Ramblings from another southern gay guy

Yahoo!

2012-01-27T07:38:00.000-08:00

So, on Yahoo there's this article about Iran's morality police. Not that I would ever want to live in Iran, and if you look at countries like that, you can understand why we have so new immigrants here. (Because, really, aren't most of us descended from immigrants?).

So there's this photo in the article - it could be stock, I'm not sure. But there's an Iranian police man and a guy arrested for his trendy hair and shirt.

And yes. In stereotypical fashion, I thought they were both hot.

P.S. As a disclaimer, I don't usually find men from the Middle East attractive.

Fort Knox

2012-01-24T07:19:00.000-08:00

"Do you feel like Fort Knox today?" he asked. I didn't understand what he meant. He's a gentleman a little older than me, and I forget sometimes that I'm well into my 40's. I'd say he's in his 50's. And I'd say he's lived a lot. He always has a good fishing or hunting story and seems to have covered most of this part of the country with a rod and reel in his hands.

As we talked yesterday, we realized we know a few of the same people, and that he was probably doing some contract work at some places at the same times I was working there. And now he seems fine working here in a cleaning position, as long as he can get enough hours to make ends meet. He's done a lot of labor jobs, a lot of dirty jobs, climbing through ceilings and under floors, and working for "the man."

He stopped through once or twice and borrowed a dollar, and always brought it back. But still, I didn't make the connection to the statement. "Do you feel like Fort Knox today?" He said he's poor til payday. Needed 5 bucks. I had 4. In truth, I started keeping one dollar in the drawer for him anyway.

And I thought, "How bad off you must be, if you need to borrow money from me, of all people." I'm certainly not wealthy, by any means.

But I've got plenty to eat for lunch today, my bed was warm this cold morning, and I haven't borrowed any money lately.

I think when he returns the $4, I'll just tuck it back in the drawer for the next time. Maybe even find another one to go with it.

Loving

2012-01-20T11:30:00.000-08:00

So there's this great article on Yahoo about the love story, and social unrest in Virginia surrounding an interracial couple, Mildred and Richard Loving. I'm sure the little blurb sent hundreds of people to Wikipedia and other sites to learn more about it. Rediscovered photo's bring the topic to light thanks to an HBO special about the couple.

Me, however? I'm so gay, so typical, that my first thought on seeing the pictures was, "Damn he's hot!"

Juice Newton

2012-01-18T06:24:00.000-08:00

I like to tell the story that MyFella and I met at a church meeting while "doing good works." Truth is, that's just the story I like to tell. But we count our face to face meeting as one of a couple of "anniversaries" we celebrate.

He was in town for a work related association meeting he attends regularly, and I left work early to drive out to a restaurant and meet him. The association meets every other month on the third Wednesday of the month. It was January.

Maybe it's a coincidence that I haven't opened my wallet this week until this morning and found a handwritten note. "I love you and have for years."

The sweetest thing I've ever known . . . .

Christmas Traditions

2012-01-12T15:47:00.001-08:00

Christmas Traditions

One recent trip home, just before Christmas, my mother told me a cute story. Young Ragamuffin Nephew #2 had asked his Granny, “Granny, do we have any Christmas traditions?” No doubt the topic of some discussion in his 1^st grade class that week. Granny had replied, “Yes” and she talked to him about the way we exchange gifts and have a meal together at her house, which is located less than 1 mile from his home.

Older Ragamuffin Nephew # 1 said, “You know Uncle comes and spends Christmas Eve with us since I was born so he can watch me open gifts.”

Yes, Young Ragamuffin Nephew is all of 6 years old now, but his big brother stated clearly that I come home to watch him open presents on Christmas morning.

The ritual has included a few other things, from my point of view. The year before # 1 was born, I received some rather terse phone calls from my brother and his wife, asking when I would be in town for the big family get together they were hosting in their home. But I had other plans and would be in later that evening. Come to find out I was missing the announcement that # 1 was on his way, and would be here for the next year.

And since # 1 has been old enough to hold a phone, I’ve received Christmas Eve phone calls asking when I would be there. And again, I usually had plans to see Sissy and Kitten and their family for a little while, before continuing on to my hometown. So while # 1 knew I was coming, much like Santa Claus, he just wasn’t sure when I would arrive.

And there’s always the ritual of fighting with # 1 somewhere in the middle of the night, after Santa has come, because he wants to open everything, even though he and I are the only 2 people awake. Last year I had sense enough to ask their Dad, in front of them, to give us some direction because the year prior had resulted in an almost two-person breakdown. This year I forgot, so the first go-round was 2am before Santa came, and the next was closer to 5a.m. At 5:45a.m. I told both nephews to go to their parents room and wake them up.

And that’s when the magic begins. I love the look of the lit tree in the dark room, with the lights reflecting on the shiny paper of wrapped gifts and the glossy plastic of the things Santa left. Then come the sounds of “oooooh” and “look at this!” followed by, “Daddy, open this!” and “Momma, look at this!” In a mere few minutes three pairs of adult hands are full of gifts and borrowing from each other scissors and pocket knives to hack our way through all the ties.

And then Uncle discovered his next favorite Christmas tradition – taking a Christmas morning nap.

Deer Hunting

2011-12-12T09:16:00.000-08:00

Since I did not kill the animal, and did not have to face it, and did not have to field dress it, I can't say what, if any, revelation might have come from a clean shot and a good kill. I suspect that while I enjoy eating chicken fried deer steak with wild rice*, it would be quite another situation if I'd had to "finish off" a wounded animal.

And I don't know if my stomach would of held up to field dressing one.

But I think that in the coming year, I'm going to take an opportunity to target shoot a little and get myself a little better prepared for the hunt next year.

**That's the only way my Mom ever cooked it.

A Prayer for The Big Family

2011-12-12T04:42:00.003-08:00

Lord we thank You again for the privilege that we have to assemble here again this year and this season. Lord we ask You to bless. Bless everyone that’s here, bless this family. Keep Thy hand upon them, and Lord those that are not here in the family You know the reason. Those that are sick we ask You to touch their body. God we give You the praise. We ask You to bless this food and the ones provided it. In Thy name we pray.

Amen.

Another Family's Prayer

2011-12-12T04:42:00.001-08:00

MyFella's extended family has a twice a year dinner that includes all sorts of cousins and in-laws and out-laws. One dinner is during the Christmas season, and another marks what they call "Decoration Day" at the cemetery.

I'll need to look back and see if I've ever done a posting about Decoration Day. The whole concept was quite new to me. But I digress. . . .

The dinner is always pot luck style, and many family members bring "their" dish. Such as MyFella's mother brings a bowl of green beans cooked in her particular style. One aunt of his makes homemade, hand breaded, fried okra. (I got the last of it this year, and no, I did not feel a bit guilty.) MyFella does this odd thing where he tries to prepare an entire meal himself - this year he took a dessert, a pork loin roasted with potatoes and carrots, and a pot of home made chicken and dumplings. Which is aside from the big roasting pan full of cornbread dressing that he indulged me in making just because I wanted to try and make it, and not including the big thing of corn he had intended to cook but forgot.

The event takes place in a community center building rented for the night, and all sorts of relatives are there, young and old, big and small. And it all begins with a prayer.

I thought the occasion deserved remembering the words. . .

P.S. I will not post this until after Christmas, because I intend to come up with a printed and framed version of this for MyFella as a stocking stuffer.

21

2011-12-12T04:41:00.001-08:00

It was maybe about 6:30 to 7a.m. when he looked at his iPhone and said, "It's 21 degrees." And I believed every degree of it. We were sitting in a tent in a cornfield somewhere in Tennessee. I believe I could have, eventually, found my way out of there, but I could not find my way back in without a guide.

My guide was my almost-brother-in-law. Married to MyFella's youngest sister and sibling, he had offered to take me deer hunting. I'm not entirely sure that I had not been almost blatant in my hinting. It would have been simpler to ask outright rather than keep hinting around.

I'm not really sure why I wanted to go hunting. Sometime during the day I confessed to him that I had not been hunting since probably 8th grade, if that. And I'm well into my 40's now. It's been a long time since I've held a rifle or a shot gun. It's been a long time since I've pulled a trigger.

Early morning had found me struggling into layers of clothes including a new set of long johns*, a borrowed pair of insulated camo overalls, and layers of jeans, t-shirts and sweatshirts. If I remembered anything from the hunt, it's the feeling of being cold. I discovered that I can not wear 3 pairs of socks and put on my boots, and I discovered that I'm too fat to add the bundling and then try to bend over and pull on my boots. Once on, they would not come off until I was back home.

I think that just for the experience he insisted on driving the Rhino to the walk-in site. Since the entire way was paved, I don't see why we couldn't take the truck. But I suppose there's no point in delaying the inevitable cold.

Safely hidden in the tent, we took turns with the binoculars. We stretched a little. We looked here and there. He told me not to shoot anything in a particular direction because that's where the prize cows reside, and at $2,500 a head, we didn't want to kill them. I watched the tree line. And I marveled at how-not-too-brutal cold I was - the layers were mostly working. Only a slight chill set in. I was grateful for the little hand warmers he had given me.

I told myself to practice moving in the bundle, so I could be smooth if we saw any. Practice holding the gun. I knew my weakness was years of not doing this. But it seemed a little cheesy to do in front of him.

I thanked him for giving up a Sunday morning for me, and he told me that he believed it was all God's house, and he was OK with it.

And there they were. Three of them. I didn't see them come out of the tree line, but suddenly they were there. He directed me to slowly move into position and put the gun in my hand. I tried to steady myself, to line up the shot. I took it.

I missed.

I was never a marksman or a sharp shooter as my father's son. But there was a time when I was somewhat trained. And back then, I knew when I had missed a shot, and I knew I missed that one. He held out some hope and we looked for blood and looked in the adjoining woods for a wounded animal. But there was none.

But I took the shot.

Somewhere just after the dark, in the dawn, I became a deer hunter.

__________________

*I liked the long johns. It had a distinctly Hillbilly feel wearing them. All that was missing from the show was the back door flap.

Just Like Us!

2011-12-02T06:18:00.001-08:00

Last night I went to a local movie house with friends to watch a fundraiser event of "Make the Yuletide Gay." You would instantly recognize a couple of the cameo performances and a few others you would sit there a few minutes thinking, "WHO is that?" until the person next to you whisper-screams, "OHMYGODTHAT'SSOANDSO!"

The movie was a bit predictable, and adorable, and cute and has some bad acting, some over the top acting, and some really funny acting. Plus it has the obligatory happy-Christmas-ending we were expecting. In short, I loved it.

The interesting thing about me watching indy-gay movies (don't they all look pretty much like they were recorded with a really good home system?) is that I always sit there and imagine me and MyFella in the roles.

Yes, I know I would probably have been more Nathan than Gun. Not that I don't think I'm more like Gun than Nathan, but with MyFella and myself I'm more Nathan. But in real life, I'm definitely more Gun ~ at least in how I try to act when I go home to my parents.

But I digress. I sit there and I think with such a smile on my face how much I enjoy my relationship with MyFella. And I like occasionally to see a portrayal of a 2-guys relationship and think, "THAT'S just like us! JUST like!"

( ! )

2011-12-02T06:16:00.000-08:00

and then this morning I realized that I work with a place that has air. The mechanic asked me to wait until the boss is not around, but he'll help me then.

I guess when you're dealing with vehicles that have over half a dozen tires and cost close to half a million dollars, it's not your average gas station air tank.

- Later ~ Yeah, the wand is like 3 feet long and one part comes off and back on, and the on/off switch is a big lever on the wall. I would never have figured it out without his help.

( ! )

2011-12-01T06:17:00.000-08:00

The dreaded air pressure symbol came on my car dash this morning. I hate that symbol, and sometimes when it comes on it catches my attention and won't release it. When the weather changes, it alway seems to come on, and I tell myself to go get that stuff put in my tires, the gas instead of compressed air, that isn't supposed to fluctuate. I hate seeing the symbol, and I hate gathering up quarters, and I hate messing with an air tank thing at a gas station.

And this morning, I literally had the thought, "Oh, it's Thursday. I'll just ride it like this til tomorrow because MyFella is coming to town and he'll fix it for me."

Because, well, I'm like that. I'm not proud of it, but I admit it.

Christmas Day Outfit

2011-11-28T13:05:00.001-08:00

I think I've found my outfit for Christmas Day.

Russia lashes out at U.S.

2011-11-23T07:48:00.000-08:00

is the Yahoo headline, and all I could think was, "I would so marry Medvedev."

And speaking of Yahoo headlines, did you see that hottie coach whose wife changed those grades? I would be very good to that man.

Honey Buns

2011-11-17T14:40:00.000-08:00

My brother just posted pictures on his FB of him with my nephews deer hunting. One caption reads, "Probably not a deer within 10 miles but he's happy." All dressed in camo and orange. In one picture I can see the ladder to a deer stand.

And I couldn't help but smile.

I can remember Dad taking us deer hunting. It was completely wasted on me. I think that, as an adult, I could and would enjoy it more now than I ever did as a kid. As a kid, it was cold (or one trip it was unusually warm and mosquito filled) and dark, and I didn't care much for it at all. What I can remember most is my Dad once lit a fire and heated store bought honey buns over the fire for us. Though I can't remember how he heated them, I'm sure he did.

As an adult, I realize that the smoke from the fire probably made sure there wasn't a deer within 10 miles, and certainly not a one going to come near the smell of smoke.

It's odd the things that I think I would enjoy as an adult for which I cared not so much as a child - deer hunting being just one of them. And now my Dad doesn't participate in them anymore.

So I'm glad my brother has 2 sons that are beaming from ear to ear to be with him while deer hunting.

"It's the most wonderful time of the year. . . "

2011-11-14T20:26:00.000-08:00

The back story is I recently moved. I moved into a house in a residential neighborhood and am roommating with a good friend of mine.

So last night I'm at home, the kitchen window is up, and I've just settled down to watch some Hulu when I hear someone out in the yard tromping through the leaves. I get up and go to the window, and the neighbor is stringing Christmas lights on a fence in the portion of her yard that comes near ours.

