Shades Of Grey

I knew when I was growing up that wearing pants, boy’s sneakers, and a hat were comfortable to me. I knew I’d rather be swinging a bat or running a play into the end zone between the two perfectly placed Sycamore trees in Jon Tarr’s back yard. I knew that when the other girls were having tea parties for their Barbie dolls and stuffed animals that I’d rather be climbing a tree or riding my bike, pushing the envelope beyond the invisible line my mom said I was not to cross. As I grew up, I felt odd-girl out. I didn’t conform to the gender roles I could see blossoming in my classmates right before my eyes. The pressure was subtle. I was forced to wear dresses, taught to sit “like a lady” instead of sprawling out all over the place, given gifts at birthday and Christmas that didn’t fit, by relatives who didn’t know me. My parents always got me the things I wanted, not the things they thought I should want—I think they knew something on an subconscious level even if it wasn’t what they wanted to believe. I’d tear off any vestiges of femininity as soon as I hit the door at home after school—I felt like a schizophrenic trapped in a Librium haze without my pants and hat. As time went on and I attempted to goose-step into puberty, it was normal for my friends to suddenly become boy crazy. In moments, I tried that on for size. It didn’t feel totally right, but it seemed to bring my friends such great joy, I thought I must just be doing it wrong. It was really difficult, at times, to be different – if not always on the outside, then on the inside. The struggle was always in the forefront of all I said and did. It made for some lonely days as a kid—thank God for those other people who were having trouble conforming for their own reasons—we found each other. Eventually, I got comfortable in my body, this body of a woman I was somehow given. And, then, I reveled in being a woman. I got that I could have the body I had and be the person I wanted to be and if people thought me odd, well, I could live with that—it just took a while to get there. It just struck me one day, that there had been no room for shades of grey in those days.

The big breasted German nurse looking down at my newly arrived screeching, hungry form in the crib at the 97^th General Hospital in Frankfurt a/M, West Germany was the first woman to whom I was attracted. That’s what I tell people. Boys were for football and baseball, and digging in the dirt. For racing GI Joe jeeps down Garden Avenue. For the endless summer games of neighborhood kickball until the streetlights went on or the crisp fall evenings that brought games of twilight hide and seek. Or for casual, uncomplicated experimentation.

Girls were for listening to raptly, lying on my stomach, my hands tucked in little fists under my chin and legs swinging upward in the air behind me, as we lounged on the bed, gazing into each other’s eyes – Pink Floyd and Emerson, Lake & Palmer playing in the background – as they told me their secrets. Or for Saturday nights cuddled up with me in the sleeping bag during sleepovers on the basement floor. Girls were for playing strip poker in my room. Ending up under the covers with a rush of pubescent excitement that meant one thing to her and quite another to me. Poker seemed to be the only way to get her there. A warning to all mothers who require their daughters to keep the bedroom door open only if boys are visiting – this is probably not an entirely effective strategy.

To hear a particular girl whisper in my ear and rub my back and allow her fingers to linger and trace the rest of me, pausing deliberately here and there in our two-man tent during Girl Scout camp, after a long day spelunking and rappelling. We met in a “Same Time, Next Year” kind of way at camp each summer for many years. Dad, I hope you understand now why I declined attending your wedding – you see, you picked a day during those two weeks. There was no real choice. Though she lived in the same area and probably fifteen minutes from me, our time together was exclusively held to that two weeks each summer. We had one brief, but excited phone call each March when the Girl Scout camp schedule arrived by mail. I was beginning to understand what felt right. There was no one there in my Iowa hometown to talk with and no one to help me traverse what I was feeling or thinking. There was this secret life I led in my bed and in my head. I didn’t know what to call it or what it meant. I just knew that in the life I’d been dealt there, there was no room for shades of grey.

