Remembering Michael

Death is more universal than life; everyone dies but not everyone lives. - A. Sachs


As I sit here in my den on a pleasant evening with a waning moon, it suddenly occurs to me that tomorrow is October 1. The beginning of a new month with a fresh round of bills to pay, a new sunrise to greet as I sip my hot coffee, an early morning meeting when we will study a Promise from the Big Book (Alcoholics Anonymous). I have a certain love for the Promises because I was asked to read them aloud at the first AA meeting I attended. At the beginning of the meeting when I read them, they seemed unattainable, but when I walked out after an hour's passing, I had hope.


Tomorrow marks fifteen years since the death of my partner, Michael. His mother and I took turns staying with him overnight at the hospital during those last days, and she had stayed with him the previous night. I went to his room early that morning, before I went to work, and his mother and I admitted to ourselves that we would probably lose him that day. I raced to work and found a supervisor. Only my very close work buddies knew what was going on with Michael. I told the supervisor what was happening and she looked at me and said one word: Go.


His mother and I spent the morning beside him, each holding a hand, and we talked to him. Several seizures had left him unable to talk, his eyes were rolled up in his head, but we knew that he could hear us. We told him not to worry about us, that we would take care of each other, and that if something came for him he should go. It seemed that he had been waiting to hear this, because his labored breathing slowed and after a little while he was gone. It was strangely beautiful and comforting, and I am glad we were there beside him.


Michael had a zest for life that his illness could not squelch as hard as it tried. He was concerned about others, and continued to do thoughtful things for people even when he was tired and weak. A few days before he went into the hospital, he was over at a friend's house roto-tilling behind their deck. The powerful machine gave his wasted body a run for its money, but he just laughed and carried on, enjoying life and helping others. That's how he lived life.


Never knock on Death's door: ring the bell and run away! Death really hates that!
- Matt Frewer


When he went into the hospital it was his first time there, so everyone assumed they would fix him up and he would come home. His first visit was his last, and I know he would be pleased with that. His doctor told me later that he had wanted to admit Michael to the hospital several times, but Michael flatly refused.


We each had a cat, and Michael's cat, Taz, was very fastidious about using the litter box. When he went in the hospital I noticed on one of my brief trips to our home that Taz had started peeing outside the litter box, which was quite out of character. At this point, Michael had been moved to the hospice floor and his spirits were low. A friend of his from work suggested that we smuggle Taz in to visit Michael, and this sounded like the kind of hare-brained caper that he would appreciate. We drove the cat to the hospital parking lot, stuffed her in a pillowcase, and slipped her into his room undetected. Taz was very curious about the room, and after she had checked out the surroundings to her satisfaction, she snuggled up beside him on the bed and purred. Michael was so happy to see her, and they spent the evening together. A nurse bustled in at one point, and her only comment was "What a pretty cat!" That's when I knew that he would not be coming home.


Taz seemed to know this, too, and once she knew where Michael was, she never went to the bathroom in the wrong place again. She accepted his death before the rest of us could. She continued to live with me until this past May, and she was twenty-one when she died right next to me one night. I believe she stayed with me until she saw that I was firmly on my path to a new life. Tonight I feel a bit wistful, but not sad. I know that Michael is well, and he knows that I love him.


It's funny how fluid time can be. I've been in staff meetings where I fully expected to glance outside to see a glacier creep by; today I couldn't tell you even one thing that was discussed. But, even though fifteen years have passed, I can still hear Michael laugh. In that way, time sometimes treats us with kindness.


"I meant," said Ipslore bitterly, "what is there in this world that truly makes living worthwhile?"


Death thought about it.

"Cats," he said eventually. "Cats are nice." - Terry Pratchett

The Earth is Flat

The other day a fellow I admire asked me when I first knew I was gay. I blurted out something to the effect of "When didn't I?" but I realized that this question still takes me by surprise. It's kind of like someone asking me "Bill, when did you decide that taking regular, rhythmic breaths would be a good idea?" I appreciate the question, though, because it got me thinking. By the way, the guy asking me this is a straight man whose profession relies almost exclusively on empirical evidence. Despite this, he has an engaging curiousity about topics that are not easily explainable, and is open to ideas that many others would consider, frankly, way out in left field. I applaud his inquisitive mind.

I also realized that I am confused by gay men and women who do not come to a comprehension of their own sexuality until later in life. This is because it was not my experience, so I do my best to understand. Some openly gay people shake their heads at these late-bloomers and denigrate them for remaining in the closet so long. I think each person must determine their own path. I do condemn people like Ted Haggard who, because of the demons in their closet, direct pain and hatred at those with the courage to live openly.

Arguments used to rage around the globe about whether the Earth was round or flat. Today most people scoff at the idea of a flat Earth (although The Flat Earth Society existed into this century). Popular opinion, however, holds that our planet is round, and most of us were brought up believing this. We chuckle at the thought of sailing so close to Earth's edge that our ship would fall off. To truly believe that the Earth is flat as a pancake seems ridiculous.

If we are told over and over since a very young age that something is unquestionable, this becomes our truth. The belief is deeply embedded, even if it is incorrect. Few question this belief because it is all we have known. People who believed the world was flat bristled at the concept of a round Earth. Tempers flared, people waved their arms and gesticulated wildly. Others who espoused a round Earth were blasphemers or idiots. It is hard to dislodge a deeply held belief, and the Earth remains flat.

I wonder if this is why some people do not recognize their own attraction to the same sex. The false "truth" is so deeply ingrained that they honestly believe for awhile that they must be heterosexual because any alternative seems just plain wrong. The results of this confused thinking can be harmful to themselves and others. They are faced with the challenge of maintaining the status-quo or trying to accept and explain themselves, when, really, no explanation should be necessary.

I think most heterosexuals would be surprised by the question "When did you first decide you were straight?" The answer might be "I didn't decide anything. I just am." Well, it's the same for me regarding my sexuality: I just am. I didn't have to make a decision about having curly hair, either; it just is. I used to hate my curly hair, and went to silly and extraordinary lengths to straighten it. Now I think my hair is beautiful. And it is.

Can you imagine a society that compelled some to march about waving signs that said "Curly and Proud!" in a quest for acceptance? Well, folks, look around; we live in one.

Painless Service to Others (do this now!)