I've spoken to her across the fence once, so I went outside to say hi and ask about the neighborhood's lights. She tells me that there have been times when the neighborhood lights were so nice that people drove through. Some neighbors are still young enough to put things on their houses and even their roof. Some who are a little older may be doing just yard lights now. But that the spirit of Christmas is still alive in the neighborhood.

Then she tells me about her lights and kind of floors me.

She tells me that G-d woke her up and told her to come out and string the lights on the fence, because He knows that once she gets started, she'll finish the project.

She tells me how the Cross she has strung up is done in red lights, with an extra strand that comes down and pools on the ground symbolizes the blood flowing out of Jesus on the cross and turning into our salvation. That's why that strand alternates between red and white.

Then she points to a tree and tells me she puts lights around it in a circle that goes up the tree and symbolizes "the whole world" and the tree of life.

And she tells me that even candy canes are religious because He tells us "even in our old age."

She further tells me that she believes people leaving Him out of Christmas is the reason "for all those storms and things."

Ooh. It was interesting. Not in an overzealous kind of way. But definitely in an enlightening way. And in a "funny to tell friends later kind of way."

So anyway I talked to my roommate and he has Christmas lights and outside Christmas decorations. He has lived in a house, unlike me whose only been in apartments for years. So I feel confident that we'll be able to fit into the neighborhood for the holiday season.

"Come out, come out, whereever you are. . ."

2011-10-10T20:50:00.000-07:00

So today, after the funeral of a very good friend, I was standing with two people who (whom?) I have loved dearly for a very long time. One of them I still see regularly and communicate with often. The other, I only see maybe once or twice a year in social settings, and always feel like "We're still friends." And then regret that we don't see each other more often.

So something got us to telling stories, and I was telling one that she had heard before, but was still quite funny, and he had not. And I was doing that "gay thing" in my head where I'm trying to plan each sentence and make the pronouns non-gender-specific so that I'm not lieing, but I'm not using "he."

And then I told myself to stop it. I looked at Sissy, then looked at Ro and said, "This story will be a lot more funny if I use the right pronouns." Then I took Ro's hands and held it while I told a hugely funny story from my . . . more rambunctious days. . . with a gentleman we'll call Parker.

And by using Parker's name and the gender correct pronouns, I went ahead and came out to a friend I've had since 1980 something. Now, he didn't gasp in surprise or say, "I always wondered" or "I always knew." He never flinched while holding my hand. He did, however, laugh to the point of crying with this true life story.

I've wanted him to know for quite a while. I'm not even sure why, no more than I see him. But it seemed important that he know. And now he does.

And he also knows I was once a slut who slept with someone just because they had electricity, and air conditioning, when I did not.

Kirstie,

2011-10-02T15:19:00.000-07:00

I have so missed you. It rocks to have you back.

Kurt Hummel

2011-10-02T15:17:00.000-07:00

For my birthday, MyFella totally surprised me with tickets to see Wicked. Bought, paid for, done. Just got to wait a month. I was in shock. I felt inside completely like Kurt Hummel.

Melody Pond

2011-09-11T13:50:00.000-07:00

I wish I could tell you that you'll be loved, and safe and cared for and protected. But

This isn't the time for lies.
What you are going to be, Melody, is very, very brave.
But not as brave as they'll have to be.
Because there's someone coming.
I don't know where he is, or what he's doing
But trust me, he's on his way.
There's the man whose never going to let us down.
And not even an army can get in the way.
He's the last of his kind.
He looks young, but he's lived for hundreds and hundreds of years.
And where ever they take you, Melody
However scared you are, I promise you,
You won't ever be alone.
Because this man is your father.
He has a name, but the people of our world know him better
as The Last Centurion.

"Almost like old times."

2011-08-28T14:07:00.001-07:00

"It was good to see you out last night. Almost like old times" her text said.

If by "almost like old times" she meant me spending $20 in one dollar bills on tipping drag queens and eyeing the shirtless guys like hunks of meat in front of a wolf, then yes, almost like old times.

And I'd had that same thought as the night went on.

It was a birthday party for a friend, a beautiful young lady who has matured quite nicely from a skinny, irreverent, wild, unsettled child-woman into a curvacious, irreverent, wild, one-woman-woman. The past few years have been good to her, filling out both her body and her relationship, but unable to take the "it's my birthday, let's party" attitude away.

They chose a fairly new gay nightclub in town to which I had not been before. MyFella and I discussed it, as we had planned on having Jamie with us, and decided that since the couple came to my big 40th 2 years ago, one of us should go to hers. Or as he put it the next morning, "I said 'One of us' and you certainly volunteered."

Why, yes. Yes, I did.

I put on clothes that I thought made me look good. I was pleased when the cashier gave me back ones to use. And I marveled at my good luck to being going on a night for not just a drag show, but a pageant. A true pageant on the gay pageant circuit. Beautiful drag queens from all over the South, as far away as Dallas. And that's a fair drive from here. Heck, as big as Texas is, that's a fair drive from anywhere.

Drag queens in costume changes, or rip-off skirts revealing under-skirts that completely change the look of the costume, big wigs, short wigs, colored wigs. One drag queen sang live, not just lip syncing, very well from Indi Arie.

And then here was the birthday party complete with body shots and dirty dancing. And at least one shirtless (not as cute as he thought he was, but cute just the same) guy in the crowd.

Yes, it was a fantastic two hours. I admit it. I love a gay bar. I love a gay environment and a gay atmosphere. I love gay guys and gay girls and dance music and mixed drinks and drag queens.

And I love friends hosting birthday parties. I just wonder if I have to worry about any of me showing up on Facebook later today.

Demons Run

2011-08-25T17:54:00.000-07:00

"Demons run when a good man goes to war.
Night will fall and drown the sun when a good man goes to war.
Friendship dies and true love lies,night will fall and the dark will rise
when a good man goes to war.

Demons run but count the cost.
The battle's won but the child is lost."

~ River Song

Gay Again, Gay Again. . .

2011-08-24T05:04:00.001-07:00

Last night I went out to meet a friend for dinner. Near leaving, he asked if I would mind meeting two of his friends at a trendy little place I hadn't been to in years. It seemed like a good idea to me, and since he and I aren't especially close, I thought meeting his friends would definitely help with the conversation flow, plus give me a little insight into him.

The whole evening, the entire experience, turned into the funnest little mind-cation for me. An hour and a half of the experiences of the more carefree gays with foppish talk and cold drinks in pretty colors with the taste of vodka.

I told myself in my head, "Enjoy this." It was just a little bit of time, with talk and pictures of ex's and ex's currents, and words like "drama" and "tragic" and "girl." Funny how the passage of time hasn't changed the vocabulary of younger gays on a night out.

My cosmopolitans were over priced. My food was delicious. The two guys I met were darling. And my friend, . . . turns out he's a real person with real life stuff going on.

Now, for the next time out, I just need to find my "dressy" flip flops.

The Hitchhiker

2011-08-19T21:58:00.001-07:00

So today on my lunch break, I picked up a hitch hiker.

I had taken my lunch to work, but didn't have any utensils with which to eat it, and was getting too hungry. Decided to just go ahead and go buy some fast food instead of microwaving a frozen meal without utensils.

I'm not a half a mile down the road when I come up on this guy walking down the road with a backpack and a rolling duffel bag. It seemed odd, out of place, on this stretch of road that's really sort of an industrial park. And honestly, yes, he was cute. Looked to be about 21, and he looked clean. And I just couldn't imagine why a guy was walking on that stretch of road with a backpack and a rolling duffel bag. He looked like he was struggling with it all.

So I turned around and rolled down my window, "Where are you going?" He said, "The interstate." The interstate is probably not 100 feet from the fast food place to which I was headed, so I told him to get in.

And on the way I asked him where he was headed and he said, "To the Rocky Mountains." So he really was hitch hiking. I asked where he was coming from and he said - - - - - - get this now - - - - - - the town we were in!

So I picked up a hitch hiker who was still in his hometown.

I asked him what kind of people usually pick up hitch hikers (except for guys in four door red Sedans) and he said, "They say people who hitch hiked in their past and truckers."

Then he said it was his first time to hitchhike.

So do you get what I'm telling you? This kid was on his very first hitchhike across country to the Rocky Mountains. And I was the first guy to pick him up, while he was still in his hometown.

So I took him to the interstate and he got out and I wished him luck. I hope his early start on getting picked up is a good omen for the rest of his trip.

Niece

2011-07-20T13:59:00.000-07:00

So about a week ago, I was invited to the birthday dinner of my niece, who is going into the sixth grade. “Neice” is someone I adore, and have been close friends with her mother since about ’95.

Today I was having lunch, a rare treat, with her mother, who said, “Niece asked me if you knew that she knew that you’re gay. I told her I wasn’t sure, but she could talk to you about it the next time she sees you.”

Jump back a week to her birthday dinner when I took a look at her hair and said, “Niece. Have you been swimming?” and of course she’s been swimming all summer. And I had to tell her, “You are not a little white girl. You have to take care of your hair. You need to wear a swim cap and put some conditioner on your hair. I know them little white girls don’t, but you need to.”

Jump back to today. Her mother tells me, “She said “He doesn’t act gay until he says, “Girl, you need to do something with your hair!””

As I dropped the Mom back off at her work place for lunch, she said, “I’ll tell Niece that you know she knows you’re gay.” I retorted, “Tell her I’m more worried about whether or not she’s put conditioner in her hair!”

It’s entirely possible I’ve been put on this earth just to help little black girls know they need to condition their hair different than little white girls.

Iris

2011-07-06T15:47:00.000-07:00

Songs have a universal power to evoke feelings and memories. And sometimes, the oddest memories can finally turn fun, in such a sarcastic way.

Let's call him Tony, just for the purpose of this blog. A friend called me and suggested I meet him, and we did, and seemed to hit it off. A few dates and he even came to my home in my little hometown. I remember once taking him to my Mamaw's house.

I remember going one night after work to the great metropolitan city to see the duplex into which he was moving. Turns out it's about 2 miles from where I live now, and I sometimes see it from the parking lot of a store, and it evokes a quirky memory.

At the time I collected light houses, and he gave me as a gift a beautiful resin light house. And one night he got a beep from work (supposedly) as he was an airline attendant. He drove off, and I never saw him again.

It was an odd passage of time, like 4, 6 or 8 weeks later that a letter came in the mail, delivered in some prepaid envelope marked "over night." The irony of waiting to weeks to send a letter "over night" was not lost on me. He told me he had taken a job in Alaska.

Alaska? I didn't really buy it. And it didn't matter. No return address. No response to any of my calls.

Some years later the friend who introduced us told me that she had run into him on a flight. He had never moved to Alaska. Oh, the shock.

Somewhere in storage is the first card he gave me, that last letter he sent, and the light house. I would throw it all away if it weren't for the trouble it would take to find it.

Alaska. . . geeze.

Biscuis: The Remake

2011-06-26T17:13:00.001-07:00

For a while now, MyFella has been encouraging me to broaden my cooking skills away from the two items I have successfully learned how to make: biscuits (taught to me by my Aunt B) and pound cakes (made from my great grandmother's recipe). And at the same time, he's encouraged me to learn how to make biscuits like his father does (a man now 77 who can make biscuits as easily as I can turn on the telly).

So I've watched him a couple of times, and his technique is quite different than my aunt's. He starts with the same ingredients in a similar way (flour, milk and oil) and the mixing process is almost identical, except he uses way more milk than I do. Way more.

After that though, the techniques diverge completely. But I've watched him twice now and thought I could tackle it.

This morning MyFella's niece (who learned from him) supervised while I made them, and I'm quite proud of our biscuits. The best thing is when someone said, "They taste like biscuits." That's what I'm trying to do.

MyFella suggests I use the two techniques to find my own way. Either way, they taste like biscuits. And I like it.

A prayer for Amber

2011-06-26T08:44:00.000-07:00

Oh, Amber. I will remember you all the days of my life; whether they be numbered one or one hundred or ten thousand. I will remember the way your family sang you into Heaven. I will remember. I will remember the sound of your mother's voice reading from the bible and the sound of your sister's voice as she prayed. I will remember the smile of peace and contentment on the reverend's face as she clapped. I will remember the day you first came in the store and left your resume. I will remember the bright and shining you on the day of your interview. I will remember you coming back from lunch breaks saying, "It's hot!" and us telling you it wasn't even hot yet. I will remember you saying you had to get a new weave. And hitting your head and the whole piece moving from side to side. I will remember the way you dealt with that super annoying lady and never let her under your skin. I will remember me telling you that you must have sinned over the weekend, because that lady had to have been penance, and you should consider your coworkers the next time you went to do whatever it was you did that caused her. I will remember the way you sqeualed over that young, dark, black man in his military uniform. Oh how you giggled over him. I will remember how you asked me in front of him if you could discount his accessory, and I thought, "Well, you asked me in front of him, so I guess so." And then when he left you squealed and I figured it out. I will remember the way you loved that new phone of yours, and played with it the way a child plays with a new toy on their birthday. I will remember you talking about your sister coming to visit and bringing your cousin for the summer. You sounded so excited to see them. And telling us that, as hot as it is, you bet your sister never left the house. I will remember CJ telling me that you got tired of listening to me complain about the vacuum's cord being so short so you brought me an extension cord. I will remember the sound of your voice and the smile on your face.

I will remember you, whether I am given one day or one hundred or ten thousand. I will remember you, Amber.

Father's Day

2011-06-21T08:11:00.000-07:00

and in honor of Father's Day, this is the meal blessing my Dad uses for family gatherings and holiday meals.

Our Gracious Heavenly Father, Once again we thank you for this day and for our many blessings and this food before us. Pray that you continue to be with us and bless us in each and every way. Amen

Let Us Pray

2011-06-21T08:00:00.000-07:00

For several years, I was a member of a Rotary club in a Southern state. One of the members, a founding member, became over time sort of the unofficial every meeting prayer guy.