Punctuation marks. Men in my life have been but punctuation marks on my way to the next sentence, paragraph, or chapter. There was the question mark – the man I had to try just to say I had. There was the exclamation point – one of a pair of cowboys whom the woman I then longed for with all of my being and I picked up while traveling in West Texas one weekend – she going her way and I mine with said exclamation points. What was I gonna’ do? Scream out, “I want you, don’t go with him!!!” She came back all aglow and I, well, I just wanted to die for a whole bunch of reasons now all distilled down into that moment I saw her face as she walked back in the door. She’d right that with me eventually, if only for a time. There was a comma – the one who was just a pause – and, as is the case with many commas, entirely misplaced. And, then there was the period – the one I connected with and who was my friend for years – the one who had my back and made me laugh. Until the day the laughter stopped for good and I could no longer live in the black and white world that did not allow for my shades of grey.

But what did I meet when I was finally out and true and righteous and full of self-love and understanding? I found yet another world that was not always accepting of shades of grey. I found women who would not see me for who I am, but only as yet another newly out woman without the requisite pristine lesbian credentials on my Sapphic Vitae. Women who had apparently been blessed with a bravery I seemingly lacked or who had crashed head-on into self-understanding long before they were lead astray by the patriarchy. Women who identified me as not truly lesbian because I had, as encultured, made a segue or two on my way to being one with my shades of grey. I heard things like, “I only see women who are biologically lesbian.” What the fuck? I am! I was! But, my history was something they couldn’t see clearly through. So, I made a decision to leave out facts, keep things at a superficial level, and just play. That didn’t work either; it made me feel as though I was betraying the single thing I had fought so hard to find. It kept me unavailable. It had other costs as well which provided some of life’s hardest lessons. I’ve heard more than once, from friends who came out later in life that it had, “Never occurred to me, but it sure makes sense now.” How could that be? Well, it can be. That’s enough. It just is. That’s their truth. Not mine. We each get to carry our own truth.

This all happened many years ago, but, occasionally, I admit, I’ll still visit a “what if” moment—and just as quickly realize I had no other path to travel but the one I walked. I have a well of empathy for those who haven’t found the way to be true to themselves—and I know the price they are paying all too well. Those who deny or self-loathe or want to keep the safety and security of the trappings of their straight lives. Those who may want a 100% guarantee that if they make a leap, they won’t have regrets. Those who are ruled by fear or complacency or a misplaced understanding of fate. Those who simply say, “I can’t.” How grand life would be if there was a clear roadmap, where all detours and roadblocks and traffic jams and treacherous winding mountain roads could easily be avoided.

What I’ve come to realize is that there a world of nuance; each person’s path no more valid or worthy than another. There are women who are born lesbian, those who make a choice, those who dabble, those who identify as bisexual, those who come out late—those who live within a spectrum of subtlety. And, there are those, unfortunately, who will continue to struggle in their lives because they will never be able to find the way to break free and slip into the warm, enveloping, healing waters of that pool full of shades of grey.

How I Became A Communist

We had this teacher in 8^th grade social studies named Bob Martin at Peet Junior High School in the mid-70s. He had long, thick reddish-blonde sideburns. His hair was longish, but this was a conservative school district, so he knew where to draw the line. He was fair skinned and had a cleft in his chin and dimples. Oh, and, the world’s longest eyelashes. He chewed gum incessantly. He was what I would call now “very handsome,” despite the fact he wore a dark blue leisure suit with white stitching, turtleneck, and white shoes on occasion. He was by far the best looking person on the entire faculty, which was made up of worn out middle-aged women, a WWII vet with one arm, and a few eager new teachers who hadn’t learned they were almost always being scammed.

Martin was charged with teaching us world politics and our economic system. Some history was thrown in there too. I had a dark blue plastic cover on my spiral notebook for his class—I still have it. I wrote down everything that came out of his mouth. It was all genius. I learned about communism, socialism, totalitarianism, sexism, racism, and every other ism a little 8^th grader could absorb. We learned about treaties and why we had them and why we should perhaps not have them. We learned about the ongoing civil rights struggle and the SCLC, CORE, and the NAACP. At this point, it was the first time many of us had ever heard of these things. It was a really White place.