Most of us want to help others, but sometimes we just don't know where to begin. AA has taught me that service to others can happen every day, and it's important to our own growth. Remember, small things add up quickly! Even if you have to watch your pennies like I do, here's a way you can be of service. It's quick, 100% painless, and free. How, you ask? Click the Magic Button below and you will see! After you click to donate (it's free - I promise), click on the tabs at the top to donate to other causes. Be sure you click on the Donate button on each site before going to the next. Have fun and bask in the glow!

>MAGIC BUTTON<

If you have any doubt that the world needs your help, click below:

I'm gob-smacked!!! I had no idea...

Deaf Wife

A man feared his wife wasn't hearing as well as she used to and he thought she might need a hearing aid. Not quite sure how to approach her, he called the family Doctor to discuss the problem.

The Doctor told him there is a simple informal test the husband could perform to give the Doctor a better idea about her hearing loss. Here's what you do," said the Doctor, "stand about 40 feet away from her, and in a normal conversational speaking tone see if she hears you. If not, go to 30 feet, then 20 feet, and so on until you get a response."

That evening, the wife is in the kitchen cooking dinner, and he was in the den. He says to himself, "I'm about 40 feet away, let's see what happens." Then in a normal tone he asks, "Honey, what's for dinner?"

No response.

So the husband moves closer to the kitchen, about 30 feet from his wife and repeats, "Honey, what's for dinner?"

Still no response.

Next he moves into the dining room where he is about 20 feet from his wife and asks, "Honey, what's for dinner?"

Again he gets no response.

So, he walks up to the kitchen door, about 10 feet away. "Honey, what's for dinner?"

Again there is no response.

So he walks right up behind her. "Honey, what's for dinner?"

"Ralph, for the FIFTH time, CHICKEN!"

It is easy to think others are at fault, but a simple examination may prove otherwise.

I love this joke; my cousin Linda sent it to me. I picture this poor man stumping through life thinking the whole world is going deaf.

I've been dipping my toes in the fifth step for a while, and I need to get busy. Next week I'm starting a Back to Basics class that will help me get my ass in gear. I'm looking forward to it. I've been making excuses that I need to tend to this or that first, and I've decided that I'm deluding myself. Moving on with my step process is important work that needs to proceed now, and it will actually help me accomplish the other important things as well. It's time to put the horse back in front of the cart.

I think most folks have developed a safety mechanism that allows us to blame others for situations that do not turn out as we wished. I know I do, although, to be fair, I'm also open to looking at how my behavior contributed to the outcome. The bottom line is this: there's only one person I can control, that's myself, and an honest look back shows me that I don't control myself all that well. If I don't want to repeat the pattern like a boring piece of wallpaper, I need to dig deep so that I can do better in the future.

Choosing to blame others is deceptive, because it's easier to do that and move on than to take a pause for a more thorough analysis. But what are we moving on to face next? More of the same results when met with a similar situation, because now we have established a pattern. I don't want to get to the end of my life and say "Shit. I always hated that wallpaper."

Will The Baby Live?

The woman at the edge of a dark wood stood up after giving birth and wandered away, without a backward glance.

The baby lay still for awhile, exhausted from the violence of birth, smeared with blood and afterbirth. Soon, the baby began to fuss. It missed the warmth of the womb, and it was hungry. It breathed the clear air deeply, the only life-sustaining substance available to it. A spear of sunlight broke through the trees and warmed the tiny body.

As the sun went down, the shadows encroached, and the baby grew cold. It wailed with hunger, and cried for help. No one came for a very long time.

A passing stranger heard the cries and found the infant. He picked the tiny child up and held it close in his warm arms, and hurried down the road.

We hear these stories from time to time, and when we do it is like a blow to the solar plexus. A baby abandoned, a life tossed aside, saved by a stranger through God's grace.

I have always thought of myself as an independent sort of fellow. I was an only child, and often relied upon myself for amusement and play. I have been financially self-sufficient since the age of nineteen. I live alone and enjoy my own company, in addition to the company of others.

But, like it or not, I must accept that I am that baby at the edge of the dark forest. Addiction has stripped me bare, and taken my sustenance. Alone and naked, I will not survive on my own. I cannot make it without help. It is a battle of life over death.



The baby by the woods has one advantage over me. It knows to cry for help. It does not lie there silenced by stupidity. It screams out with all the force its lungs can muster. The baby knows it needs a power greater than itself to survive.



Now, in the infancy my sobriety, I know that willpower alone will not keep me warm, pride will not feed me, and resentment over my circumstances will not lead me to the road of recovery. My arms are not long enough to grasp food; my legs are not strong enough to carry me to safety. I need a higher power to place others before me who will nurture and guide me. I must not shy away in fear, and I must trust God.



If I admit my weaknesses and accept God's help, one day I may become an instrument of God - an outstretched hand for an infant in peril. One day I may be the timely stranger. But, right now, I need to grow.

The topmost painting is by a Colorado artist named Ken Elliott, and was found on Google images.

Culinary Tourette's and I Really Do Love You! (as long as you're exactly like me)

It happened again today, not for the first time. I got up to reheat my cuppa joe in the microwave for one minute, and suddenly I was making spaghetti sauce. Browning beef, onions, and garlic. Tossing in basil, oregano, black pepper, cardomom, tiny dash of cinnamon and cayenne, couple of bay leaves, a pinch of celery seed. Opening cans of tomato paste and tomato sauce. You get the idea. You don't need to know the brands, do you?

The microwave beeped forlornly to remind me of my cooling cup.

This happens sometimes. I'll go into the kitchen to fetch something, and the next thing I know I'm putting a pound cake in the oven. Not that I'm complaining. I prefer spontaneous cooking over spontaneous combustion.

The weather is getting cooler, and I need to have my neighbor over for dinner, so having spaghetti sauce handy is a good idea. My neighbor Karen doesn't like spicy food, so I went easy on the cayenne, and left the Scorned Woman Hot Sauce in the pantry. Me, I love spicy foods, but I do have to tone it down for Karen.

I really should hate her because of that. She should be exactly like me. After all, she only lives a few doors down. If she wants to be different, she should live in a different country.