The words below are a typical prayer at Rotary as spoken by him.I found myself able to visit the club again this past week, and purposely moved closer to him so I could record it. His prayers are such a part of the Rotary, that I didn't want to miss a chance to get it, to record it, to keep it. The reading of it doesn't quite do it justice. It's best heard, with his tone of voice and inflections. My favorite part is always "touching us with thy divine finger of love." Spoken, it lasted two minutes this week. They vary some from week to week, but the themes are always similar. ~

Let us pray

Our Father in Heaven, we come before Thy throne of grace this Wednesday morning thanking You for life and thanking You for another day. We thank You for watching over us last night while we slept and slumbered, touching us with Thy divine finger of love and enabling us to get up and witness the light of another day. We thank You for life, health and strength. Thank You for the food you placed on the tables before us for the nourishment of our bodies and we thank You, Master, for the hands that prepared the same.

And as we come we pray that You will be with us throughout this day, guiding us and directing us in the way that You would have us to go.
Watch over us we pray Thee as we go about our daily tasks. Take care of us we ask in Thy name.

We pray for our nation, state and county in which we live. We ask the blessings upon the leaders thereof. Help them to look to Thee, from whence cometh all the help ,we pray in Thy name. We pray for our club, we pray for its officers. Endow them with the knowledge and wisdom to lead and direct in such manner as Thou would be pleased. Have mercy upon us, we humbly ask Thee.

Our Father, we pray for our young men and women defending this great nation around the world. Bless the families and loved ones who they left behind. Bless those who are bereaved. Strengthen and comfort them, we humbly ask Thee. And help them to look to Thee from whence cometh all the help, we pray in Thy name. We pray for the sick, shut in and those who are in need of Thee. Just touch them in Your own special way, as only Y
ou can.
Be with us, Father, we pray. Take care of us we ask. Oh Lord, this is my prayer. In the name of Thy Son we pray.

Amen

June 9, 2011: Inheritance

2011-06-21T07:59:00.003-07:00

My Mamaw is 86 years old. And it’s been an exciting 86 years, not the least of which involved meeting me some 20 something years ago. I was somewhere around 14, 15 when I met her. The grandmother of a friend of mine, who has become “sister to my heart”*, I was instantly taken by her. Now in my 40’s, she has been a constant source of love and support in my life. And I hope that I’ve been the same to her.

As the years marched by, more things have taken place than could be put in one blog. Including a fun, on-going competition among her grandchildren to get her to admit “I’m your favorite.”

On a visit to her home two weeks ago, she gave me my inheritance. She didn’t really know it, and I didn’t expect it. But there it was, more precious than gold and jewels. One of her sons called her, and while talking with him she said, “He came to visit me. He’s my adopted grandson. The first time he met me, he called me Grandmaw. I love that boy.”

* phrase loosely borrowed from the Valdemor series by Mercedes Lackey

June 5, 2011: Yellow Meat Watermelon

2011-06-21T07:59:00.001-07:00

When I was a kid, one of the rites of Summer was our yearly visit to Daddy’s great uncle and great aunt in Pope, Mississippi. Siblings of his paternal grandfather, they had, as I remember it, lived most of their lives in, around and near the very land they lived on at the time. A married brother, and just down the road, his widowed sister. My great grandfather had long since passed, but these very tangible connections to him were enchanting and mesmerizing.

Aunt Hattie lived in a newly built brick home. She would cook lunch on the day we came, and my memory recalls my Dad relishing her cooking the way I now relish the cooking of my Mom and Aunt B. I recall she owned some type of sette couch that was antique. I think she said it had been used in a psychiatrist’s office. It had been stuffed with horse hair before she had to have it redone.

Uncle Homer and his wife lived just down the road in a much older home. I imagine they had raised children in that home. Though I knew none of them, and can’t recall ever meeting any of their descendants. Sometimes I wonder about these people that I assume exist somewhere.

Uncle Homer drove an old pick-up truck, and seemed to be “really old” to me at the time. Looking back, I can’t quite determine what his actual age may have been. But he was healthy enough to plant a garden that to me seemed huge.

And he planted the most magical, the most wonderful, the most incredible thing of all . . . Yellow meat watermelons. Uncle Homer would pick a yellow meat watermelon right off the vine and cut it open right on the tailgate of his old truck. The way I remember it, he used his pocket knife to cut the meat out of it. It was delicious beyond anything I’d tasted, and in my mind it was exotic. Who had ever heard of a yellow meat watermelon? Suddenly red watermelons seemed so normal, so average, so “everybody.”

And never since those relatives passed on and I grew up have I seen a yellow meat watermelon. Until today. MyFella picked one up this morning from his uncle, who makes regular runs to somewhere or another and brings back lots of fruits and vegetables to sell. This weekend, he had yellow meat watermelons. MyFella knows I’m looking forward to eating the yellow right out of it. But he doesn’t know why. And that’s OK, too. I know that childhood is childhood and adulthood is adulthood. And I know it won’t taste the way my memory tells me it tasted. But I’m still looking forward to cutting it open and eating it right out of the rind.

Kathy Mattea, 2

2011-05-17T13:12:00.000-07:00

and just for the record, his FB post from that night, approximately that time, reads, "can you say awkward situation. I am going to need a couple margaritas."

Kathy Mattea

2011-05-17T13:04:00.000-07:00

I find that songs sometimes pop in my head after a life event, or non event. Sometimes it's funny, or not, but always something that seems like it's similar to the situation. Maybe it's from a musical, maybe it's from a favorite c.d., or maybe it will be one line of script from a show or movie that will haunt me until I track it down on imdb.com

In the case of the guy I saw a few nights ago, it's a Kathy Mattea song. The lyrics have been a gentle hum in the back of my mind, reminding me just how much I love MyFella. It's like Kathy herself is whispering to me. Though she's got the story a wee bit wrong. He didn't leave "before I had the chance to let him know." More like we broke up - again. And I certainly haven't sat around wondering him about him like the writer of this song. The part that resonates with me is near the ending. "I saw the one I used to love when I went out today. I said hello,I met his wife, then I was on my way. It may be luck, it may be fate. It may be God's design. I only know it's no mistake that I'm yours and you are mine."

I think Kathy and I could be friends, if only she knew me. In the meantime, I'll take the song. Here's the lyrics to the song:

There was someone I used to love
A long, long time ago
He found someone before I had
The chance to let him know

And every time I tried to get
My heart to close that door
I'd only think about what could have been
And only love him more

I told a friend how sad I was
The fate was so unfair
This perfect love that could have never been
My heart would never share

Not till summer came and went
Did her advice rig true
When I found out my heart was meant
To fall in love with you

We never know what could have been
But looking back we see
What could have been and never
Was never meant to be

I saw the one I used to love
When I went out today
I said hello, I met his wife
Then I was on my way

It may be luck, it may be fate
It may be God's design
I only know it's no mistake
I'm yours and you are mine

We never know what could have been
But looking back we see
What could have been but never was
Was never meant to be

Hauling Hay

2011-05-14T10:44:00.001-07:00

Hauling Hay

It seems appropriate to tell you about the experience of hauling hay, since it is the foundation of my 2 year long campaign to own my own horse.

As you know, his family’s rule was “If you own a horse, then you help to haul hay.” Hauling hay was an annual event, kind of late in the summer, when the hay was gathered (bought with sweat) and moved by flatbed trailer to their home and barn. Enough would be gathered to see them through the coming year.

Up until recently, it involved going to a cousin's farm land and assisting him in baling his hay to sell. In exchange, the family got all they needed for their horses.

When the date was set, everyone with a horse was told, and they showed up prepared to watch as an older relative drives a tractor with big rakes that fluffed already cut grass (that's really all hay is, certain strains of grass allowed to grow long). Then another relative drives another tractor that has a hay baler attached to it. This ancient device is fascinating to me. It works entirely on simple mechanics driven by a shaft attached to the tractor. It sucks hay up, pushes and packs it into a rectangle, wraps baling twine around it, then spits it out the other end. It has a rhythmic sound, keeping a beat and going smooth and strong. If the timing gets off, any one within ear shot can tell in a second.

And then comes a truck pulling a flat bed trailer with a bunch of relatives walking along behind the truck, grabbing the hay bales and tossing them onto the flatbed, on which other relatives are standing and stacking the hay bales. Done this way, it takes a whole bunch of relatives, but is much more economical than buying it. Hence the "all relatives that own a horse" rule.

I've partaken in this ritual twice. Once I lucked out and got to drive the truck. I was given the choice of tasks by MyFella’s brother, and not owning a horse, I didn't see the need to do manual labor. The second time, we were called on short notice and the "all" part didn't show up. I ended up teaching a 10 year old girl how to drive her father’s truck and I was one walking behind the truck, picking up hay bales and tossing them on the flatbed. I don't think I was as upset as MyFella feared I was, but I was extremely annoyed at the absence of the "all." But I believe I was fed a steak dinner that night at a restaurant that sits overlooking the Tennessee River with plate glass windows. It's a beautiful sight, and nothing makes me happy like a good meal.

I should admit that I feared grabbing a hay bale with a snake wrapped up in it. I’m not sure if his brother had warned me of such a thing to be safe, or just to scare the city boy. Either way, my eyes scanned each bale before grabbing it.

Add in Southern humidity, 100 degree heat, long sleeved clothes to keep from scratching yourselves with the hay and being eaten up by chiggers, and you’ve got the experience where the closest thing to relief comes in the form of an ice chest that some relative remembered to stock before the task begins. That, my friends, is “hauling hay.”
*Early on in our relationship, long before I had been to his home or ridden on a horse, MyFella cancelled (last minute) a weekend date with me to haul hay. I was none too happy about it, and called the one person in the world I knew who had a horse, and told her I needed her to talk me down. I explained the whole situation, and she said, "Hay is expensive. Let this one go." So I did.

Favorite Customer

2011-05-14T09:16:00.000-07:00

I'm having trouble deciding which customer this week was my favorite.

Was it the girl in her summery, flowing dress that smelled of moth balls?

Was it the guy whose breath smelled and wanted to argue with me about changes on his bill, when he had made them after his last billing date?

Was it the guy who just couldn't grasp that the contract goes to each line, and kind of kept repeating himself over and over?

Or maybe the old lady who gave us a phone that had been chewed on by her dogs, and still had dog slobber?

No. I'm going with the girl that walked in wearing white athletic socks and no shoes. She said her feet had gotten hot in her rain boots. Now that's a winner.

"when my world was small"

2011-05-14T08:56:00.000-07:00

I knew he had returned to the area, but only through friends. It had been years since I had seen him, years since I had any contact with him, and years since I had cared for any contact. We had long ago gone our separate ways.

And then there was a FB friend request. I ignored it for the longest time. Then a mutual friend said, "When will you accept it?" And I said, "Why would I? We're not friends." She didn't understand, and some people never do. I don't go back. It's not my way. Not to high school reunions, not to old places of employment, and certainly not back to being friends with an ex. It just makes no sense to me.

I've laughed and told people, "I was a lousy boyfriend, mostly because I had never dated, so I didn't know how to be a boyfriend. He was a lousy boyfriend because, well, he was a lousy boyfriend."

And someone would say, "But you loved each other" and I would reply, "In the best way we knew how, we did." Breaking up wasn't hard to do. In fact, we did it regularly, constantly, almost like clockwork. The only thing we did better than breaking up was getting back together.

And then finally, one time, we stopped. And that was years ago.

And out of the blue, there he was last night. Maybe 5 feet away, and just as many years. Had I not known he had moved back, I might not have realized it was him without a second look. I shook his hand. I said hello. I made idle, pleasant chit chat. And then he walked away and I moved on.

Pretty much just like it happened years ago.

Bluetooth Devices

2011-05-11T08:11:00.000-07:00

I know they're supposed to be safer than talking without them and being distracted. But wearing one without being on a call just makes people look like Uhura waiting to take orders from Captain Kirk.

Hometown Anxiety

2011-05-11T06:55:00.001-07:00

I don't know why it happens. But it does. Every time.

This most recent trip to my hometown, I had plans to spend the day, spend the night, and part of the next day. And yet, 3 hours after a pleasant visit with my parents, I was aching to drive back home. I was aching to get out of town before the sun went down and the streets were dark. I was aching to make it back to the bright lights.

I actually left their house and drove probably close to twenty minutes up the highway before I stopped, turned around and went back. I have no idea why. But it happens every time.

fal-tor-pan

2011-05-11T06:48:00.000-07:00

Jamie is going to the local hospital today for a cat-scan and ultrasound. He's been telling the ladies at his skill center that he needs to go to the hospital, and Monday night he went to bed early and told MyFella that he hurt. MyFella had noticed that he seemed to be favoring his left side a little, not wanting to use his left arm as much.

So they scheduled an appointment locally with their care provider, who scheduled these tests for today. From there, we'll see if we need to go back to Vanderbilt or whatever.

As MyFella was telling me this, I couldn't help recall the scene in Star Trek: The Search for Spock, when the renewed body of Spock is returned to Vulcan. Spock's friends had done so much to find him, so much to save him. They had sabotaged one ship, stolen another, crossed space and fought with enemies to retrive their friend. They had found him, and taken him home, and near the end of the perilous journey had to climb up a mountain and ask a stranger for help. They had to ask the stranger to save their friend. Spock's father had to ask the priestess for help. And in those words belied a weakness of the father for his son, a father who was portrayed as the pillar of strength, who knew no fear, who controlled every emotion and every thought. But for his son, he would betray his own thoughts.

It's much the same way I feel about Jamie. I don't care what the procedure is, I don't care where we have to take him. I would climb Mount Seleya for him. I just want him well.

"What you seek has not been done since ages past, and then only in legend. Your request is not logical."
"Forgive me, T'Lar. My logic is uncertain where my son is concerned."

- T'Lar and Sarek, on the request of fal-tor-pan for Spock

Rusty . . .

2011-05-09T20:17:00.000-07:00

Events such as that make thoughts run through my head before I can control them, before I can count them. They're just there.