This was so different than any other class I took where the work was all about reading a chapter and answering questions at the end. Or memorizing dates or places. We had to think. In fact, we were graded on a curve. Not just any curve mind you, but a subjective curve with a grade 1-4. One being you read the information but clearly didn’t understand it and four being not only did you read and understand what you read, but you had an original thought or idea and expounded on it in great and glorious detail. Even if it was half-baked.

I remember how Cathy Zimmerman got so upset that he was grading that way. She was always at the top of the class in grades. She didn’t find the subjective nature of the beast to be to her advantage at all. This was not a stellar year for me so far (refer here as a reminder) grade-wise, so it was totally working for me.

The highlight of the semester was that we played a version of the United Nations. I got to be part of this made-up country that bore a resemblance in political situation to China at the time (Mao was still alive). We broke up into teams representing five major powers. We had to argue a specific point and come to a resolution. The game went on for a week. It swung wildly, this way and that – it had kidnappings, espionage, and international intrigue because there were no scripts and he didn’t really care how we got there. Being a Communist was fun! It had us dashing to the news and to the library to position our team better. In the end, the faux nations found a resolution, but it was really difficult. It taught us what the real United Nations must go through to represent each of their own country’s interests – as well as what living in a John Le Carre novel must be like.

I looked forward to returning to his class after the holiday break, but when I did, he was gone. No explanation was ever provided. He just didn’t come back. I’d heard many things – that too many parents had complained that he was a communist, that he had been too friendly with some of the students when he chaperoned a school summer trip, that he was headed to some far-flung country to teach the indigenous people. I have a feeling none of them were true.

All I know is that he was the first of my favorite teachers. He was the one who made me want to think, not just learn. And, he allowed my natural curiosity to run wild. I wonder if he knows he did had that kind of power?

Something Blue: Blue Moon

 

Here is the last installment of The Other Mother’s February blog blues cure:

 

1. Something old
2. Something new
3. Something borrowed
4. Something blue

A long time ago, I talked about my favorite era – and if I had a past life, what it might have been. I was an odd child. Just ask anyone. They’ll tell you. I loved rock’n’roll like most kids, but one day, I was digging through a bargain bin of albums at Woolworth and this record popped out at me. It was big band classics. You know: Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, Les Brown, Harry James and bands like that. I’d never heard of them, but it intrigued me in a way that made me pull out my $1.02 and buy it.

I went home and put on the headphones. I fell in love with the sound. I raced back to the bargain bin and found some Ella Fitzgerald and a full album of Glenn Miller. It was like sending me back to a place I’d never been, but knew intimately. I’d listen as I read Ellery Queen, Rex Stout, Dashiell Hammett, and Raymond Chandler.

Over the years, I spread out into Frank Sinatra, Doris Day, Rosemary Clooney, Louis Armstrong, and Duke Ellington. Then, I swayed into the blues – Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, Mahalia Jackson, Ray Charles, Etta James, and Robert Bradley.

One of my favorites was “Blue Moon.” Didn’t matter who did it. Loved it for the way it made me feel. Loved the imagery it conjured in my mind. It never made me feel blue. It’s a great song to fall in love to or to listen to after a rough day. It takes me back to where I know I would have felt comfortable and maybe fit in. I would never have imagined it, but my favorite version was done by Cybil Shepard (sizzlin’ hot) on an episode of Moonlighting, called, “The Dream Sequence Always Rings Twice.”

Blue Moon – My cure for the blues.

Something Borrowed: Bibliophile’s Catch-22

 

In the third installment of “Some thing,” the brainchild of The Other Mother, I give you a moment of clarity.