Maybe I ought to talk to her. I mean, I'm reasonable. I'll just tell her that she should like spicy foods and that's all there is to it. She probably does like burning her mouth, and just doesn't know it. After all, God made me in his image, so she must be exactly like me, too. That's just good logic. I know, I know, I'm assuming God made her, too. Gosh, I hope one of those pseudo-gods didn't make her...Allah, Buddha, or one of them there guys.

I have a big heart, and I'll run around telling anybody that I love everybody, just watch me! I may say cruel or hateful things about people who are different than me, but I really do love them. I do! I just want them to do the right thing and be just like me. I'm looking out for their own good, because I love them, the silly things. I know they can change. Between you and me (because I know we're alike), it sure is easier to love people just like us, isn't it?

I'm sure you know what I mean. Because you are just like me, aren't you?

Pigs and Ponderings

One day this week I was idly perusing my old blog entries to see if I might want to add some new images now that I'm getting better at it. I was dismayed to see that the nice image of a mother and child I had placed on Mom's Table had turned into A PIG!!! This certainly was bewildering, and I quickly replaced it with another image. I thought whatever image I added to my blogsite was cast in cyber-concrete, but obviously I was a bit too optimistic. I'll keep checking the archives from time to time to be sure nothing unseemly pops in. Or you can let me know.

Now I'm waiting for The Third Pig. Back in June my neighbor Karen told me that one of our other neighbors kept seeing a pig behind his house. We do not live in the country. There is a skinny wooded area behind our homes, and a large neighborhood behind that. The pig-sighter is a fellow alcoholic (not in recovery), and my only thought was "I wonder if it was pink?"

Sure enough, a few weeks later, Karen saw the pig behind her house. She wanted to snap a photo, but was on the phone long-distance and couldn't get to her camera. I asked Karen what color the pig was. "Pink," came the reply, but I trusted Karen.

Still, seeing is believing.

Well, you know what happened. I was down at Karen's one evening and the pig strolled though her back yard. Big, healthy-looking, and pink. We think he's living in the woods out back.

On the theory that things come in threes, I'm braced for another porcine encounter. Thank heavens I've been sober for six (almost) months, otherwise I'd be questioning my sanity. Nowadays, although I know I'm insane, I can believe what I see. I'll keep you posted, and will let you know when the third pig drops.

We had a good conversation about sarcasm this morning at my AA meeting. I love a sarcastic wit. Some of my favorite authors have a finely-honed sense of sarcasm. "Finely-honed" is used intentionally here, because, like a knife, sarcasm can be used as a weapon. My mother (who was compared to Lucille Ball for her antics) sometimes used me as the whetstone. In particular, I remember that when I would do something wrong and say "I'm sorry" she would volley back with "Oh, you're sorry, alright." The solution for me was to simply stop apologizing. It took me years to learn how to apologize without being defensive.

We (read: I) also use sarcasm as a passive-aggressive combat tool. Instead of approaching someone openly and directly - and politely - to let them know how something they did/said made me feel, I am prone to say something sarcastic. They either don't get it, which changes nothing so I grow resentful if the same thing happens again OR if they question why I said that, I say "Oh, I was just kidding!" (which changes nothing so I grow resentful if the same thing happens again). Hmmm.

My world is not black and white, except where drinking alcohol is concerned. I enjoy the full spectrum of colors, so I believe self-directed sarcasm has its place, as does humor in general. One thing I love about most AA meetings is all the laughter. "We are not a glum lot." But humor has its proper place, too. I may try to inject humor when it is not appropriate in an attempt to lighten the situation. Well, sometimes people don't want jokes or platitudes, they just want someone to get down on the floor to roll around and cry with them. Or at least watch them do it without being a wisecracker. Then they can get up, dust themselves off, and move on.

My friend Trudy spoke to platitudes after my cat died in spring. She warned me that some folks, meaning well, would immediately ask me if I would run out to get another cat; she likened this to someone approaching the widow at the funeral and asking if she would be dating right away. True to prediction, I had to field this question from most of my friends. I know they meant well, but I just didn't want to hear that line of inquiry at the time.

So, for today, I'm not going to use sarcasm or humor about someone other than myself. And no platitudes.

This should be easy since I'm not planning to see anyone else today, but you never know...a pig could ring my doorbell. Oh, well, one day at a time.

"Wisdom does not come with age. Experience comes with age. If we are wise, we learn from our experiences."

Auntique Therza

My Aunt Therza was one of my father's younger sisters, and she was my favorite aunt. Aunt Therza and Uncle Mark lived on a farm which abutted the Jefferson National Forest in the Appalachian Mountains. Their property was in Virginia, but the Tennessee border was just a short distance away. I loved to visit their farm, and would spend hours walking through their fields and pastures, climbing higher without looking back. Then, when I reached the edge of the forest, I would turn around to see a beautiful valley spread before me. I liked following the cow paths because, like me, they seemed to have no direction in life but their path always went past interesting things.

Aunt Therza was an attractive woman, and old family photos prove that she was a real knock-out when she was young. No wonder my Uncle Mark was crazy about her, and so it remained all his life. She had beautiful dark hair and snapping deep brown eyes. In the summer she would turn brown as a berry. But the most beautiful part of her was deep inside.

Aunt Therza was a wonderful cook. When we would visit, I would awaken to the smell of freshly baked rolls, red-eye gravy, and country ham. She made potato rolls from the previous evening's mashed potatoes, and they were so good you wanted to smack your grandma. I was a picky eater when I was little, and she tricked me into liking squash with her casserole recipe (which I make to this day). Mealtimes were special because there was always a lot of love, laughter, and good conversation passed around the table along with the wonderful food. She never put on airs, but she could set a beautiful table with her Stieff Rose silver pattern.

In addition to being a gracious hostess, Aunt Therza had a keen eye for antiques. From her, I learned to love and appreciate antiques also, although I never developed her expertise. The two of us went "antiquing" frequently when I would visit, and she would sail right past the fancy shops. Aunt Therza loved fine china and silver, but preferred primitive antiques when it came to furniture. The orphaned, careworn items that others had cast out in place of newer, shinier (shoddier) possessions found a home with Aunt Therza. She appreciated the nicks and gouges that time had inflicted on these sturdy Old Faithfuls.