The young man sitting a row behind, the mother frustrated, the father seemingly lost in his own concerns.

I really don't know anything, from one aisle over and one row down.

But I know it made me feel. I don't know exactly how it made me feel. I think the English language fails us, fails me, sometimes. But it made me feel. And it lingers with me just a little bit even now.

Rusty

2011-05-09T20:10:00.000-07:00

He was sitting alone on a short aisle of chairs, the seats-fold-down-kind found in most auditorium type areas. He was young, but I couldn't narrow down an age. Just young in that beautiful way that people look when you, the looker, have passed into your 40's. Blonde hair and a lean body. He could have been anywhere between 16 and twenty something.

One row ahead of him and several seats over were three other people, by appearances a father, mother and adult son. This young man was also hard to define by age. His eyes didn't seem to focus on anything. Perhaps blind, or perhaps he looks at everything? His torso rocking back and forth constantly in his chair, his arms seeming to flail in the air. Perhaps to the beat of a tune only he could hear.

The father left his seat for a few minutes, and in that time I saw a moment of frustration in the mother's face. His rocking must be never ending, his arms forever in the air.

And then I noticed the jaw lines, the shape of the two noses. The young man on the aisle by himself, and the other, were brothers. There was no mistaking it.

I leaned over to my right, close to Jamie, and said the same words I've said to him many times before. "I love you so very much. You are my best friend and I love you."

Sarah Ferguson

2011-05-04T12:43:00.000-07:00

I miss the Sarah Ferguson had that pizzazz and style. And the good sense to have kept this hat off her daughter in public.

American Mustang

2011-04-17T10:11:00.000-07:00

The American Mustang

MyFella and his Dad own about 4 horses, and one of them is an American Mustang, adopted through the Bureau of Land Management’s Mustang adoption program.

It seems keenly patriotic to me to have one of these horses. Theirs, named after a sweet syrup, sired the horse that I normally ride. The stallion is large and impressive. The female I learn to ride on is slightly smaller in frame than her sire. But an impressive size to me.

His family has had a rule about owning horses: if you own one, then you are obligated to assist in "hauling hay" for the yearly purchase of hay. Up until recently, it involved going to a cousin's acreage, and assisting him in baling his hay to sell to the public. In exchange, the family got all they needed for their horses.

I write this to the point that I have argued, having hauled hay twice without owning a horse, that I was entitled to own a horse. And the one I want to own, hypothetically, is a Mustang received through the adoption program. I know, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking of Spock's statement to Stonn, "Having is not so pleasing a thing as wanting. It is not logical, but it is often true." And yet, I want an American Mustang. And more properly, I want one adopted through the program, so I know I'm doing my part to save the American breed. (Never mind they are wild, you have to break them, work with them daily, feed them, and all that other stuff.)

My arguments have been met with slight amusement by MyFella, who knows I do not live with him, and hence the task of breaking it will fall on . . . not me. And at some point we will have to pay cash money to a local trainer to break the horse for riding. So much like a child who wants a new puppy, I've been constantly told no. And honestly, probably rightfully so.

But recently, he sent me a link to an adoption date in the Fall in a state and town very near our homes. He said we can drive over on Friday and look at the horses, and if we see one we want, we can go back on Saturday with a horse trailer and bid on it in the adoption auction. Maybe we would win, maybe we wouldn't. But we have to plan in advance by submitting an application for approval, and by having a training pen that meets their specifications. He said this weekend he is going to start work on repairing their pen.

I love that man. Not because he's willing to indulge me in this, but it's a nice perk. I love him. Period.

Some day soon, I may be a horse owner. I just heard all the sequins fall off my favorite Drag gown in protest.

"What Wondrous Love Is This?

2011-04-17T09:50:00.000-07:00

www.newcenturyhymnal./pilgrim press

What wondrous love is this, Oh my soul! Oh my soul!
What wondrous love is this, Oh my soul!
What wondrous love is this! that Christ should come in bliss
to bear the heavy cross for my soul, for my soul, to
bear the heavy cross for my soul!

To God and to the Lamb, I will sing, I will sing,
to God and to the Lamb, I will sing;
To God and to the Lamb who is the great I Am,
while millions join the theme, I will sing, I will sing;
while millions join the theme, I will sing.

And when from death I'm free, I'll sing on, I'll sing on
and when from death I'm free, I'll sing on!
And when from death I'm free, I'll sing and joyful be,
and through eternity I'll sing on, I'll sing on,
and through eternity I'll sing on!

Star Trek continued. . . .

2011-03-14T07:46:00.000-07:00

One aspect of Star Trek beloved by fans is the Vulcan world and society, and most every fan loves Sarek and Amanda. Amanda Grayson was played by Jane Wyatt of "Father Knows Best" and she returned for a brief, yet wonderful part, in the feature film Star Trek: The Voyage Home.*

In Journey to Babel, Sarek and Amanda made their debut. The Vulcans, having complete mastery of their emotions, do not show them. But Sarek is married to a human. She is very much emotional.

Their affection for each other is shown in one simple way: the two fingers that touch two fingers. I've searched the internet for a picture of the couple, standing on the transporter pad, two fingers that touch two fingers. Alas, I haven't found it.

But I find it to be a truly wonderful, simple, profound display of affection.

Leonard Nimoy recalled that Mark Lenard and Jane Wyatt came to him for advice on Vulcan culture. Nimoy replied that he had come to believe Vulcans placed great importance on their hands and hand gestures, and suggested Lenard and Wyatt find a way to demonstrate that when on screen. The actors then created the finger-touching gesture seen in the episode. ("To Boldly Go...": Season 2, TOS Season 2 DVD special features) - Star Trek Wiki, Memory Alpha

*I'm still mad over the death of Amanda in the new movie time line.

Star Trek

2011-03-12T10:57:00.001-08:00

Sissy and I have a friendship that stretches back to our hometown, and is also firmly in the today and now. We share a love of many things - movie dates, a shared Mamaw, and probably most importantly - Star Trek.*

There was a time when Sissy and I were both avid readers of the Star Trek paper back novels, predominantly the original series, but also the New Generation. We would swap books, and read them, and discuss them as if we had read fine literature translated from Greek and Roman.

We share in excitement when new Star Trek things come out. To this day, I am still deeply upset because her Mother, who I know loves me, bought for her and some boyfriend Christmas presents of the newly released 1991 Hallmark ornament of the Star Trek Enterprise.

Did you read what I wrote? A boyfriend? A boyfriend? Somehow I had missed the ornament in stores, but I did not fail to miss that both Sissy and her boyfriend received one.

Completely sold out, the ornaments were, and now even used ones sell on ebay for seventy dollars. I'm not bitter. But that boyfriend was not even Kitten, our beloved husband. He's some guy that I can't even recall clearly for the thought of HIM owning what clearly should have been MINE.

But as happens so often in my blogs, the Hallmark ornament was not the original point of this writing.

I was setting up the situation of my shared love of Star Trek with Sissy, and deep regard for most anything Star Trek.**

* Most recently we have added the Harry Dresden series of books to our mutual love.

** I admit that I finally couldn't hold interest in the last seasons of DS9 or Voyager.

Church Flowers 3

2011-03-12T10:56:00.000-08:00

And this is the result of those efforts. I swear to you, I just about threw my back out with that hunk of masonry from a window. MyFella texted me a picture of the church flowers, full in bloom. I think they're beautiful, and worth the effort digging into the hard soil to release them into my Kroger bag.

I really like the idea that they came from something that is gone now. That all the flowers that were there are not lost. I couldn't save them all, just a handful. But I saved these.

Church Flowers 2

2011-03-12T10:21:00.001-08:00

During the process of tearing down the once beautiful church styled building, different people were seen driving up and walking around the building, taking away bits and pieces of this and that ~ masonry, stone, flowers, etc.

I know this, because, well, I was one of them. I put a hunk of masonry in the front seat of my poor little Nissan, and went into Walgreens one day just to purchase an over priced set of garden tools to dig up bulbs from the garden.

I admired the man who was somehow managing to chisel out big slabs of slate that were used for steps, but that was a task more than I could take on. Don't think I didn't consider it.

I would later drive out to MyFella's with my hunk of masonry and my bulbs. I walked out to a spot in the flower bed where he and I work hard to grow pretty things, and I planted them all. He suggested that I should have allowed them to dry for a season and planted them, but the deed was done. And what's done can not be undone. I plunked the masonry down near them and I hoped for the best.

Time passed. And passed some more.

Church Flowers

2011-03-12T10:04:00.000-08:00

oh, a year ago, maybe slightly more, a building on Union Avenue which housed a home office for a branch of the Presbyterian Church was sold, torn down, and replaced with the perfect blend of Protestant Christianity and Secular Fast Food, a Chick-Filet.

It was a stunning building that looked like a church from the outside. I thought it was a church, and I'm sure most people did as well.

After the announcement, the ensuing cries and lamentations could be heard all across Memphis, with the loss of the beautiful architecture, to be replaced with yet another fast food restaurant, which seems to completely populate Union Avenue.

To make matters more interesting, the Heritate Commission threw down with a brow beating on the Chick Filet people until they relented and left up one wall of the building, facing Union, and propped it up, lit it up, and turned it into a patio. It created such a horrible traffic flow that the restaurant, already destined to be popular because, well, it's Chick Filet, seems even more busy due to the way they built the drive-through to accommodate the wall.

And this wasn't the original point of today's blog, but while I appreciate that Chick Filet decided/gave in and kept the wall up, and I can appreciate the Heritate Commission's intent, really, to me, the wall just looks sad and pathetic. To me, it's not the tribute to the architecture it was intended to be.

Drive by and judge for yourself.

At the end of the street. . .

2011-03-07T19:27:00.000-08:00

I passed them this morning, at the end of their street. Three kids, with backpacks, standing in the cold, I assume waiting on the school bus to arrive. I think they're probably not like me, with the years that separated us - all that society has become. But I suppose it's possible they have similar teenage angst and issues as I did back then. I could have been more like them than I would have imagined, if I could have seen twenty plus years into the future.

For just a moment, as I continued down Biscoe Street, towards the bridge that would lead me to my destination for the day, having spent the night with my parents in my hometown, I allowed myself to . . . glimpse back? To standing at the end of my street, waiting for my bus. I can remember the kids I waited with, can't I? Or can I just remember the sensation of waiting with others, because there were always neighborhood kids. So surely I wasn't waiting on the bus alone. Surely I stood in the cold with the others. At the end of my street.

Twenty seven years, and all that comes with those years, separate me from those three teenage kids. It's an odd juxtaposition for me, seeing them at the end of their street, at the end of what was my street, with all that time between us. I guess twenty seven years and maybe 12 to 15 feet, because I usually stood on the sidewalk just to the North, in front of the brick house.

G.A.R.

2011-02-27T10:37:00.002-08:00

I saw you today, in a crowd. I glanced to my right, and it seemed there you were, one aisle over and two rows up. On second glance, it wasn't you. But then, I knew it already. He was younger than you were when we met. He was sitting next to a young man I took to be his significant other. But the shade of his hair, a grey sort of like aluminum, the shape of his head, the set of his shoulders, they all made me think of you.

For that briefest of moments, I could almost imagine myself running over behind him and hugging him, and saying, "I've been waiting to see you! I've got so much to tell you. You have to meet MyFella and Jamie. You have to hear about . . ."

But it wasn't you. I said goodbye to you, several years ago now, in Nashville.

But today, I find myself holding back tears all over again. I'm not doing so good a job of it, honestly. Between thoughts of you and the powerful music during the church service, I admit a tear came down. And another fights with me now as I write this.

What was it you said? "But I AM an old queen!" And you were my Great Aunt Ray.

Miracles

2011-02-27T10:37:00.001-08:00

"What makes a miracle? Is it the thing itself, or the one who sends it?"

Rev.C.C.

Margaret Thatcher

2011-02-23T05:48:00.001-08:00

I like a quote that is attributed to Margaret Thatcher.

"Being powerful is a lot like being a lady. If you have to tell people you are, you aren't."

I think the same goes for a lot of things one can be in life, and often am annoyed when someone goes to rather showy pretenses to prove they are what they say. Such as telling me, "I'm an artist" or "I'm a singer."

Don't get me wrong, I'm not bothered at all by people who are artists, or singers. I'm bothered by this attitude I see in some people who make it a sort of exclamation upon meeting them, and then keep finding ways to introduce it into conversation.

Or in the case of the young lady I met the other night, who seemed very pleasant in all other ways, except her determination to prove to the group, "I'm a singer."

Like when the band took a break, she had to run and ask them if she can sing a song with them. She returned, not dejected with her denial. But instead determined to sing along at the table with every song they sang after, often making comments about the original singer.

Really, honey, give it a break.

The adventure, the experience. . .

2011-01-31T13:35:00.000-08:00

I hope in the blogs below, I did a good job of capturing the experience that I shared with my friend, without encroaching on the private matter.

I've felt, many times, that there are some cultural differences between blacks and whites, and they often serve to show us how alike we are, not how different.

Much of my experience had as much to do with the Delta in the South - a place where you can still find a shanty of a house on a dirt road, with children playing in the dust up of a yard. It's the same house that has a DirecTV dish attached to the side. Somehow, the family can't afford a better home, but they have satellite t.v.

I hope my words captured some of the beauty of the service, and some of the humor, and some of the sorrow. Mississippi Highway 61 is a very long road, and this church could be anywhere along it. So I feel the family is quite anonymous in this aspect.

Should your life find you driving down an odd highway that has been there as long as the land has been called a State in the Union, keep your eyes open. There's no telling what you might see.

"Dust"

2011-01-31T13:32:00.000-08:00

a poem taken from my church's bulletin this week, by Dorianne Laux

Someone spoke to me last night,
Told me the truth. Just a few words,
But I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
Write it down, but it was late,
And I was exhausted from working
All day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavor-
Not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like a fine powder, like dust.
And I wasn't elated or frightened,
But simply rapt, aware.
That's how it is sometimes -
God comes to your window,
All bright light and black wings,
And you're just too tired to open it.

