposed to go with Robbie (my partner) to visit his family in Warren, Michigan for his nephew's birthday and and uncle's funeral. A bi-polar weekend if there ever was one. I had awakened that morning with a stomach ache that progressively worsened throughout the day and decided to not travel with them. I went to bed early that evening.

The next morning I felt slightly better and thought maybe I was just kicking another kidney stone or two around inside of me. Always fun. Nothing like the feeling that someone is simultaneously squeezing and stabbing your kidney. But as Saturday progressed the pain got steadily worse until I finally decided that maybe, just maybe, I should probably go to the hospital. The problem was that I didn't know where to go or who to call. I know, I know! 911! By the time it occurred to me that something was seriously wrong I couldn't think clearly. I finally managed to find a number for someone Robbie worked with whom and whose name I recognized. She and her husband came over to drive me to the hospital. (Carolyn and Cliff, I don't think you'll ever fully understand how wonderful you both are. And not just for helping me that day.)

The plan was for me to meet Carolyn and Cliff at the entrance to the building and they would drive me to a hospital. Robbie worked for the University of Illinois at Chicago at the time and they had provided housing for us on campus in their new residence hall. What I hadn't factored in was the fact that it is almost an entire city block from the front door of that apartment to the elevator leading to the first floor. By the time I made it downstairs I was exhausted.

(Lord, I could use an editor! I am getting to the point of this. I promise.)

We decided that I would go to the UIC hospital. Carolyn dropped me off at the front door with Cliff so she could park the car. I made it as far as the curb. From there the rest of the night is pretty much a blur.

A wheelchair was brought out, I was sent to an exam room then to x-ray, then back to the exam room. And in between was a lot of waiting around for days/minutes - I had no sense of time. During all this I made Carolyn wait until I had a diagnosis before calling Robbie. I didn't want him to panic and worry over something that was probably just kidney stones again. Boy, was I wrong. The next thing I remember was a doctor/intern telling that while I did have kidney stones, that wasn't my problem. An inflamed appendix was. And because it was evidently on the verge of bursting, they would admit me and do emergency surgery. Just before midnight on September 11th, 2004, I was anesthetized and had my appendix removed.

I came to later, hooked up to an IV with a morphine drip. I'm here to tell you that at that point in my life I thought that there isn't anything on this planet better for getting rid of pain than morphine. But you tend to sleep a lot. My best friend Kim had driven up from Indianapolis in the middle of the night to be by my side when I awakened. Robbie came home later that evening after attending his uncle's funeral. (Great weekend for him, huh?) He had called my family in the mean time to let them know.

That day Robbie's mom called the room to see how I was doing, Carolyn stopped by with a paper at some point and Kim was there for most of it. Kim only went home to take care of our 6 month old puppy and then came back to keep me company. And so I slept.

Another day passed before I heard from my own family. Just in case you didn't know, we're not very close. Not for lack of trying on my part. It's just the way it is. Probably has a lot to do with my dad's fatal car accident 35 years ago. My theory is that if they don't get too emotionally involved, then it won't hurt as bad when you are gone.

A few days go by. Robbie's family, friends of mine and even Robbie's boss had sent bouquets to me at the hospital. I remember looking at them thinking how awful it was that nobody in my family had sent anything and I fell asleep crying just thinking about that. Some time later that afternoon I awoke and looked at the flowers again. Only this time I thought, "How incredibly lucky I am to have all those people in my life who care so much about me."

There are times in your life when you know certain things with a clarity you never thought possible... even in a morphine haze. That was one of them. In that moment, I knew without a doubt that while God doesn't always give us what we ask for specifically - a family who shows how much they care. He does give us what we need - a family who shows how much they care. Through Robbie I finally got the family I needed and found that I have friends who will be there for me no matter what. If that isn't what a family is all about, then I don't know what it is.

That was the day that God spoke to me through bouquets of flowers. He was letting me know that while I might not get exactly what I want, He does give me what I need. There have been other times when I've felt his presence or seen him at work. But I think that was one of the most sublime and eloquent ways he has ever spoken to me.

If you've made it this far, let me know when and how God spoke to you. Comments are open.