We would stop at ramshackle shops that I feared would collapse if we dug too deeply for hidden treasure within. I recall one place where she found a serving fork that I thought was, frankly, stomp-down ugly. In her sweet but firm way, she bargained the price down to one dollar. Our next stop was at her jeweler's who offered her $50 on the spot (this was back in the mid-70's...it would be worth hundreds today). She knew when she picked it out of a box of junk that it was solid silver. It didn't stop her from wanting a few dollars off, though.

Another thing I admired about Aunt Therza was that she didn't suffer fools gladly. In fact, she didn't suffer fools at all. In her view, life was too short and there was too much to do. I never saw Aunt Therza be rude to anyone, but there was little mystery as to how she felt about folks. Thankfully, her daughters are the same way.

Unfortunately, Aunt Therza was right...life is too short. She died battling cancer when I was in my twenties. I did visit her when she was still taking treatments, and I was saddened to see how that damned illness was taking its toll on her body. Toward the end, I planned to go see her in the hospital, but my dad did not want me to do this. He loved her so, and it broke his heart to see her so fragile and frail. It was one of the very few times I heard my dad cry. He wanted me to remember her in better circumstances. This is one time I wish I had followed my heart even if it meant defying my father. I don't think he realized that I would have looked beyond the tarnished body, and I would only see pure shining silver.

Agitating in the Elm

One day, when I was about six years old, my mother had a new washing machine delivered. It arrived in a huge cardboard box, which I immediately dragged into the front yard. I took a thick, black magic marker, drew a door and some windows on the cardboard, and used a box cutter (no TSA back then) to cut the apertures on three sides so they would open and close. Instant playhouse. Other boys would have made a tank; I had a giant dollhouse. At least until it rained.

Our neighbor who lived in the house behind us helped my dad remove the old washer to the driveway, and install the new machine in the garage. I'm not sure which one of them looked at the defunct washer and said "you know, we should take all the parts out of this thing, and hang it in that tree out yonder." So that's what they did, and in two shakes (or more) I had an enameled metal treehouse. To my dad, who had seen armed combat, the jarring sight of seeing an uncamouflaged gleaming white washing machine suspended in the lower branches of a large tree must have seemed a bit wrong, but our yard was large, the treehouse was at the very back of the lawn, and you could barely see it from the street. Besides, you had to go past two dead end signs to drive by our house, so random traffic was nil.

Washing machines aren't made for a dual purpose. I couldn't enter through the lid, because Dad and the neighbor had replaced the top panel and lid of the machine with a plywood square. Besides, I would have looked silly dropping myself in like a load of laundry. The rear of the washer had been manufactured with an open panel so that repairmen could access the working parts. That was the entrance to my new treehouse, but it required a ladder and, let's face it, the quarters were cramped. And what to do when my friends and I got in there? It was dark and pretty dull inside.

So the treehouse was yanked down briefly for improvements, and the solution was extending the floor of the treehouse so that there was an outer deck with more room to breathe. Now we had "base camp." Little boys are ingenious and resourceful. My friends and I collected any piece of scrap wood, metal, and netting we could beg or borrow, and raided my dad's shed for tools and nails. We worked on the treehouse until we had a nice clubhouse, and the original "room" was engulfed by a rickety addition. Eventually I had a three-story treehouse.

The little white washing machine morphed in other ways. It became, in the blink of an eye, a pirate ship, a haunted house, a spacecraft, a cave...you name it. What would you like it to be? The sky's the limit.

This was my home away from home, whether it was packed with friends or I was in it alone with my dog and a good book. I would hoist my dog up the tree, and we would wile away the hours - she napping, me absorbed in a story. We were in our own little world, but just a parent's yell away from the dinner table. My friends and I spent many happy hours in and around the treehouse, climbing the tree branches, playing matchbox cars at the base of the tree, and avoiding the horse chestnut hulls with our bare feet. The chestnut tree was barely twenty feet away, and let me tell you, those protective hulls have very sharp spikes that will pierce armor.

Little boys grow up and can no longer be contained by their yards, their streets, or their neighborhoods. My dog grew old and died, and I got a car. The treehouse was abandoned, and my dad eventually dismantled it. I'm not even sure when that happened. I was no longer made of snakes and snails and puppy dog tails. That's what little boys are made of.

Forgotten Rooms

We didn't live near our relatives when I was growing up. We lived on the East Coast, and my mom was from the Mid-West, so we didn't see her family frequently. Most of my dad's family lived in the mountainous region of Southwestern Virginia, and we made one or two trips there per year for visits. One of the relatives we would see when we were in the area was my dad's Aunt Liza.

Two things that intrigued me when I was little were multi-story houses (we lived in a rancher), and scary stories. Visits to Aunt Liza's house were right up my alley.

Aunt Liza had been a robust, ambitious woman in her day, but that day had passed long before I came on the scene. My dad remembered her as a force of nature who would arrive in a chauffeured Packard to check on his family's welfare when he was a child, dispensing gifts, advice, and money. I only knew her as the crabby old crone who lived in her bed. Aunt Liza had suffered several debilitating strokes, and was confined to her room and tended by a nurse.

Aunt Liza's house was vast and spooky. Her room had previously been a parlor or receiving room which had been re-outfitted to accommodate her invalid's bed. This room was selected so she could be removed from the house swiftly in case of fire. One peek inside the house would convince anyone that this was a wise precaution. The house was stuffed to the gills with the detritus of a former, larger existence.

My Aunt Therza told me the house had seventy-five rooms; my dad put the count at thirty-six. Either way, it was a big house for a woman confined to one room. Aunt Liza reposed in a room to the left of the entrance hall. The nurse ushered guests to a parlor to the right of the front door to await an audience with Aunt Liza. These two rooms were kept in presentable shape, and I always wondered what the rest of the house looked like.

The house sat on a corner in a small Southern city and had three full floors, excluding attics and basement. There were three staircases; the staircase in the entrance hall swept up to the second floor like an ornate gangplank, and resembled the staircase on The Munsters. Midway into the house was a stairway that served floors one through three, and the servants' stairs in the rear of the home went from basement to attics.

On one visit I worked up the nerve to ask Aunt Liza if I could wander through her home. She said yes. I made it as far as the top of the front stairway, where the musty velvet curtains revealed gloomy hallways leading off into darkness. I returned to the parlor to enlist the protective services of my mother. She sighed in exasperation, but agreed to serve as bodyguard. She told me later that she was secretly thrilled because she had wanted to poke around in this house for years.