Repass

2011-01-31T13:08:00.000-08:00

The repass wasn't so new to me, as I was pretty sure it would be much like the way white people do it. The biggest difference is in the name. For white people in the South, or at least in the Delta, there is no one-word name to the event.

"There will be a meal at the church afterwards." If the deceased was a church member, it is probably held at their church. If not, then some significant family member's church may offer to host on behalf of their bereaved member. There's usually no shortage of ladies who take great pride in laying out all the food. Some of it may be gathered from relatives homes, other dishes delivered by church ladies who are on "the bereavement committee."

But, new to me, black culture has a word for the event: Repass.

In either case, this event is about LIFE, not death, where family and friends gather and share stories...they catch up with each other, they point to their significant others, they yell at their children to slow down running in the building, and they decide just what dish is worth breaking their diet.

I was one of two white Mike's, with another cousin who also chose to bring along a White Mike for the day. I think we both found it slightly humorous. His lady friend was as lovely as mine, though cut from a completely different cloth. And with a personality that would not be stopped. Formidable, strong, and hungry. I caught her at one point standing over a garbage can eating a ham hock with her fingers. I can't even tell you exactly what a hamhock is, but she had it. My lovely would laugh and tell me "She stood in line saying "I've got to have that hamhock!"

Fried chicken, chicken wings, a big pan of homemade cornbread dressing with chicken in it, baked macaroni and cheese, spaghetti, black eyed peas with pork and green beans in it, pork chops. . . just to name a few. One of the ladies working the table asked me, "Would you like anything else?" I replied, "Yes, ma'am. But I'm gonna come back after everyone else has come through." Because I had a plate full of fried chicken, dressing, black eyed peas and macaroni and cheese. I also had a saucer with yellow cake topped with caramel icing. It tasted handmade, but from a mix. And to me, that's fine too. I ate every bite and scraped up the caramel icing. *

Relatives hugged me. Me? As if I were one of them, gentlemen would hug me and thank me for coming. I suppose, for just that afternoon, I had been one of them. I had seen the beauty and mystery of their family, and briefly shared in their sorrow and their joy.

I pointed to a lady that I had determined was responsible for the preacher, and my Lovely went to speak to her about his use of the term "hooker."

"Oh," she said, "there were some hookers in the audience. He couldn't call them out, but he wanted them to know that he knew they are hookers."

We were both stunned.

She said that their aunt had asked for him specifically, and she just carried out the wishes, didn't judge them. She knew somewhat how he would be, by reputation, so she wasn't really surprised.

I told her that I wasn't surprised by the tone of the service, having grown up in the Delta, but I had been surprised by his use of the word hooker. I said, and pointed to Lovely, "She started shifting on her butt cheeks and I knew she was ticked off."

Family members were changing clothes, either close enough to home to have done it on the way, or changing for their inevitable drives home. Pictures were being taken. Women gathered at one table near the now-matriarch of the family. Men of a certain age gathered like a herd in another portion of the room. And in between groups clicked and pulled metal folding chairs and held babies . . . and went back for the hamhock. . . or in my case the real cheesecake.

It's a very natural order of life, not at all specific to blacks or whites. It's one of the things that defines us as humans, as all the same, even when we seem different. Life went on, just a few minutes later, it was all over, and life went on.

* I purposely spooned my dressing to get some of the golden brown crust. I love the crust portion, when done right. And this full of flavor, crunchy and moist. It was amazing.

Definition: Repass

2011-01-31T13:01:00.000-08:00

Repass
	Repass", or the gathering, occurs directly after the burial or burial ceremony has taken place. Sometimes held at the home of the family of the deceased, more often it is held at the deceased’s church or some other civic building if the deceased has no church affiliation. This meal allows the family time to catch up on each other’s lives. While funeral services provide the more formal rites of death, the repass “demonstrates the continuity of life even in the face of death.” Repass will be held in the basement of the church. by next1up Jul 21, 2004 share this from Urban Dictionary

Interment

2011-01-31T08:36:00.000-08:00

Somewhere in the Delta, down Mississippi Highway 61, is a little town that is trying hard to keep itself clean and up, when it looks like it has become not so much a town anymore, but perhaps a residential neighborhood. . . nothing that looks like a business, or businesses anymore. The train depot, probably constantly busy 50 years ago, is a weather worn, boarded up wooden building. I caught a glimpse of it and yearned to find the owners and beg them to let me in, to let me walk through the small building and see if I could feel the rumble of the trains and hear the voices of passengers lost since forgotten.

We made our way following car after car to a gravel road, and in the year 2011, we passed shotgun shacks. . . weathered, looking very drafty and worn. . . crooked even on their foundations . . . with DirecTV dishes attached to the side. . . tiny porches. . . a truck and two men talking . . . and on one porch, 3 children playing. They stood as we drove by in the funeral procession, smiling and waving.

The lovely next to me said what I was thinking. "Its' 2011. Those children live in shacks."

Who would have thought? It was a surreal experience, driving past them in a rental car, down a dirt and gravel road, with them playing on a porch that was probably not six feet by two feet.

A church sat in the distance, looking for all the world as if it were abandoned. A cousin walking up told her that this was her Daddy's church, where he went as a child. I saw 3 tombstones, fairly new, sitting right by the gravel road. And then we walked across mud and stepped into a path cut through dead grass that stood 6 feet tall. The tractor was parked to the side in the grass, and all around us was dead, white grass six feet tall.

Approximately 20 feet in the view opened to a farm field, and an extra swath of grass cut down for the tent and chairs. Within 10 feet of the new gravesite was wrought iron, twisted and rusted, laying on the ground, almost unidentifiable, if not for the finial tops. A tiny tombstone laying down on the grass gave the date 1916.

I could not find signs of an organized grave yard. I wondered if there were other graves hid in the tall grass. It was the most . . . forlorn . . . lonely . . . plot I have seen. Things didn't seem to match - a baby's grave from 1916 next to a new plot from 2011. . . head high grass, next to a farm pasture, living people who would have been in sight of a church that seemed dead, if they could have seen the church for the too tall weeds.

She would later tell me that there is another portion of a cemetery on another side of the church, she, too, didn't understand this separated plot.

I wanted so hard to try and take pictures to capture the emotion of the grass, the church, the gray sky, and the children playing on the shanty of a porch. But even the thought of a picture seemed intrusive. And I feel my words fail at capturing the remoteness, the out of touchness of this place. Somehow lost in the time that the Delta should have moved past.

The Service, The Eulogy

2011-01-30T21:07:00.000-08:00

I wish I could remember the names of the songs, because in a lot of worship services, the songs create the service as much as any other part. The songs lay the foundation for the energy and mood of the service. What I discovered is music is layered into every aspect of the service, with the piano player and the preacher creating some type of symbiotic relationship where his every sentence is punctuated by musical tones. I couldn't help but find myself wondering if they practice this style of oration, or if there are some set rules that the preacher speaks in rhythm and the pianist punctuates them. I was fascinating to watch and listen. The preacher smoke in a Captain Kirk like rhythm, but with more ! and piano chords struck at the right intervals. It's hard to describe, but easy to understand, I think.

The programs are printed on larger paper than for a typical white person funeral in this area, more than just the one paper folded, and detailed as well. A color photo of the deceased adorns the front, and an inside page holds a collage of photos. Aside from the normal things to which I am accustomed, such as a reading of the survivors, a eulogy, and perhaps a congregational song or a solo, the itinerary includes a few extra items. The itinerary includes an acknowledgment to every card that has been sent from the family, a scheduled time for attendee's to be able to speak about the loved one (limit yourself to 3 minutes please), a moment for words of encouragement, and the name of the program leader, a sort of mistress of ceremony.

The mistress of ceremony welcomes everyone, speaks about the homegoing service, explains her connection to the loved one through friendship with several neices, and reads all the acknowledgements. . . and is just beginning the words of encouragement when she is interrupted by one of the preachers.

"I'm going to interrupt. I don't mean to be rude, but my name is on the program, so I can do that." My beautiful one next to me shifts in her seat. He then introduces another preacher sitting in the pulpit and asks him to give the words of encouragement. *

The entire service carries this tone, one of religious fervor, mixed with sorrow and joy, through solo performances and congregational songs. The words of the first pastor, when his time to give the eulogy comes, seem heavily laced with pomp and arrogance. His words seem more about him being heard, than the loved one being heard about. His words punctuated by the piano player seem an odd mixture of song and dance to one who has never experienced this first hand, only heard about it in lore and legend when elder white people would say they "went to a black funeral."

"My Moma always told me to be the best you can be" he said. "If you're going to be a liar, be a good liar. If you're gonna be a hooker, don't be a cheap hooker."

The beauty next to me shifts again and says in barely a whisper, "Did he just say hooker in my aunt's funeral?" Yes, he did. The rest of the eulogy carried on in this grandiose fashion, with the preacher not just behind the pulpit, but "on the stage" and performing. I tried to listen to his words, hoping for some message, but found myself overwhelmed by the theatrics of it all. A gentleman two pews ahead of us stood up, turned around and yelled, "Yaw aren't going to Heaven!" and sat back down, then a minute later repeated the action.

"Yaw aren't going to Heaven!" he admonished everyone from his pew on back, as if he deemed to know us all, or perhaps because he did not know us, we couldn't be on the "A list" for Heaven. I didn't take it personally. I had, after all, wanted this very experience. I kept my eyes and ears open, trying to absorb every detail, every moment, so that I could relive it again and again. I tried to determine the rhythm of the preacher's speech, and keep count with how many bizarre statements he made, tried to notice when he actually spoke about the deceased, and watched with wide eyed wonder at the frenzy that passed across the face of a lady in the choir loft, and a distinguished looking lady one pew behind me. **

And then, as quickly as it all rose to a fevered pitch, it was over. Relatives came to the front to gather the flowers and the coffin was led down the center aisle to the waiting hearse. The congregation flowed out in an orderly fashion.

Family gathered and hugged and made the way to cars for the procession to the burial a few more miles down Mississippi Highway 61.

*In society in general, I often find it odd when people excuse their rude actions by saying they don't mean to be rude. And I am displeased with myself when I do it too.

** She was quite lovely, with "good hair" that was an exquisite shade of grey, perfectly accented by a stylish black dress and coffee with cream colored skin.

The Church

2011-01-30T19:30:00.000-08:00

The church looked line one of oh-so-many small country churches in the South. The sanctuary is a simple rectangle, with an anteroom on the front. It's often hard to tell if they were added as an after thought, or a porch that was closed in, or if they were part of the original design. But there always seems to be a main door that you enter, and then a surprise of another door into the sanctuary. They are always on a flat, concrete floor, with a raised dais at the far end for the pulpit, choir and baptismal font, which is usually so recessed and deep, it's more a bathtub than a font. I'm not good with eye balling distances, but let's say the rectangle is 100 feet deep by 50 feet wide. A center aisle with mirrored, long pews on both sides.

In this case, the side walls are lined with functional windows that will rise, covered in some type of colored film, giving an impression of stained glass where there is none. Large posters in simple frames proclaim the church's covenant and reader boards on the far back wall give the program for a standard Sunday service.

Having spent several years of my life attending a church built almost to the same specifications, one that I often thought seemed like a country church plopped in the middle of town, I am at home here, and out of place here.

The journey begins

2011-01-25T06:30:00.001-08:00

We pull up at her aunt's house in a little down in the Mississippi Delta that I'm familiar with, having grown up about 40 miles away. The police escort is waiting, cars are lined down the neighborhood, relatives in the dark blue suits and dresses are standing in the yard and coming and going out the door.

A man who is her cousin calls out her name as we get out, and she goes to him and he gives her a big, strong hug and says, "You've gotten thick."

I said, "Thick? You think this is thick?" He said, "I'll show you what I like" and calls out his wife's name. Skinny as a rail and high yellow she steps out of a crowd and waves. "I like 0 to 3." I begrudgingly later admitted to her that I like his looks, and finding out he's a fireman made him seem even a little hotter, but I'm still annoyed on her behalf by the "thick" comment.

A short visit in the house to hug the lady of the house and she spoke to an assortment of other female family members before we follow the procession down Highway 61 (of Blues music fame) to the church for the ceremony.

I'm still a little giddy about the prospect of attending a black funeral. But I'm very respectful, and I have a clean handkerchief ready. (And I'm bitter about him calling my friend "thick" even if he is a hot black man who also happens to be a fireman.)

Sorrow

2011-01-25T06:23:00.000-08:00

I held her hand. We were sitting across from each other at the Cracker Barrell. She had driven quickly from an airport two hours away to get to the Cracker Barrel in time to eat. Thankfully their weekend hours are extended by an hour.

She was upset, and I was glad that I could be there for her, glad that I was there for her, and that over the next 24 hours I would be her constant companion.

I was struck again by her beauty. The complex mix of genes and possibilities had swirled themselves together into a creation that is simply beautiful. Mixed of two races, she somehow ended up with all the best of both. Shapely legs, a lovely butt, a torso and breasts that could not have been more perfect on a sculpture, and it all rises to a beautiful smile on a beautiful face, framed by what I have often called "good hair."

And always stylish. Always. She just had to order the chicken and dumplings. And we talked, and talked and talked. She would stay with me, and we would make the drive, slightly over an hour and a half in the morning, to a family home to begin the afternoon.

I took her hand and told her solemnly, truthfully, "I am so sorry for your loss. I'm glad I can be here for you." And then I told her what we both knew, "I am so excited to be going to a Black funeral I just can't stand it!"

Black Funeral

2011-01-25T06:04:00.001-08:00

Having fought over the passenger seat or the back seat, my brother and I would be on our way to the pool for the afternoon when we would pass the church. At some point, it seemed a given that if there were cars there on a Saturday, it was a funeral.

There were a couple of things you knew about Black funerals in the South that were consistent until about 20 years ago.

- The deceased were "held" for a week. That gave relatives from far away places like Detroit and Chicago time to get here.