1. Something old
2. Something new
3. Something borrowed
4. Something blue

Once, I had a vast library of books.  It was my hobby and one of my many passions.  I had no children and lots and lots of time to read.  I collected specific volumes of certain genres and authors.  At any given time, I could be reading three or four books at a time.  Once, I lived in a house where there was a “library”—an extra wide hallway lined with built in bookcases.  In fact, that’s why I bought the place—having a place to put all those books after years of hauling them around from place to place in boxes was the most sensuous experience.  I probably went through about a book every day.  My favorite haunts were used bookstores.  I kept checklists of books I had, books I wanted, and authors I wanted to explore. 

I was more than happy, after vigorous discussion over a book or author with a visitor, to loan the book or books to them.  What better thing than to loan them out?   It would provide me the excitement of further discussion when next we met—and of course it was all about me. What I noticed though, is that often I wouldn’t get the books back for weeks or months, or at all.  I’d have to hunt them down.  I then imagined the book, being covered in layer after layer of dust, untouched, unread, and unreturned—languishing in someone’s bathroom magazine stand or shoved into a drawer next to their spare vibrator batteries. Damn people.  How irresponsible.   They, wondering how the hell they ended up with yet another loaned book they’d never read and me, irritated and annoyed at that blank spot on the bookshelf.   

Then, I got it—years later, as I got older and wiser—they hadn’t asked to borrow the book.  I had basically shoved it down their throat—so eager was I to have them enjoy what I enjoyed.  If they returned it, I’d surely ask how they liked it or engage in a related conversation and they’d have to admit they hadn’t read it at all.  If they didn’t return it, they’d not be able to face me knowing they still had the book.  Definitely a Catch-22, Bibliophile Edition. I then stopped loaning books. 

But, about two years ago, a friend pleaded with me to borrow my no-longer-in-print Autobiography of Elsa Gidlow:  I Come With My Songs, so I reluctantly loaned it to her.  We share a love of her Sapphic poetry.  She knew how I loved the book, so I was sure she’d return it promptly.  Weeks turned into months, months into a year, then well into the next.  One day, while shopping at Beer’s Books, I ran across a copy, despite its rarity—the solution presenting itself like a miracle—I really didn’t want to have to take her out.  I bought it and left her a message that she could keep the book—I knew how she loved it.  And, me, well I got to shove the one I bought into that lonely blank spot on the bookshelf.

Something Old: Clown Love

Robin, over at The Other Mother, had a great idea that is going to make my life a lot easier over the next few days. She’s calling it, “Some thing…”

I will be posting about:

1. Something old
2. Something new
3. Something borrowed
4. Something blue

I’m not a fan of weddings. In fact, I’m going to my first one in over 20 years this summer, followed by another. One is the wedding of a straight friend and one is my Homie G, Kim, from A World of Progress (former owner of The Peace Tree). But, I can work with this. There are no ugly bridesmaid dresses to contend with or bickering with the mother-in-law over whether they’ll be an open bar at the reception.

Old things. Besides me, I mean. I have a couple I’ve hung onto. This weekend, I had breakfast with friends and a new friend had joined us. Uncle Doreen started her new breakfast pal inquisition with, “What were your favorite childhood toys?” People who join us for breakfast either like it or never show up again. This new diner played along, much to his credit. Pretty cool guy. He told the story of his monkey and his clown and a bear. I stopped listening after monkey and clown.

I was off in my own la-la land. Oddly enough, I too had two stuffed things when I was little. One was a monkey and one was a clown. The monkey’s name was Jo-Jo. The clown name was, well, Jo-Jo. How weird is that though, someone else who had the clown love.

I always thought they were the most beautiful stuffed creatures ever. I hated clowns growing up, but this clown had a nice, friendly face. The monkey did too. They were non-threatening and had cool shoes. The monkey’s rubber hands were great to slap people with—you could always blame the monkey too, because we all know that monkeys are mischievous. I certainly never was.