Aunt Liza's house could have been a template for any haunted house in a Hollywood movie. All the doors to the many rooms were firmly closed, and opening them revealed the same thing room after room. In her ambulatory past, she had owned several homes before being confined to her house in town. Apparently, most of the furnishings from her other houses had been moved here to decay. Rooms were cluttered with furniture concealed by ancient dropcloths, fallen plaster exposed dusty lathwork, and cobwebs in fantastic proportions connected unrelated flotsam and jetsam. Oblivious or beyond caring, although her front rooms were neat and tidy, Aunt Liza's house was falling apart around her ears.

Today, on my embarkation to sobriety, I am faced with many shuttered and forgotten rooms from my past. Each will need to be exposed to sunlight and fresh air. Dustcloths will have to be whipped off furnishings so that the integrity of these items can be properly evaluated. Many possessions, once deemed important, will be discarded; other neglected contents will be lovingly cleaned and cherished again. The structure will need repair if I am to live here safely. A thorough renovation awaits.

The task cannot be accomplished overnight. Some rooms will be locked, and a locksmith will be needed. This work shouldn't be done alone. The endeavor will not be easy, but in the end I won't be confined to one seemingly orderly room surrounded by ghosts and chaos.

Fun with Ginger

Ginger. What comes to mind?

For me, and probably many of my generation, it could be Ginger Grant, the movie star castaway on the 60's sitcom Gilligan's Island.

I also think of Ginger as a nice dog's name, because I met a lot of canine Gingers when I was growing up. None specifically come to mind, although their owners most likely enjoy fond memories.



Zingaber officinale, a rhizome, lays claims to medicinal value in treating nausea, vomiting, and inflammation in either fresh root or powdered form. The active ingredients are volatile oils and phenol compounds. How many times were you given a glass of ginger ale with a bendy straw when you were a kid with a tummy ache?

There's the powdered spice used in cooking and baking, made from Zingaber officinale, and the fresh root of this plant. That's what we're talking about today.
I've already shared my grandma's ginger cookie recipe, and today I want to tell you about a gingerbread recipe I made up recently. The recipe was inspired by one I bumped into that called for fresh ginger. This makes the gingerbread extra-zingy, and a wonderful accompaniment to a cup of coffee. Add side orders of enthralling book and comfy chair and you are ready to sit a spell, especially if you can talk someone else into fetching coffee refills.


Zingy Gingerbread
1-1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1-1/2 cups whole wheat flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon ground cloves
1-1/2 teaspoons ground ginger (you can use more)
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup butter, softened
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1 cup molasses
1/2 cup milk
2 eggs
1 tablespoon fresh ginger root, peeled and grated

Sift together the dry ingredients, and set aside. Preheat oven to 350.
Cream the butter. Slowly pour in oil while beating. Beat in sugars. Add eggs, one at a time. Beat until fluffy. Mix in molasses and fresh ginger.
Add some of the dry ingredients to the butter/oil/egg stuff and mix briefly. Mix in milk. Add remaining dry ingredients and mix just until blended. If you beat the hell out of it, you'll have tough gingerbread. Bake in a 9x13 lightly greased or non-stick pan at 350 for 50-60 minutes (or until it tests done). Cool in pan, then cover with foil or plastic wrap, and forget about it until the next day. Unless you are me, and you have to have some while it's warm from the oven. The texture really does improve overnight, though, take it from me. The top gets kinda crusty-chewy, and the inside gets nice and moist. This is good plain, or with whipped cream, lemon sauce, or vanilla ice cream. Or, heck, try all three. Live on the edge. Let your hair hang down.


As far as baking time goes, anything you read in a recipe can vary depending on thickness of the pan, accuracy of your oven thermostat, humidity level, sea level, your mood, lighting, political climate, moon phases, and position of stars and planets. Don't let this discourage you...just test your cakes and quick breads before you yank them out and sell the oven. I use wooden appetizer-size skewers that are a bit thicker than a toothpick, because they're long enough to get down into the middle of a pound cake, if that's what you're baking. Toothpicks aren't long enough for most things. Some folks use broomstraws, and I sure hope it's not from a broom they use for bathroom floors and outdoor decks. If the skewer comes out wet with batter, guess what? You need to bake it longer and test it again in another spot. If it pulls out basically dry with just a crumb or two clinging to it, it's done. Things can look done on the outside while they're still like lava on the inside, especially if they have dark spices or ingredients like molasses. Note: this testing method does NOT work on homemade brownies.

I made some purportedly chewy brownies recently whose recipe said to test with a toothpick in the center when the brownies had started to pull away from the edge of the pan. These brownies were not chewy unless they meant you had to masticate them until your jaws ached and had worked up enough saliva to help them make it down the hatch. And these were the center pieces. The outer pieces are being used as paving stones out back.

Another thing, start cleaning up as soon as you pop your pan in the oven. You're already in "go" mode, and I promise it will take you half the time to do it now instead of later. You'll enjoy the finished product more, too, when you don't have dirty dishes staring at you balefully. All will be sweetness and light. Birds will sing. The Publishers' Clearinghouse van will pull up in front of your house. The gingerbread will taste better. Convinced yet?
Baking isn't difficult, you just need to use common sense. If the smoke alarm is going off, but the recipes is saying 30 more minutes, something's amiss. Maybe the recipe has a typo; maybe it was written by a spiteful submitter. You will find that whatever you make will turn out great 99.9% of the time, and will be welcomed by those you share it with. Have fun!

Boobsie

If we are fortunate as we trudge through the mandatory education system, we will be paired for a time with a teacher who will impact us for the rest of our lives. Most school teachers are there to do a good job, but sprinkled throughout the world's classrooms there are those who bring energy, passion, and optimism to their workplace and, thus, change lives.

I was destined to cross paths with Linda Cobb when I entered high school. Insecure, kind of shy, and rather directionless, I signed up for Drama classes simply because a couple of my friends did. This was a good choice for me. Drama classes were not grade-specific, so we got to mingle with older students, class was held in the auditorium instead of a traditional classroom, and there were plenty of opportunities for extra-curricular activities.