-The funeral would last "all day." Which could have, I suppose, been any time longer than the hour it took for most white people.

-Because of the length of the funeral program, you would occasionally see somebody out at their eating a snack. This was also true when the church held a revival.

-Funerals were always at the church, never in the so-called chapel of a funeral home. This was in direct contract the location of most white funerals in my home town, even when the deceased was a church goer.

-The energy level was rumored to be much higher in a black funeral. Whites were known to cry a bit, talk nice about the deceased, and often the preacher would try to "save" people if he were Baptist. Then it was over. Black funerals were rumored to have a lot of praise and singing and such as little Baptist boys had never experienced.

And so were the thoughts that went through my mind when I read the email from her, realizing she would travel from San Francisco to Delta in the South for the funera. "My aunt is being taken off a ventilator today. Will you go with me to the funeral?"

I wanted to be sad for her. I felt for her loss, I really did. I briefly wondered why she asked me, since she is an adult and would be within the comfort of her own family. Her fiance is a friend, but wouldn't be able to travel with her. But still, all those thoughts lasted barely 5 seconds before the exciting reality set in: I would be attending my first old school, in the Delta, Black funeral.

I called my co-worker and asked him if he would swap shifts with me, giving me the day off a week later. (Oh, but for the feel of perfect anticipation . . . they were "holding" her for a week!) A few hours later after consulting his girlfriend, he said yes. And I knew it would come to pass.

All the wondrous excitement, all the mystery, all the really good food at the family meal after, would very soon be opened up to me. All the great secrets would unfold, just like all the secrets of the history of the United States in the movie National Treasure, one by one I would know them. And afterwards, I would pile my plate high with real good food.

I could almost feel myself sitting on the genuine naugahyde seats of the 1976 Pontiac Ventura, passing by the little white church on Stringtown Road. I could feel the pinch of the vinyl and my towel over my legs on the way to the swimming pool. I could see the cars in grass surrounding the church. All those secrets would soon be shared with me.

And so, in the fullness of time, they were. . .

Sexuality

2011-01-25T06:01:00.000-08:00

There was something about these legs that confused me. The black high heels, the shapely muscle tone, the short skirt pressed over a perfect bubbly butt rising up to a beautiful body. I couldn't decide if I wanted her, or wanted to be her. I spent the day with her, constantly reminded of just how beautiful she is.

Authorized Retailer

2011-01-22T05:22:00.000-08:00

I've decided to post a few highlights of my employment at "I'm an Authorized Retailer for 'big name cell phone company."

Today's highlight is the two girls who came in the store wearing sleeper pants. They both had what looked like dirty hair, but could have just been some post 18 left over angst bad idea hair style, along with a fairly decent fragrance of cigarette smoke and attitude, which I would realize, about 24 hours was entwined with an upbringing from a white trash mom.

After a series of passing their cell phone back and forth from their Mom to me, who eventually gave her authorization, they decided on a phone, along with an attitude.

And less than 24 hours later? Brought it right back. I knew better than to deal with them.
__________________
Then there's the man who handed me go-phone, so mad that he had lost his ring tone, which he first neglected to tell me was dueling banjos. So first, I work to get it set again to the loudest volume. He's asking "How do they do that, loss a ring tone?" after telling me some relative of his had been playing with it. Really, some people just don't need to own a phone. So I hand it back to him, I've got it loud, and I call it. He steps back like I've slapped him and says, "THAT'S not my ring tone! It was dueling banjo's." OK, old man. That would have been helpful to have known. So I take another minute to find it and set the ring tone for him.

____________

Then there's the lady that walked in with two identicl phones in her hands and said to me, in a very dismissive tone like she was speaking towards me, not to or with me, "I'm going to leave these two here."

Me: "OK. Why?"

Her: "I need the contacts moved over."

Me: "OK, I'll be glad to check the SIM card and move them over."

Her: "No, some are on the SIM card. I need them all moved over."

Me: "Ma'am, I don't have a way to . . . " and in my mind, I know what this beotch wants. . . "to move them all over if the SIM card is full."

Her: "I have left phones here before and they did it for me."

Here's where I repeat myself in a nice tone of voice, "I don't know how they did it. If the SIM card is full, I can't move anymore."

Her: "You mean I can't leave it here?"

And in my mind, I'm thinking, "Leave your two cheap, free, phones purchased over the internet here for me to spend my work day trying to type in, one at a time, all your contacts?"

and I repeat it. Really lady? Really? Like that's what I get paid to do?
___________________

Can't forget the customer who came in and told me her son had his phone stolen, but found it, and the back and battery were missing. I told her i was sorry, but we didn't have replacement backs. I may or may not have a battery, and they run about $40.

Her: "I was hoping you could just give me another one."

Me: "No, ma'am. I'm sorry. The phones come back with just one back and battery. So I give you one out of another box, I wouldn't be able to sell it."

Her: "I know, but I was hoping you would."

REALLY?

"Or maybe you could give me the back off this phone?" pointing to the display.

Me: "Those are dummy phones, the backs usually don't come off. Even if they did, I couldn't give it to you because then I wouldn't have a way to display the phone."

Her: "I was hoping you would, though." This went back and forth, each of us repeating the same thing to each other, 5 times. Like it was a test to see how many times can I say, "Ma'am, I can not give you a phone back and battery from another phone because then I would not be able to sell that phone."

Eric

2011-01-22T05:12:00.000-08:00

He was young and blonde and beautiful, like boys around the age of 18 should be. In his case, the beautiful was of a type with some sort of styled hair, and possibly just a little too skinny, a slightly mischevious look in his eye. I had spotted him across the room, busy waiting on tables and cleaning tables, and I thought he was probably gay. I mean, with that much style in his hair, the odds were good. But then I had dismissed him from my thoughts.

Later, while my good friend and I have finished our dinner and are milling through the gift shop portion of Cracker Barrel, he's walking in my direction. Since we're near the restrooms, I figured he was headed that way. But he was looking at me and smiling at me. In the few seconds he was headed towards the restroom, he never lost eye contact with me and was just smiling.

Just as I was forming the thought in my head, "Young man, that's nice of you to flirt with me, but you should go find yourself someone your own age. . . " he came around a huge display of candy and . . . . held my phone up like Vanna White turning a letter on TV.

It made me feel young again.

2011-01-02T20:17:00.000-08:00

I know that sounds corny, but it did. It made me feel all excited inside.

Me and MyFella had just walked in a store and MyFella said, "That guy just winked at me." I said, "Who, the guy in camo or the employee?"

MyFella, "The guy in camo."

So MyFella walked off to shop and I hovered near the front just to see what the fella looked like. As he finished checking out, he picked up his bag, looked towards me, winked and walked out.

I rode that excitement for about an hour.

Grandmothe's Recipe

2010-12-24T10:33:00.000-08:00

My Mother called a few weeks ago and asked if I had a cookbook from a family reunion. After a few minutes of thinking, I knew exactly where it was sitting, and went home and put my hands right on it.

Flipping through the cookbook was a nice experience in reminiscing. A cousin had put in a recipe from our mutual grandmother, I had put in a recipe from the mother of a childhood friend, and some of the names of the recipe donors just made me smile.

And then they made me do more than that. I resolved to cook. Or to bake. Or to, at the very least, try.

This weekend, we tried the first recipe from the book. I discovered that my Mom had Grandmother's poundcake recipe. The recipe. The one. Yes, that recipe.

So this weekend, standing in MyFella's kitchen, I gathered up all the ingredients. I pre measured for convenience. I turned the oven on. I sprayed the pan.

And then I said, "What does it mean to 'cream the margarine and sugar'? I had no idea. I was only on step one and was already lost! Luckily I was attempting this at MyFella's house, and about 20 minutes later, the two of us had a beautiful cake batter that was pouring into a loaf pan. And about 45 minutes later, out came the most delicious, from scratch pound cake.

Perfect. On my (our) first try.

Just like Grandmother's.

There was a ten year old boy buried deep inside me who was over joyed.

Grandmother

2010-12-24T10:32:00.000-08:00

Her name was Grandmother. I couldn’t tell you why it was Grandmother, and not something more colloquial like Grandmaw or Nanny. We had these, too. Maybe hers was in deference to her more mature years. Or maybe it was what my father had called her. It was said with much love and affection.

Grandfather had died when I was young. There is a picture of me with him, though I don’t recall him. I only recall her telling a couple of stories about him. One was that, while she lived with her in-laws, who had said they could use the wood from a barn to build their own home, she got tired of waiting for him to build it. So one day, she went out to the barn and started tearing the wood apart herself. And that was my Grandmother.

She had raised my father, though his mother would tell us different. Regardless of who had raised him, he was raised in a farm house in a county in Mississippi. When I was growing up, the farm house was still the place that my great Grandmother lived.

There was a gravel driveway, and iron gates once painted silver with a pattern of a wagon wheel in them. On her back porch was a rope and pulley system that went down to a well beneath the house to pull up water. The front porch held a rocker and a swing. She was known to sit on the rocker for hours, and we loved the swing.

It’s hard to separate memories of her from memories of her home. The two are entwined together like one individual. Her bedroom had a fireplace for warmth, an oscilating fan for coolness, a large desk and the door to the bathroom. Two other bedrooms held an assortment of cedar closets and beds and chests with amazing things in them. The kitchen had a pie safe and a gas stove. The dining room held her refridgerator and a large round table. And on this table, when we could come to visit, was often a freshly baked pound cake.

This place, this woman, and her home, is the place where my love of pound cakes began. And most likely, I love them simply for the sheer memories of her that can come rushing back with the taste. I can feel the formica on the table, and the ceramic pitcher in which she kept milk. I smell the fragrance of wood from her fireplace. Or feel the wood on the cedar closets. With that taste, I can hear the crunch of gravel under my feet and see her in her rocker, watching the king snakes in her yard.

There was a tree stump in the back yard. Dad told us he’s watched her chop off many a chicken’s neck on that tree stump. I can see her walk past it to hang laundry on the line. I can see her braids wrapped around her head. Sometimes I look at the shade of grey my hair is becoming, and I think it is distinctly the same shade as hers.

There were an assortment of buildings on her land, once a well used farm of some type. There was a building Dad called a smokehouse, and one that was clearly a barn. And far in the back was a pond that Dad said had once held fish.

Grandmother is gone now. She lived until she was almost 100, and most of it she lived in that home. She spent a few years in a nursing home, one my Mother went to great effort to get her into because it was the best in the area. I did my best as a grandson to write her often, and visit her when I could, so that her time there would at least be dotted with moments. She had other descendants, too, from her son. But I don’t know them or their relationship with her. But that nursing home is never where I think of her. I think of her in that farm house. I think of her in the rocker on her porch watching the busy traffic go by. I think of her hanging laundry on the line. And I think of the sights and fragrances in that home; the smells of firewood and cedar and linens long since not used.

Sometimes as I drive down I-55 through Mississippi, I see the exit to the country church where she and Grandfather are buried. The church is surprisingly large, given the rural area it seems to be in. I stop for a few minutes and leave the flowers I thought to bring, and throw away the ones that have stayed in the vase since my last drive through the area.

MyFella was with me once, and a dark cloud blew up and a mighty wind came. I tried not to think on it, give it any credence, that there was a storm when I took my boyfriend, my partner, with me. She was an old school Baptist Christian. She would have loved me, in spite of.

Pound cake on a formica table top, the smell of firewood, the crunch of gravel under foot, and the sound of traffic through an old screen door.

I knew that I would like her

2010-12-07T11:30:00.001-08:00

when she told me she was sitting right next to him, and couldn't say it, so she texted him, "I'm pregnant."

biscuits

2010-11-18T13:30:00.001-08:00

My Aunt Bobbi is a lady much like my Mom, both in physical appearances and often in attitude and personality. Grandmotherlyness has taken hold of them both, and their homes are filled with the signs of little ones. The main differences being in sheer volume on my aunt's behalf, as her adult children have given her more grandchildren, and now great grandchildren, than my brother and I could manage mathematically.

My Aunt Bobbie and her husband are quite easily my favorite relatives, though there are some others I would call my favorites too. I suppose love can work that way, huh?

One of my favorite things about my Aunt is her cooking style. She was well known for making a pan of biscuits, and whatever was left over in the morning would sit under a cake pan in the afternoon until they were eaten, and they were always eaten. She seemed to make them in just a few minutes, with nothing more than a few hand motions near a jar of flour and a minute in the oven.

For my recent visit to her home, I called ahead to ask if she would teach me to make biscuits. She said I should just go buy them at Wal-Mart, as that was what she had started doing. But during my visit, she relented and Sunday morning poured flour into a stainless steel bowl and showed me how it's done.

It's less accurate to call it a recipe than to borrow a friend's phrase for her grandmother's sausage dressing, "more a collection of ingredients thrown together strategically." I was naive to believe I would get a measurement of anything. "here, add this." was followed by "more"

MyFella had pre emptively suggested I take measurements out of her hand, but how do you do that with liquid? And so, I learned from her in much the same way I imagine she learned from my grandmother - with a primer and words to go home and practice.

Which I did, this Tuesday morning. I had the ingredients just as she had given me (good flour is important, but apparently generic vegetable oil is fine). And I did it.

And I am proud to tell you they tasted like biscuits. They did not necessarily look like biscuits. They were small and unsmooth. But the bread inside the golden crust was warm and fluffy.

I was humbly proud.

I plan to practice again this Saturday morning, as MyFella will be in town. It's a good time to practice, and I want to make sure this Tuesday was not a fluke. And I need to get them bigger and more fluffy like biscuits.

Wish me luck!

Janie's Pastry Shop

2010-11-16T13:43:00.000-08:00

This weekend I found myself in the quite nice town of Brookhaven, Mississippi. And having some background knowledge of this town, I knew there is a donut shop on Main Street (or something that probably is called Main Street, because it has that Small Town Main Street look). I didn't know the name or the exact block, but I was certain I could find it.