One night, when I was seven, my clown disappeared. I looked everywhere and no clown. He may have joined the circus, he may have just been stuck behind the couch – I had no idea, but I was bereft. Tears and agonizing wails could be heard for hours from my little bed on the second floor. Finally, the clown appeared again – I’m guessing my mom was hoping to break me of my clown love and she just didn’t have enough aspirin or a big enough martini to listen to me any longer.

I quit my clown somewhere later that year on my own. He lived in a box for many years and ultimately, traveled with me from town to town, country to country. Today, he still resides, with his Jo-Jo pal, in my cedar chest.

No circus clown, he, this clown was a clown to contend with, a happy clown, without anxiety, fear, want, or need and he was where I found pure, unquestioning love. The kind of love that doesn’t make you spend $20,000 to have to dress up in a wedding gown and make you hire a wedding stylist.

A Girl’s Life

Few events stand out in my life that were life-changing in any significant way.  I guess that’s good.  One episode, which stretched on for years, taught me much.

A day of ice skating at the lagoon.  That’s how it all started, the end of life as I knew it.

The Exposition:  I was 11, my sister nine.  Mom took us to the lagoon at Robinson Crusoe Park to ice skate.  We had done it before, I think—it wasn’t often enough for the memory to imprint in any way, but this particular trip was burned into my mind indelibly.  We skated round and round, on that frigid Iowa day, along with 20 or 30 other skaters.  My scarf sat snugly around my neck, waving in the wind as I chugged along.  I tried not to fall on the uneven skating surface, my goofy long stocking cap perched high on my head.  My mom sat on the bench at the edge of the lagoon watching us.  Soon, she took a walk.  After a while, I followed along to see what had become of her.  She was standing by a large old oak tree, talking to a man.  She shooed me away and I went back and swirled around again on the ice, unsure of what I’d seen, but knowing it was not in the usual. 

We drove home later, the warm air from the car heater almost painful on my frozen feet even as it helped thaw them.  Arriving home to the steady safety of our little house, where warmth was found in every corner.

Building Action:  My father talking in, demanding the car keys.  My mother insisting he not leave with the only car.  My sister sitting rigidly in the corner of the couch, her arms moving instinctively over her head.  Me, with my legs pulled up to my chin in the brown recliner. 

Climax:  The keys suddenly became the prize, each of them vying with all of their might for control of the tiny, jagged piece of power, their grunts and groans unrecognizably animalistic and brutal.  The struggle became a dance of rage from one end of the house to the other—the curtains in the dining room came crashing down, chairs knocked over, lamps, trinkets, and baubles toppled.  I was barely aware of the cries—I don’t know when I realized they were not the cries of my sister, but my own.  The large floor to ceiling lamp with three large ceramic hanging shades of avocado, orange, and cream came crashing down over my chair, shattering into the million pieces of doomed relationship. The endless tinkling of ceramic got their attention.  Battle-weary, they stopped.  My father left.  It turned out to be for good this time.  Battle-scarred, we cried.

The Denouement:  A year later, the man at the oak tree became our stepfather.

Each week, it was dad’s turn to pick us up at mom’s house.  At first, he was diligent.  My sister would sit on the three-step stool in front of the window until she saw him and run excitedly out to the car.  Then, he became popular with the co-ed bar crowd–it was the free-love, swinging singles days of Hi Karate cologne and polyester.  She’d sit at the stool, looking longingly out the window and say to herself, “He’ll be the tenth car.  He’ll be the third brown car.  He’ll be the fifth brown car with a white top…”  Somewhere around, “He’ll be the tenth car,” I’d take off and go play with my friends—he wasn’t coming.  She never gave up hope he would.

On my 13^th birthday, he called, needing to share his woeful tale of having to pay $40 whole dollars in child support per month.  Insisting he had no gas for me to come see him on my birthday.  My mother drove us there.  He spent our brief time together blaming my mother for his lot in life—not realizing we could care less about whose fault it was.  No present for me.  We were in tears within minutes.  Mom turned around and came to get us.