And Drama classes were taught by Linda Cobb. Ms Cobb was a breath of fresh air in a school filled with teachers with hard, bouffant hair-dos. She was young and spirited, and her enthusiasm was contagious. Drama was hands-down my favorite class, and if you thought you could slide by without participating, Ms Cobb immediately dispelled that notion. She had us rolling around onstage, playing charades, acting improvisationally, and reading and writing plays from the get-go. She encouraged everyone to join the Drama Club, and we put on two shows a year. We constructed and painted our own sets, and handled everything from lighting to make-up. She put in very long hours, well beyond what was required of her. We put in long hours, too, but few parents complained because we were in a safe environment instead of running the streets.

Ms Cobb was also the school's Forensics coach. She taught us how to collect evidence at crime scenes and perform autopsies. Hey, wait...I'm getting all this mixed up with Law & Order SVU. Forensics as in various forms of public speaking, to clarify. My speciality was poetry reading, and I moved through district and regional contests to become state champion.

With the above activities, in addition to the fun, came valuable lessons. We learned how to critique others and give constructive feedback. We also learned how to accept criticism. Believe me, this comes in handy as an adult. I had a deep, rich voice in a scrawny body, and I would sidle up to the podium when it was my turn to speak or read. Ms Cobb got up in front of class after I performed one day and did an imitation of me walking up to the podium. Cruel? No. On target? You bet. She taught me how to present myself confidently, even if I was feeling quite the opposite inside. This can mean the difference between getting a promotion or being passed over in the workplace.

I was surprised a few years ago to learn that speaking in front of a crowd ranks toward the top of most people's list of fears. After the tutelage of Ms Cobb, I left this fear in the dust. I could stand up today in front of a crowd of 50,000 with no problem. She helped me find my voice in many ways.

Ms Cobb was no mystery when it came to her social, political, or moral views, and she wanted to hear our opinions during a time in our lives when most adults did not. Our classes were often devoted to discussion of currently hot topics. We learned to look at a world outside our own, and appreciate differing points of view. She encouraged healthy debate, and taught us how to defend our own ideas while remaining open-minded to changing our positions. Sometimes during structured debate she would deliberately assign us to sides which she knew we actually opposed.

I learned so much more from her besides how to stand up in front of a crowd and say "blah-blah-blah." Through her guidance, sometimes gentle, sometimes steely, I became an articulate adult with enough self-confidence to face the world, and enough humility to value people who differ from me.

The story hasn't ended yet. Linda Cobb is still my good friend, over thirty years later.

Oh, and the blog title "Boobsie"? The older students gave her that nickname and gave her a nameplate, which she proudly but discreetly hung inside the trunk lid of her Pontiac Le Mans.

Cookie Baking 101: Grandma's Oven

My grandma was a wonderful baker, and she always had homemade cookies on hand when we would visit her. After spending three days in the backseat of a car to get there, I was ready for a reward. Everyone sat around her kitchen table and talked and laughed. The grown-ups drank coffee; my cousins and I had milk (PDQ was optional). Young and old enjoyed Grandma's homemade sweets.

After my grandpa died, Grandma would fly east to stay with us for a few weeks in the winter. Grandma had a sweet tooth, but she was mildly diabetic and was supposed to watch her sugar intake. Our house was built in the early fifties and had metal kitchen cabinets (cool retro look that some would spend a hat and an ass for nowadays). My mom intentionally kept the cookies in a cabinet that made a piercing screech when opened. Grandma was frustrated because she could never sneak cookies.

I know now why my grandmother liked to bake. It's good for the soul. If you're feeling blue, bake a batch of cookies. I loved concocting potions with my chemistry set when I was a boy, and baking is even better because the results won't kill you. Baking really is chemistry in the kitchen, though, so if you have a would-be mad scientist in your house try steering them toward baking and cooking. You'll benefit from the outcome without worrying about your home blowing up. You mix some dry stuff with some wet stuff, and - voila! - behold, a pound cake or blueberry bread. As long as you follow directions and don't mistake salt for sugar, the finished product can't be terribly bad.


The nice thing about baking is that it gets easier the more you do it.

Here are a couple of my favorites from Grandma's oven...

Ginger Cookies
1/2 cup butter
1/4 cup shortening
1 cup sugar
1/4 cup molasses
1 egg
2 teaspoons baking soda
2 cups flour
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon cloves
1 scant teaspoon salt

Chill dough before baking.


Huh??? That's the complete recipe??? Where are the directions?

Well, folks, this is what my mom and I called an "Iowa recipe." My mom was from Iowa, and there are a lot of really good cooks there. Actually, this recipe is fairly detailed compared to some. Once you get the hang of baking, you can figure out what to do as long as the ingredients are listed. But here's what you do:

Cream the butter, shortening, and sugar together. The butter needs to be softened (not melted) first, which means get it out of the refrigerator ahead of time. While you're at it, get the egg out, too. Eggs should be room temperature when you bake. You can cream this stuff by hand, but if you have a mixer by all means use it. Why add to your carpal tunnel syndrome? Add the egg and blend well. Ditto with the molasses.
Sift all the dry ingredients together. Mix into butter/sugar mixture. Chill the dough in the refrigerator at least an hour; this makes it easier to handle when you form the cookies.

Preheat your oven to 350. Grease your cookie sheets lightly and pour a little sugar in a shallow bowl. Get that cookie dough out of the fridge and roll into balls about the size of a basketball...no, wait! Make that the size of a walnut. Roll each cookie ball in the sugar and place on cookie sheet about two inches apart. Bake 10-12 minutes with the oven rack positioned in the middle for even heat distribution. Remove cookies from oven and let cool on cookie sheet a few minutes, then remove cookies from baking sheet to a wire rack with a spatula.

Some like to flatten the cookie before baking. I find that by leaving them in balls they will turn into almost perfectly shaped cookies. The granulated sugar coating adds crunch and sparkle. I like these cookies on the chewy side, so your baking time may vary depending on your taste (and your oven). Also, if it turns out that you like these as much as I do, you should make a double batch of dough next time, because the recipe as given doesn't yield many cookies.

Ella's Sugar Cookies
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup butter
1/2 cup shortening
1 egg
2 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon Cream of Tartar
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla
Cream sugar, butter, and shortening. Add egg. Sift dry ingredients together. Add to sugar/butter mixture. Form into small balls. Place on cookie sheet and flatten with bottom of a glass. Bake at 350 10 minutes.