So on Saturday morning I set off from my relative's house for a real donut made in a real donut shop. Don't get me wrong, I love a Krispy Kreme and Dunkin' Donuts as much as the next diabetic. But to me, there's just something sinfully right about a real donut shop. The smell of the store and the taste of the sweets are untouchable, almost as satisfying as the donut itself.

I found the shop easily, it's two large doors with plate glass windows have been well taken care of, and clearly been opened many times. The large plate glass windows were clean enough to eat off. There are a very few tables in the restaurant, with a bar type thing looking out one window, so diners can have a sweet tooth and look out on the morning traffic as well.

I ordered a dozen glazed to take back to my Aunt and Uncle's house, then went for a cinnamon roll for myself. I bought a thing of cold milk and sat down to enjoy.

Something in the back of my head, some memory not quite remembered, told me we have a family connection to the place. But I couldn't quite remember it. So I ate my cinnamon roll in blissful peace and left.

Upon returning to my aunt and uncle's house, my aunt said, "Did you ask for Janie?" Turns out that Janie's parents had, many years ago, owned the shop, and had named their daughter, Janie, after the original owner, from whom they bought the shop.

But here's the fun part - my grandmother had worked for Janie's parents in that very bakery shop many many years ago. Now how neat is that to buy donuts in a shop where your own grandmother had worked? My memories of my grandmother's career involve a sort of steno pool at the local hospital. I have no idea what she actually did there at the hospital. But she did something. (and once told me she wore her watch with the face on her wrist so she could tell time while she was writing)

But it seemed very nostalgic to sitting in a place enjoying sweet treats in a restaurant where my grandmother, probably as a very young mother, was working.

I know, I'm hopelessly sentimental.

Prince William is engaged to be married. . .

2010-11-16T13:31:00.001-08:00

thus putting me yet further away from life long ambition of being Queen. It's OK, really, I tell myself. He was far too young for me anyway, and I wouldn't want to be hounded by the paparazzi for the rest of my life.

Still. . . . I'm pretty sure I'd look stunning wearing a crown. And let me assure you, I would wear it every opportunity I got.

6 month check-up

2010-11-16T13:30:00.001-08:00

I think it's a bad sign when the dental hygenist pauses part way through your check-up and says, "Please go to Walgreens and buy an electric toothbrush today."

I-55

2010-11-12T06:06:00.000-08:00

This afternoon I am taking my Mom to her hometown, with her two grandkids in the backseat. Honestly I had wanted some time with my Mom, but she does love those ragamuffin urchins. It'll be good.

It all started with her hometown church having it's anniversary this weekend. Mom said she was gonna go, and I decided to surprise her and take off for the trip. She's waffled back and forth, and now we're going, but she and one of her sisters have both told me that the last time they went to that church they didn't know anyone there anymore, so they don't care to go.

It's a bit of a fast trip, leaving this afternoon and coming back sometime Sunday. But it will be enjoyable.

I have asked my Aunt Barbara to give me her recipe for biscuits, and let me make them once or twice this weekend and see how I do.

I'll tell you how they turn out.

Stop a bullet cold, make the axid fold. . . .

2010-11-02T20:19:00.000-07:00

A few years ago a very good friend celebrated some minor windfall of hers by, in part, buying me the first season of the Wonder Woman series on dvd.

I've been re-re-re-watching it. Oh how I love it.

I really do. I really do.

Does that make me gay?

PeveMeister

2010-09-17T17:05:00.001-07:00

I know this sounds foolish, even as I write it. But I think everything happens for a reason. Or, at least when I'm not miserable, I like to think so.

So, while I don't think I lost my job just so I could eventually meet the PeveMeister, I do think I ended up taking this job maybe so I would know the PeveMeister. Have I told you about her yet?

OK, I'm not gonna tell much, because it's not my business to tell. She's a 27 year old brunette, very pretty and gorgeous smile. OMG, I just love her. (Say it out loud, O.M.G.) So she and I were working together, both brand new, at this whole cell phone store gig. (Did I tell you about that? Oh well.)

And we're having tons of fun together. Like the time she set off the store alarm and the cops came, and there ended up being more cops than there were employees. And after they left, P.M. said, "I'm glad they looked at your license because mine is suspended." And the time I came in and there was some guy working under the hood of her car and I said,"So he likes you huh?" and she said, "No, we're just friends." I told her she was stupid, and roughly 2 hours later she's in the back room on her cell phone SURPRISED that he called her and told her he likes her. Uh, hello, it was 100 degrees today and he's under the hood of your car in a parking lot.

So PeveMeister is gone off to what I am calling a Sabbatical. She's had some problems and she's off for a brief respite and reset. Thankfully I had forced her to give me her Mom's cell phone number, so I called and got an address for her. Her Dad was a bit ornery with me, but I'm chalking that up to him being a father (and not just some uber conservative Christian type) and I'm focusing on the bright sound in her Mom's voice. So I've been mailing PeveMeister on average twice a week. Usually one is a letter and one is just a note.

She's on sabbatical for 11 weeks and it is my hope that my letters and notes make some kind of small difference in her days. I think it's why we met. She needed a friend. I needed a friend at the new job. It worked out well for both of us.

I don't know what, if anything, the future holds for a bitter, old, fat gay guy like me, and a beautiful young brunette lady like her. We never had Paris, but we had 2 months in the cell phone store and that's enough for a life time. (plus 11 weeks of letters)

Experiential

2010-09-17T16:54:00.001-07:00

I hope that's how you spell the word.

With my birthday up and coming, I decided it was time to begin the celebration. Since I'm 40 going on 41, and since many of my friends have left the area, and since MyFella and I have to manage our time on the weekends, you have to make life. . . you know?

So first I called on old friend, we'll call him (former) Car Salesman John, turned New and Improved John. I told him I wanted to have lunch, and then go to a barber shop for a barber shop shave.

We settled on quite possibly the world's best pub grub that is around the corner from my home of 10 years (yes, I still miss that place) and I had the steak po boy. It was actual beef steak of some type. I struggled with my habit of ordering the chicken salad, which is always good stuff. The po-boy was a good choice. But I digress ~

John knew just the barber shop for an old school style shave. Four old men and the smell of blue liquid and talcum powder with a plastic box of SuperBubble on the counter. During my encounter, I asked the man about the shop and he said it had been there for 50 years, he'd only worked there for 7. Then he listed the other locations he had worked at, and they span a distance of time longer than my life.

The experience was very much like seen with Floyd, and I was absolutely sure that there would be a straight edged razor in my near future. There were hot towels and hot shaving cream and a close shave. I was disappointed that he used a Gillette Mach 3. I mean, I, uh, honestly, have that in my bathroom. However, one time I opened my eyes and got a close up view of the barber's arm. It was perhaps a safer option for everyone that he used a Mach 3. Aside from the use of a disposable razor, the experience was everything I hoped it would be, and it was shared with a good friend (who opted for the cut and shave).

I guess if I want one with a straight edged razor blade, I'm gonna have to look for a barber shop with younger barbers, who can still hold a razor like that. But I wonder, does the world still make barbers? Is that a dieing breed, or something that can be found? I don't know.

But on the whole, it was worth $15. And a fun way to start my birthday off.

Thunderbirds vs Eagles

2010-09-17T16:25:00.000-07:00

Tuesday I went and spent the day in my hometown, and while it didn't seem hectic, it actually was a day of here, to here, to here. By my own choosing, of course.

First, lunch with my Mamaw (who loves me the most), and I picked it up at The Corner Market. So named, as it apt to happen in small towns, because it's on the corner of two streets. 7th and . . . something, I forget what. In all of my life living there, I was probably never in the Corner Market, but it's new my favorite place. Noodle told me that blue collar workers in the area will stand around their trucks eating their lunch and talking to each other. In addition to a great menu of sandwiches, they also make a hot lunch. On Tuesday the choices were rib tips, saulsberry steak (which I have never understood) and chicken & rice (one dish, instead of an entree with a side, casserole style). For Mamaw, I chose chicken & rice, green beans, corn and cornbread. Yes, she's a diabetic and only later did I realize the full-blown-carb-impact of my choices. Oh well.

Mamaw and I enjoyed a nice lunch together and she's feeling much better. She lamented the horrible treatment of her children who take everything nice (leafy vegetables because the home health nurse said not to while her sore is healing ~ i don't understand that one) and her ice cream bars. I called Noodle to ask about the ice cream, as Mamaw was very disturbed. She said something like, "She's eating 3 a day and even though they are low sugar, they still have sugar." I said, "Well, her version sounds better than '3 a day.'" Noodle, "What's her version?" Me, "One after each meal." You gotta admit, it has a more reasonable tone to it.

So after a very pleasant lunch with Mamaw and a brief, yet enjoyable visit with Uncle K, I made my way to the next part of the day: Picking up my two nephews from school. The 5 year old seemed only slightly pleased to see me, but the 5th grader hopped right in asking, "Where's my bookbag?" Because you know if something can't be found for that chile* I will scour the Mid-South to find it, and I produced a rolling book bag. **

Then I managed to sneak in a short visit with E, who I almost never get to see. *** That was a short visit, but I'm always glad to see him.

And my Moma cooked supper for me. She has this way of making hamburger patties, I can't quite describe it. But it's her way, and I love it.

But anyhow, the main point of the day was the Pee Wee Football game. This year my nephew is in the 5th grade and got a lot of good play time on the field. The weather was perfect with a break in the heat and decent Fall weather. And a favorite of me was the location of the game.

You see, in my youth, to my perception, private school kids were snotty. I had no friends there, and didn't care to. And even today, the thought of that school makes my nose turn up just a little bit (holding on to something from my youth, perhaps, a little too strongly?). It irks me that the public school system is so bad, so unsafe, that the best choice for my nephew is to attend that school. But there he is, just the same, a T-bird.

And then there's the Eagles. . . . somewhere lost in history . . way way back in 1987, I attended Prom there with my best friend**** It was a double date with her best friend, and drives to parts of the county that I had never visited prior. It was one of the most fun nights of my entire 18 years. And quite simply because of that, I just have a fondness for the school. A few weeks later, I attended her graduation, and then years later I began picking up the B children (of which E is one) in the afternoon and then on to their eventual graduations. So amongst my left over teenage angst for small town private schools, I have a fondness for that one, based on a few experiences there.

(Probably has something to do with white people's love of exclusivity, as seen recently on the website of 'Stuff White People Like')

So, I had called and texted the girl from that night and asked her to meet us there, since her alma mater (the Pee Wee sect anyway) was playing against my nephew and my Mom would love to see her. But she stood me up. I did get in a visit with the lady that did her that night so many years ago. And spent more than a few minutes checking out some guy that my brother and his wife know. Mr. Tony, they called him. . . . Oh, I could . . .well, never mind, I digress. . .

So the T-Birds lost the Eagles, and I didn't get to see my former. . . whatever she is to me. . . but I had a great day. . . in a land so far away . . .

*Yes, I spelled it that way on purpose.
**The satchel he was carrying hung near to the ground on his tiny frame.
***And I hate to admit is hotter than a pawn shop pistol when he's really my younger cousin type entity. But since he's in his 20's and a veteran, it's not completely pervy. It's more circumstantial. I mean, I didn't make him hot. He just is.
****A relationship that to this day still confuses me and I can't quite describe. That would take a whole blog of it's own. And some serious couch time with a professional.

Mrs. Mary Ruth

2010-08-21T19:04:00.000-07:00

One night after arriving at my brother's house. . .

Brother, "Have you talked to your mother yet?"
Me, "No. Should I?"
Brother, "She went to the bank today."
Me, laughing, "And?"
Brother, "Mrs. Mary Ruth said, 'Are you here to make a deposit to his account?'
Your mother said, 'No, should I?' Mrs. Mary said, 'Well, it is Friday and you know how he likes his debit card.' "

Mrs. Mary Ruth, thank you for years upon years of family friendship and helping your friend's son manage his bank account, long after he should have grown enough to handle it.

I will miss you, and fondly remember you.

Sunday morning

2010-08-01T19:12:00.000-07:00

and homemade buttermilk biscuits. I sure do like MyFella's family sometimes.

Just one tear. . . .

2010-07-31T19:54:00.000-07:00

I was at dinner tonight with MyFella and his family. For some reason, MyFella and his mother had a brief conversation about people who had passed away, or are passing away. They were talking about accepting death, or not accepting it, and how they do or don't miss people who have died. . . and my mind drifted. . .

to Mrs. Edna. I think actually she was never married, but certainly should have been called Mrs. She was. . . going over to her brother's house one day. I can't quite remember his name. He had rented the house across the street from my childhood home. The small rental was owned by the neighbors directly to our left, which was the cap-end of the cul-de-sac type street we lived on.

I think it was my brother who reached out to her first. It would be his way. I can see it. My recollections tell me that the man traveled maybe, or just wasn't home a lot, and one of his two sisters, Mrs. Edna, came over a few times a week to do something for him. I have the impression she helped clean his house or maybe made some meals. Who knows the things sisters will do for their brothers.

And the next thing you know, we were constant companions in her great big car. I remember it being a big silver grey Buick, 4 door. I remember adventures in that car, mostly cropped pictures in my head. I can't quite recall . . . I recall a feeling more than actual memories.

I remember a fresh water spring down a gravel road, and trips to the banks of the river. I remember Saturday and Sunday afternoons, my brother and I in her big car, wherever she took us.

I think that she passed away while I was in college. And I think I had not seen her in too long, long enough to be ashamed of it, looking back.

And tonight I miss her. I was surprised to have thoughts of her, and surprised when the tear rolled down my cheek.

July 31, 2010.

Stereotypically gay . . .

2010-07-25T15:21:00.000-07:00

I stopped last night at a quick stop on some highway in what definitely seemed like rural Mississippi. Behind the counter were 3 kids who all looked like high school seniors to me. Two girls, one boy. The boy had as much sass in his stance as in his hair style and exuded gay vibrations. I couldn't help but think, "I bet this firefly lights up his little hometown."