My stepdad swooped in with his squad car that day and whisked us to the movies, lights flashing.  He gave us a pat and said he’d be there when we got done.  He was.  As he would be every day. 

I got home and found $5 in a card stuck in the mailbox simply signed, “Dad.”

Earliest Childhood Memory

When Karen at Earth2Karen hit me with this meme, I was at a loss.  First childhood memory…hmmm.  It’s not one memory, but snipettes of memory from the time I was age 4. 

We lived on Edwards Street in Waterloo, IA.  Back then, it was a poor, mostly African-American neighborhood on the North end of town.  This was never a good neighborhood—last time I went to that street, a drug deal was going down between two hard core gang members in the middle of the street in front of me–and me in my then white Dodge minivan (I know, can’t ya’ just die?).  The house was extremely small; a little box, really– one bedroom with another room that was called a bedroom, but was more like a closet.  It was the room between my parent’s bedroom and the bathroom.   My little sister was with us—and was already toddling.

Next door was a little neighborhood store—one of those places your mom would send you for a quart of milk or a loaf of bread and maybe let you keep the change to spend on penny candy.  Just like my great grandma’s little house, the store was covered in that fake brick tar shingle.  The store was called “Vern’s.”  Vern & Goldie owned the house we lived in.  On the other side of the store was an elementary school—all the kids walked by our house every day after school.  I remember my mom saying we needed to move before I started school, because I was not going to go there.  The back yard was tiny, surrounded by a short picket fence, abutting a cinder alley. 

I remember going to Vern & Goldie’s and hanging out to talk.  They loved kids and made a living from them.  I got to talk to big kids when I was there.  I’m sure the hard-earned pennies of 300 elementary school kids buying penny candy kept them open for years after the big grocery chains shut most places like theirs down.

Once, I was playing in the backyard and mom was in the house.  I decided to open the gate to the alley.  Off I wandered, exploring the entire length of the alley on our block.  In a moment, I was lost.  My mom was frantic.  My feet hurt because I was walking on cinders.  She found me and I did not venture out that way again.

I saw more than I wanted once when my dad forgot to shut the bathroom door, not knowing I was still awake.  Ew.

My father chased a bat around with a broom all over the living room, finally killing it dead.  Me, terrified it would turn me into a vampire if he didn’t.

We got our first wagon and I dragged Sistah up and down the sidewalk.  That wagon played a part in our lives for many, many years after its first appearance.

We moved soon after into their first and only co-owned home.  We’d have about six more years as a family.  I thought it a shame I didn’t remember more of the times we did live as a family, but then I think—it’s probably good I don’t.

If you’d like to participate, please do. 

Every man’s memory is his private literature.  ~Aldous Huxley

More About…Not Much

Thanks to Cris at That Side of the Moon for giving me something to write about today.