These are just a couple of Grandma's recipes. The internet has a bunch of great sites featuring recipes shared by real people just like you and me. Food made right in your own kitchen is so much better than stuff with lots of chemicals added, and it doesn't take much effort to impress people when you rattle your own pots and pans.

Pebbles - Yabba Dabba Doo!

The Flintstones hit my parents' living room in September 1960, the first animated television show aired during primetime. Inspired by The Honeymooners, the Flintstone family was a step up economically from the Kramdens, owning their own home in the town of Bedrock. During the second season, Fred and Wilma welcomed a little prehistoric girl named Pebbles to their family. (side note: when Wilma became pregnant, Winston cigarettes stopped sponsoring the show...I guess it was okay to smoke, but not okay to have babies)

My parents added a beagle puppy to our family when I was four or five, and I named her Pebbles. Children's worlds are fairly small in scope at the age of five, so I named the pup after one of my favorite TV characters, just as I had named my first cat George after the neighbor who gave me the kitty. Pebbles grew into a stout, friendly dog who loved her Gainsburgers, and only barked when something alarmed her. She did not like to be watched when she ate, and would look at me reproachfully with expressive brown eyes if I hovered around her food bowl at mealtime. A polite, neighborly dog, she never jumped up on people or licked faces.

Pebbles lived outdoors, and my dad made her a doghouse by cutting a half-moon in the lid of a metal barrel which we lined with pine needles. Sometimes I would crawl inside her cozy home with her. Her house was placed near the garage door so Pebbles could monitor our comings and goings.

Pebbles was a wonderful companion, and we enjoyed exploring the neighborhood together and hanging out in my treehouse. When I graduated to riding a bicycle, Pebbles would run alongside me with her ears flapping. Wherever I went, she wanted to follow. On schooldays she would accompany me to the bus stop, and she would be there waiting for me when the bus brought me home. Not that she stayed there all day. She was a busy dog, and she had things to do. Her daily routine started well before mine did. While I was still slumbering, she made sure that our neighbor Mr. Paul made it to his carpool around the corner each morning, and she was there like clockwork at the end of his workday. She greeted my dad when he drove home from work, and the hours in between these arrivals and departures were spent guarding our home and hunting rabbits.

In the 60's the chain-link fence reined supreme and provided many a suburban homeowner a metal moat to protect his castle. The yards in our neighborhood were a minimum of one acre in size, and some folks were persnickety about their lawns. Fences kept dogs and neighborhood children on the outside looking in. Unless you were Pebbles. We could not figure out why Pebbles returned home from time to time with one of her front toenails yanked out. Another neighbor, Mr. Guthrie, solved the mystery for us when he told us about working in his fenced-in yard one day when Pebbles trotted up to say hello. We couldn't believe it at first, but this short, fat dog taught herself to climb fences. Occasionally a toenail would get caught in the fence. Fortunately, Pebbles had established herself as the neighborhood ambassador, so no one really minded her visits.

Although Pebbles rarely barked or made any fuss, there was one notable exception. One winter night, when my grandparents were visiting us from Iowa, my grandpa had a fatal heart attack in our living room. Pebbles was outside, with no apparent way of knowing the distress inside our home, yet she howled and howled. It was an eerie sound on that cold night. This is the only time she seemed perceptive of death; when our neighbor Mr. Paul died, Pebbles was bewildered and still showed up faithfully at his house each morning to walk him to his carpool.

Pebbles never overcame her fear of explosive noises or thunderstorms. Since my dad blew things up for the U.S. Navy, this made life hard for Pebbles. We always had firecrackers and M-80's handy for entertainment. New Year's Eve and the Fourth of July were trying times for my dog. We knew when a storm was brewing, because Pebbles would partially wedge her chubby body behind the washing machine in the garage. She was more accurate than the weatherman or a barometer.

This fear of storms would be her undoing. During the summer before I went away to college, my folks and I went on a three-week vacation. Pebbles had a gray muzzle by this time, and her ability to see and hear were diminished by old age. Our next-door neighbors took care of Pebbles and our house while we were gone, but they were away when an afternoon storm blew in the day before we got back from our trip. Pebbles could not get to her safe place behind the washing machine, and she tried to run to a friend's house in a nearby neighborhood. It was rush hour, and a four-lane highway separated Pebbles from safety. She was struck by a car. The driver did not stop, but a kind stranger did and took her to the vet. She lived long enough for me to say good-bye, and greeted me with a grateful whimper when we got to the vet's clinic. A part of my heart and my childhood tore away that moment.

Funny, I didn't expect my eyes to dampen when I wrote this. I can still picture Pebbles in the yard at my feet, grinning and looking up at me with those brown eyes, ready for our next adventure. She was everything we want in a friend: faithful, accepting, protective, comforting, funny, and - above all - loving.

Pebbles & me in our backyard in front of an apple tree. Our grape arbor is visible in the background.

Death is a Holiday

Death became an intimate if unwelcome visitor in my life from an early age.

When I was four, my favorite uncle died from emphysema and alcoholism. He thought I made the sun rise every day, and I was so happy when he would visit us from out of town. My mother would cringe as he put me in his car, because she knew I would end up sitting on a bar as my uncle showed me off to his new drinking buddies. He would take me to a nearby lake, and we would sit in a boat and rock gently among the lily pads.

At five, my grandfather was my best friend. An Iowa farmer, he and my grandmother would visit us in wintertime when the fields were fallow. Each day when I came home from kindergarten, we would play a game or two of Uncle Wiggly. My grandpa was fascinated by the construction of the bridge linking Virginia Beach with Virginia's Eastern Shore, and we would go sit on the sand at Chick's Beach and watch the bridge rise out of the Chesapeake Bay. One evening when we were in the living room he stood up to get his glasses off the mantle and died of a massive heart attack before my eyes.

When I was nine, my best friend died with bone cancer. It was a painful ordeal for Scott, but he was usually cheerful. He looked very small in a child's white casket.

As time went on, I lost more people...a favorite aunt, my grandmother, both of my parents, and my partner.

AIDS inserted itself into my relationship with Michael. At the time, there were only two treatments available, and Michael could not tolerate either one. Within two years of diagnosis, death relieved him of his suffering. You would have loved Michael. He was funny, artistic, had a green thumb, and he loved people. He was also a fighter. His doctor was amazed at his determination, and finally had to tell him that he must quit working. He was with a friend shopping one day and fell down with a grand mal seizure. Our friend wanted to take him to the hospital, but he got up, dusted himself off, and kept on shopping...adding new meaning to "shop 'til you drop."