Then today I was having lunch with MyFella at a local restaurant when he pointed out the postmaster. Oh, my my. I'd say middle 30's, dressed in very nice black slacks that fit him well (fitting perfectly over a nice butt) and a pull over white shirt. He had dark hair, a very pleasing profile and a bit of a goatee. This man was handsome. Not overbearingly so, just the right amount of good looking with the right amount of good, well fitting clothing. I couldn't help but thinking if I lived in this town, I'd be going inside the post office to mail every single letter I write.

Not So Different

2010-07-24T07:38:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time since I've been in a divey gay bar with a pool table. But in my day, I've been in them many a time.

Come to find out, it's much like being a Legion Hall on a Friday night, except without the flags and military emblems.

Same smoky atmosphere, cheap, shoddy construction and sickly sweet smell from air fresheners in the bathroom.

We're not different, straights and gays.

"Emergency Contact"

2010-07-22T20:19:00.000-07:00

It must be love. I listed him as the Emergency Contact with my new physician's office.

15 year old jackpot.

2010-07-18T20:37:00.001-07:00

I had dinner tonight with one of my closest friends and her two sons. Turns out the 15 year old has a young friend girl who may think he's cute. She's broached the "maybe more than friends" comment with him.

And she's bi.

I couldn't be more proud of him if he was my own son.

Wonder

2010-07-17T18:42:00.001-07:00

I wonder sometimes, what my life would be like if I had never moved away from my hometown? I wonder sometimes, who would my close friends be? How would I spend my time? Whose lives would I have impacted? And how?

Just how different would it be?

The Box.

2010-07-17T18:28:00.000-07:00

The box was rectangle, probably 4 inches high, and 4X6. Maybe smaller, maybe larger. A dark brown, like a mahogany maybe. Simple, yet sturdy and beautiful.

My mother said, "They want to bring the box and the pictures over to the Parrish Hall." She had the signature book in her hand, and someone took the pictures and she asked me to pick up the box.

The service was concluded, and everyone was walking next door for the lunch always put on by the ladies of the church for a funeral. He was just over 35 years of age. He lived a youth very much entwined with my own. Our fathers forged a friendship having worked together for many years on the police department, our mother's friends. I suppose, really, from our parents perspectives at the time, they were creating their lives and their families together in our hometown.

Many, many days spent together. In the older years, my brother was in closer contact with him than I. They were slightly closer in age. And sometime over 10 years ago I left our hometown.

His life's journey took an odd path. Struggles with demons of depression and other things made his life harder than anyone's should be. Struggles with the medication made his days harder than they should be. And then of course, when they feel better, they quit taking the medicine. It's a brutal, hard cycle.

It's an ugly way of life for a beautiful person.

It ended this week in a tragic way, a way that can never be undone. One of his friends said, "It's like being a teenager and wanting a beer. I'm going to get it." He said something like, once, "I told him I would come right there. But what about the next time?"

My mind wanders to episodes of Dr. Who, who sometimes said that he could see when things are a "fixed point in time." And like others, I wonder about the "what?" and the "if's?" Would it be a fixed point in time, if we could go back? But then, don't we wonder that with almost every loss? Natural losses? Accidents? Tragics that don't make sense? What? If?

The box was heavier than I imagined it would be. He was beautiful.

"It was like 10 years ago"

2010-06-07T08:05:00.000-07:00

or better titled "What he doesn't know would . . ."

I was out the other night. A friend from my hometown had texted that he'd be at a divey joint listening to a band. So I went out to meet him around 10p.m. The friend has recently helped me get a job and I thought it would be nice to hang out with him for a bit.

I've passed the joint dozens and dozens of times and never paid it any attention. It's small and clean and definitely a dive. The electricity was shot, so without air until the local power people came, the band didn't play and folks hung out outside.

One of the guys with my friend is a local to this big city and lives just a few miles away. In fact, he lives 4 doors down from my best friend G. I know this because when I decided to leave, this guy asks for a ride home. He was beyond drunk. And beyond annoyed at our mutual friend over typical bar drama. But anyway, I figured that given our similar ages and living location, we probably had some mutual friends in town and he seemed nice, if drunk. But really, he was just asking for a lift home and wasn't out of the way.

So we're in the car, stuck at the train tracks, when he rubs my leg and says, "Let's see it."

H.E.Double Hockey Sticks. Not 2 minutes have passed it seems like and drunk guy is hitting on me. I mean, I'm flattered and all, but really. No. I declined. I drove him to his house and dropped him off.

I'd like to think that even if I wasn't 40 and with a long time boyfriend that I would not be impressed with a stranger in my car saying "Let's see it." But certainly with a boyfriend, I'm not interested.

But it was a little funny, you know. It was a lot like when I moved to town . . . what 10, 11 years ago?

MyFella wouldn't get it at all. And he'd be ticked off to no end. But there's nothing to be ticked off about. Some guy hit on me and I declined. I hate to admit it, but there was the shortest moment when I was flattered (slightly, he was wasted after all) and it seemed like I was young again (for just a moment).

But that was 10 years ago.

Chick Filet

2010-06-02T11:01:00.000-07:00

I don't understand the bizarre amount of traffic at the Chick Filet. It's been open at least 6 months now, if not a year. And the traffic is non stop. Part of it may seem non stop due to the weird traffic pattern the store was forced to create by the local heritage lovers to save a retaining wall from an old church building. But still, I can count, and the cars often are non stop around the building.

I decided to walk over and treat myself to lunch using a gift card, and every table in the room had customers and every cashier had a line. Bizarre.

But since I had nothing but time I went ahead and stayed. And for my patience, was rewarded with this beautiful sight in front of me. Pretty guy, great butt.

Thank you, Chick Filet.

Grocery Store

2010-05-29T21:18:00.000-07:00

Jamie was next to me. We had finished paying for our groceries, about $8 worth of stuff to get back home and cook for breakfast. I was walking away when the man behind me put out his hand and said, "Thank you." I said, "For what?" He said, "Thank you." Then, "I have a son at home. I try to take him everywhere I can."

I felt a little bit like a stolen moment, really. It should have belonged to someone else. To MyFella, or any of his siblings. MyFella has mentioned moments like this before, when someone understands. They speak, they nod, maybe they pass each other with a knowing look, not unlike the unspoken rule that Jeep owners always wave, however slightly, at other Jeep owners as they pass.

MyFella said he does it. He'll smile as he passes strangers who are in the mix of company not unlike Jamie. Peter Pan like, the children whose bodies grow, but whose minds don't. He smiles because he understands it all in one encompassing heart beat. He understands what the doctors told them when he was little. He understands what it's like to turn your head for just a moment in the grocery store to have him wander off. He understands what it's like to translate his sentences to friends. But he also understands the sheer joy of the simplest things. In Jamie's case, it's the constant thrill of going - anywhere. To town, to get gas, or just driving with the windows down. Or the way Jamie delights in helping wash dishes and fold clean laundry. Or the smile on his face when he holds a cat or puppy. It's all there, all the joy mixed in with it all. I suppose it's that way for every parent. But this is markedly different, knowing your child will never grow up as others do. And the shared knowledge is marked by simple acts like a nod or a handshake.

I made my choice long ago. I knew MyFella came as a package deal, and Jamie was part of the package. To me, some years later, taking Jamie with me at 7a.m. to the grocery was just as normal as going to the grocery.

But receiving the look, the handshake, it was new to me. Unknown ground. I didn't realize it for what it was until it was spelled out to me. "I have a son like him. I try to take him everywhere I can." I felt like I was cheating, that it belonged to Jamie's parents or to MyFella. I wondered if I should explain, "We're not family. We're friends." But I suppose that could be part of the same overall thoughts that the family might have. Who will his friends be?

I've seen people all over town smile at the sight of Jamie and call him by name. Just 20 minutes earlier at another stop, a couple had been engaging Jamie while I was distracted. When I turned my head to speak, the wife said, "We know him." I should have known, because the husband understood Jamie's speech. I should have caught on faster that they know him.

But I guess the simplest thing is also the most important thing. It was my morning, about an hour, with Jamie. We ran two errands while the word was still waking. And I suppose for all that it was, the moment that would come at the grocery store was my moment to be had. It was my gift from that stranger. He didn't care if our surnames were the same or not. He could tell we were friends. Are friends. He could tell as Jamie held the bacon and I held the milk that we live as friends.

I won't ever understand all that they think and feel, the families with their own Peter Pan's in their midst. I missed the first 40 years of Jamie's life. But the man he is today, I understand as well as I understand so many of my friends. And now I feel like I'm part of some kind of secret family. We nod to each other in passing.

Whoever that man is, I thank him, too.

Ford Tractor, blue

2010-05-29T14:03:00.000-07:00

It's a 1970 Ford tractor. Blue. The machine an interesting combination of vehicle and tool. He rides it, controls it, commands it. . . the machine and the land he goes across as familiar to him as it is alien to me. He's bush hogging the land. Part of it his father's, part of it a neighbor's that lets their horses graze there. Her husband long ago fenced off enough of their land to maintain as a lovely yard.

I think it really only goes back a few acres, maybe 8 in total, though it could be miles to me. It eventually descends into the same ravine I've walked down on his father's land. Tree covered, tiny flying bug infested, beautiful and unseen spot of land probably with it's fair share of serpents, until it bottoms along a small, cold creek bed.

And there he goes, riding along. Cutting down errant grass and weed. I suppose to keep rodents and such at bay. To keep it from growing too high. Or maybe for the simple act of just cutting it. I suppose I don't know.

On the tractor he rides and I watch him from a fence gate, from afar. I walk the land before and after he's mowed it down. Careful of snakes. Not sure if I'm more interested in surveying the land or watching him. Spots of beautiful grass, areas in shade overgrown with weed, brush growing up along the rough hewn posts and barbed wire composing the fence. And over it all, he comes with the tractor that's almost as old as I am, with the bush hog behind it. Simple mechanics running it off the tractor's motion. He tells me things about a clutch, a PTO shaft, things that sound foreign to me, but he understands them. He understands them as well as I understand things he does not understand - the simplicity in blunt conversations about sexual practices with friends, the draw of the beauty of the drag show, the importance of matching brown belts to brown shoes.

I envy the owner of the land, actually. I covet the land. It's lovely, even beautiful in it's own way. I laugh and tell him later that if we are able to buy it someday, I have picked out the spot I want to build a gazebo with a swing. It's a spot in an open green field, open to the sun. There's a slight crest at the highest point. That's where I want a swing, in a gazebo, like I once saw on television. I think about ways to power a fan that far out in the field, and consider ways to keep the horses from walking through and getting wound up in the chain that will hold my someday swing. Problems I've considered long before there's a possibility. Challenges I'd like to overcome some day.

But today, there's him on the blue tractor and me walking in the field. I'm content with today.

A Wednesday in my hometown.

2010-05-27T09:10:00.000-07:00

A brick house with a front porch. A dining room table. A glass of tea. My Mamaw to my right.

Beauty

2010-05-23T12:14:00.001-07:00

Now, this creature is beautiful. But not near as beautiful as his confidence and outfit would leave you to believe. MyFella and I guessed he was from Ole Miss and in town with his girlfriend, hence the yellow shorts with the perfectly white shirt and the name brand shades.

From the bumper sticker on the car, we guessed the wrong college. But same stereotype of students there.

I wish I could have gotten a better snap of him.

Oh well.

4:40p.m.

2010-05-19T14:27:00.001-07:00

In just a little bit MyFella will arrive here. He's got a meeting in town that ends at 4:30p.m. I tell you, after all this time, I still look forward to him coming through the door.

Facebook Addiction

2010-05-17T12:49:00.000-07:00

So, I had just looked down and realized I pee'd on my shorts and not in the toilet when I thought, "It's a shame to be 40 something and . . . "

OHMYGAWD I'm composing a Facebook post in my head about peeing on my shorts! You have to stop it!

Stop it!

So really, is it any better that I wrote a blog about it?

Weekend Sights

2010-04-13T15:24:00.000-07:00

This is the tree with the pretty flowers under which I sat on Friday, and this is a shot of the flower garden into which I mixed horse manure this weekend.

Dave & Sugar

2010-04-11T13:21:00.000-07:00

I can remember a time when Sunday afternoons meant afternoons on Midtown restaurant patios, usually with a vodka or tequila drink cold in my hands, and 2 or 3 of my closest friends. On a bad weekend, it would mean an afternoon with some guys that I didn't know really well, but I was trying to increase my circle of friends so I would accept an invitation from 2 friends to join their party. Or on a really bad weekend, it would rain and Red and I would shop "the miracle mile" of stores like Big Lots and Stein Mart on a particular stretch.

The best lesbian in the whole world, G, would often join the patio's and have one or two beers. Sometimes we would go to the second Mexican restaurant and bemoan the fact that Molly's does not have a patio, because the food at the second Mexican restaurant sucks, but the patio's great and the margaritas are cold.

On non-drinking days, we discovered a place that has a wonderful little singer that writes her own songs, and her music goes well with tea served with a slice of lime.

Today? Today my Sunday consisted of me wearing my slip on Wolverine boots, my "work" jeans, and shoveling horse manure into what I've claimed as "my" flower bed. So, there I am, shoveling horse manure from a pile onto a flat bed trailer, tossing it into the flower bed from there, and watching MyFella run the tiller. We put in a lot of pine ash and horse manure, and tilled it up good so the dirt will be ready for the plants. What plants, I don't really know yet.

Saturday I sat outside for a bit watching MyFella burn huge piles of pine needles down (which later went into the flower bed). Smoke was in the air, I was sitting under a tree, and a cool breeze was in the air.

I'm not sure exactly when my Sundays changed. I can't honestly say I love them now more than I love the other way. But I can say I love them just as much.

I probably need to keep vodka on hand up here, and find a job up here, that way I can have the work day, the vodka patio and not have to drive back.

That's what I'll do.

Drunk and Sober

2010-04-03T01:48:00.000-07:00

There's nothing quite like passing out around 10p.m. drunk, then waking up around 3a.m. sober.

I'm just sayin'.