My uncle once: knocked up someone besides his wife – and it’s come back to haunt his entire family 45 years later.
Never in my life: used any drug harder than pot (a million years ago)–which according to our Governator, shouldn’t be illegal.
When I was five: I crushed on my first teacher, Mrs. Primrose – and Tina Messenbrink (T. on left).
High School was: the holding cell during a prison term that lasted way too long.
I will never forget: the moment I fell in love the first time.
I once met: Ronald Reagan – don’t be hatin’ on me.
There’s this girl I know who: looks real good looking at me looking at her.
Once, at a bar: I look at the clock, the pool table, and how many quarters are up.
By noon, I’m usually: about done for the day and could use a nap.
Last night: spent watching Sarah Sidle make a less than dramatic exit from CSI.
If I only had: more time.
Next time I go to church: the building may crumble.
Terry Schiavo: who the fuck does Jeb Bush think he is?
What worries me most: is what will happen with my daughter when I’m gone.
When I turn my head left, I see: my beautiful, 2-year-old tricolor smooth Collie, Gina.
When I turn my head right, I see: the darkness and my reflection in the window.
What I miss most about the eighties: the fact I was still traveling the world.
If I was a character in Shakespeare, I’d be: Touchstone—no, Jacques—no, Touchstone, er, Jacques—in “As You Like It.”
By this time next year: I’ll have figured out a way to make everybody in my life happy and still get what I want.
A better name for me would be: Splash, my Girl Scout counselor name – far more indicative of my playful nature (seen only by those I know very well)
I have a hard time understanding: abuse, injustice, idiocy (were I to make a joke about this, a priest, a Congressman, and George Bush would be walkin’ into a bar)
If I ever go back to school I’ll : get that master’s in museum science
You know I like you if: I talk to you for more than 10 seconds. I’ve got a little Calvin Coolidge going on. Remember the joke? Woman walks up to President Calvin Coolidge at a White House reception, and she shakes his hand—“Mr. President, I bet my husband I could get you to say three words.” Coolidge shook her hand and said, “You lose.”
If I ever won an award, the first person I’d thank would be: Al Gore, the inventor of the Internets.
Darwin, Mozart, Slim Pickens & Geraldine Ferraro: people I’d take to the beach for a little beachwalking, stone-skimming, and seashell collecting.
Take my advice, never: ride your bike with no hands and then wonder what it would be like to also close your eyes at the same time, and actually try it.
My ideal breakfast is: Mountain Dew, two eggs over medium, three slices of bacon, extra crispy hash browns, and wheat toast with apricot jam washed down with an overdose of Tricor.
A song I love, but do not own is: I don’t own any anymore, thanks to the burglar, so it’s wide open – and I need to replace several hundred of my favorites. Probably The Cure’s Love Song right now
If you visit my hometown, I suggest: doing a U-turn.
Tulips, character flaws, microchips & track stars: flashbacks to the early 80s living in Europe
Why won’t people: just do things my way?
If you spend the night at my house: plan on spending it with me if you’re cute! Oops. That was pre-Magical Samantha. Now, I’d say, “I will provide you with a very nice guest room with private bath on the main floor. Except Sela Ward or Michelle Paradise – for them, I’d make an exception.
I’d stop my wedding for: I don’t believe in weddings.
The world could do without: the twisting of religious concepts—it’s the root of all evil in the world—in the Middle East, in the US, everywhere.
I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: sleep with a man. I’m heterophobic that way.
My favorite blonde is: my mom.
Paper clips are more useful than: rubber bands.
If I do anything well, it’s: kiss.
And by the way: 46 is the best year of my life!

Mystery Solved

Just got back from Berkeley. Got some beach time, plenty of rest (well, I was horizontal a lot), and had a fabulous meal at an Ethiopian restaurant that came highly rated by a special Irish lass I’m getting to know. I am still pinching myself–she is something else! I’m primed and ready for the work week. Meet you at the gym at 5:20 tomorrow morning. Hey, hey, need those Ask the Middle-Aged Lesbian questions! Don’t have any problems? Make one up! I hope eventually to take over for Cary Tennis at Salon.com, and I need the practice.

The mystery of the great grandmother’s house (read “Do Your Ears Hang Low” here) was solved. As background, my father e-mailed me with the address of great grandma’s place and Chris of Red Hog Diary, rode his Harley up there and shot some pics. Problem was, it wasn’t the right house. I never once questioned that Chris went to the place instructed…which pointed to my dad. Mom volunteered to go because she purportedly remembered the correct address, and solve the mystery to determine that I hadn’t, in fact, lost my mind (though we all know that’s tenuous, at best). Turns out she didn’t know the address either, but took a turn down a road in the general area and said, “this is the road.” Not bad for not having been there in 40 years. It’s pretty much as remembered, though, the lot’s been carved up and there is no fake brick shingle siding anymore. Obviously, the beautiful gardens aren’t there, but it’s damn sure still the po’ side of town.

This is the house. It looks like shit, is 100 years old, and should probably be dozed over. I doubt very much the people living there now have any clue about the woman who lived there over 60 years.

The advantage of a bad memory is that one enjoys several times the same good things for the first time. ~Friedrich Nietzsche

Mr. E & The Birthday Cake

My sister and I used to tool around the neighborhood, day in and day out, visiting neighbors, playing with our friends and doing anything to extend the daylight.  We lived the sweet life.

Our older neighbors never seemed to mind our visits and non-to-subtle pleas for homemade cookies. Our rounds were predictable, and usually met with sugary success. We’d sit at kitchen tables, gobbling up whatever was offered, and I’d soak up their stories and listen to their histories.  It was all part of my plan to be the next Harriet the Spy.

My favorite old neighbor was Mr. E.   Mr. E. was married to Mrs. E.  They seemed like such a loving couple.  Married like 50 years, retired from the university, and living in a quaint little house near the park, we’d spend lots of time at their house in the summer.  Mrs. E. would always have cookies and kool-aid for us when we stopped by.  She’d sit in the chair by the window and watch Mr. E., who was usually outside working in the flower garden.  We’d float from sitting on her footstool in front of her, to the gardens outside.  Tall and thin, Mr. E.’s white thick hair was combed straight back.  He wore Ben Franklin specs that sat securely on his large, hook nose.  His clothes consisted of olive work pants, belt, and olive shirt buttoned all the way to the neck.  Atop his head, he wore a safari-style gardening hat. 

Many days, we popped over to play with the ancient, antique toys that must have seen a lot of action back in the 40s, but sat in the basement, obviously quite unloved for years and years before we discovered the treasures.  One day, while he worked intently in his garden, I stopped by with my plastic ukulele.  Instead of being annoyed at me for interrupting his work, he sat down on the steps and started plucking out, “Shine on Harvest Moon.”   They never seemed to get tired of us, I don’t know why—I was constantly peppering them with questions.  It had to be annoying.

It struck me as odd, this particular day we popped over for our cookie fix, because there were cars parked on the street in front of the house.  Mr. E. never had company and his car was always carefully housed in his one-car garage.  Mr. E. answered the door and I could see that many people were somberly walking around the house or sitting in all the available chairs.

“Mrs. E. has gone to her reward, you’ll have to come back and play another time.”  He patted us on the head and slowly closed the door.  I’d never known anyone who’d gone to their reward.  I didn’t even know what it meant, really.  So, we went home and told our mom.  She explained, and I cried.

Things went on as before after Mrs. E. died.  Mr. E’s spinster sister from Chicago moved in with him and our visits now included her.  Not nearly as warm and cuddly as Mrs. E., she still allowed us to continue our quest for cookies and kool-aid unchecked.

Time came when my parents were separated. Mom had to go back to work.  Times got tougher.  Mom’s birthday was coming up and we wanted to spoil her.  So, first thing we did is tell her to bake a cake for us.  Like she didn’t know what it was for.  We also instructed her to provide some frosting.    We decorated the cake ever-so-carefully with anything we could find—shredded coconut, raisins, some Lucky Charms, and whole, in-the-shell hickory nuts from our trees outside.

We invited all our friends—all the old neighbors.  Mr. E., Miss E., Mrs. Brinkman, and Mrs. Price–there they all sat, up in our room—four old neighbors, scrunched around this teeny, tiny kids play table on itsy, bitsy chairs.  Mom got home and we lured her upstairs as they all got up and yelled, “Surprise!”  She feigned surprise at her beautifully decorated, but mostly inedible cake.

I look back wistfully at the kindness of those neighbors, who had a sense of what was going on at our house, and at the graciousness that my mother displayed during a turbulent time.  We felt so good for giving mom a special day and for having such wonderful neighbors and such a momentarily charmed life that did not at all foreshadow what was to come.

Forget injuries, never forget kindnesses. ~ Confucius