After Michael died, I fell into a paralyzing depression. Although I believed in God, I did not feel part of it. One night before I fell into a fitful sleep, I asked for some sign that Michael was okay. Two days later, a close friend that I worked with told me that her husband had had an amazing dream two nights earlier (the night I asked for a sign). Ronnie had dreamed that he was at work, outside taking a smoke break, when Michael drove up in his little red car. Michael told Ronnie that he was doing great, and Ronnie asked to ride with him down the road. Michael told Ronnie "no, I have to go alone. You can't go with me, but tell everyone that I'm doing fine," waved good-bye, and drove on.

If I had had this dream myself I would have chalked it up to my mind trying to comfort me with a false vision. But since this message came through a dear friend who loved and cherished Michael, I took it as confirmation that Michael was where he should be, free of pain and enjoying a new life.


I believe that God sends us messages of his love for us constantly, but we are usually so caught up in our day to day worries that we do not see these messages for what they truly are. The next time you are frustrated because you were delayed by a red light, consider that if the light had been green there may have been a haphazard driver down the road that may have involved you in a terrible accident. God is like us: all he (or she) really wants is acknowledgement and thanks. We are created in his image.

I believe that death is a gift, our reward for an earthly life well-lived, and that we will rejoin those loved ones that have gone before us. Take the time today to be of service to others. Even small gestures can mean much when offered in the spirit of friendship and love.

The Making of a Nancy Boy

My mother turned me into a Nancy Boy. She caused reading to become an integral part of my life with bedtime stories which included the classic fairy tales as well as books which have fallen out of favor, such as "Little Black Sambo." She also blew the dust off of her childhood favorites, the Nancy Drew mystery series. I have loved mysteries since I was a child, including popular TV shows that featured ghosts and haunted houses. As a consequence and a result of my first straight-A report card in third grade, my father decided to reward me by taking the family to the new movie, "Night of the Living Dead." I threw up all night, and was afraid my parents would eat me anytime they drew near to comfort me.


Because of my mother and Nancy Drew, I knew how to read before I was packed off to kindergarten at Baylake Pines. Nancy Drew lived in a magical world where there was an abundance of haunted mansions and nefarious criminals. Her sidekicks, Bess and George introduced me to an alternative lifestyle. George, obviously destined to become a woman who wore sensible shoes, flannel shirts, and a keychain attached to her 501 Levis with a heavy chain had a cousin named Bess who was a girly-girl who would have a lesbian relationship at Vassar before marrying a corporate attorney and having 2.5 kids. Nancy's father, Carson Drew, was a lawyer, and although Nancy's mother was dead and gone, Nancy grew up under the guidance of a middle-aged housekeeper named Hannah Gruen. The author of the series was Carolyn Keene, a pseudonym for a man who wrote other children's books as well, including (I believe) the less popular Dana Girls series. The Dana Girls were trailer park trash compared to Nancy and her friends. They probably smoked cigarettes.


I was hooked on Nancy Drew after the first book my mom read to me, "The Secret in the Old Attic." This book featured a bug-eyed black maid named Effie who spent much of her time screaming and running around like a chicken with her head cut off. Other Nancy Drew adventures included "The Bungalow Mystery," "The Clue in the Crumbling Wall," and "The Postman Always Rings Twice." No, wait a minute.


Nancy Drew gave way to Freddy the Pig, the Old Mother West Wind books, Lewis Carroll, "Charlotte's Web," "Harriet the Spy," and "The Phantom Tollbooth." My treehouse became my library, where I taught my dog Pebbles to climb trees. Well, kinda. Reading became an important part of my life, and I would often read three or four books at a time. In second grade I was assigned to be a reading coach to a sullen fourth grader. As I grew older I turned to Henry James, Thomas Hardy, Kafka, Flannery O'Connor, Orwell, and Kurt Vonnegut. I read "Gone with the Wind" five times before graduating from high school.


Books make good friends. They are portable, and won't chirp, beep, or time out on you. They will accompany you, sans batteries or wireless connection, to the shore of the sea or the banks of a lake, waiting silently until you pick them up and allow them to speak. And they can speak volumes, no pun intended. Books can narrow your focus as they broaden your perspective. Books have enlightened mankind, provided mindless entertainment, and helped change the course of history. Books are powerful, spawning enormous libraries and blazing bonfires.


When it's time for a child's birthday or a special celebration, give a book. When asked to read a bedtime story to a youngster (I love that word. First we are youngsters; then we are youths), jump up and say "yes." Take a child to a library to get a library card. Books transcend economic barriers, and they are always able to transport a reader to different realities.


One of the best gifts my mother gave me was the desire to read. Let's keep it going.


p.s. I still have my Nancy Drew books; and, if you'd like to know more about the author, click here.

My Friend Al

My mom and dad were kind, courteous, and humorous, and from them I learned the importance of friendship. They were fun to be around, and they had a nice group of close friends.

I am fortunate to have wonderful friends in my life; some friendships stretch back for many years. Making new pals is very exciting with the possibility of something that may endure, and there's nothing like the special bond I have with my long-term buddies, the old shoes. I learned a hard lesson this year, though: be careful who you draw near.

I first met Al in high school. We only hung out together a few times, always with a couple of mutual friends. I really didn't know Al very well then. When I went to college I bumped into him at parties.

When I was in my twenties I found out that Al was friends with some of my pals, and we saw each other more often. I admired his ability to put people at ease, and his casual sophistication. Al really was a lot of fun to be around, and he and I grew closer. Although I was considered a fun guy, I lacked self-confidence when it came to developing a meaningful relationship with someone special. I have to give Al credit for giving me the push I needed to pursue Michael, who became my partner. Al was happy that I met Michael, and the three of us were close. When Michael died, Al couldn't go to the funeral, but he was waiting to comfort me afterwards. Sometimes he held me when I cried.

We spent a lot of time together after that, and most of my friends liked his company, too. In fact, Al even went on business trips with me. I had romantic notions of him, but there was never a sexual relationship between us. He was a faithful companion through good times and bad, and he moved in with me.

Things started to get strange. Al had always been so much fun, but he started getting very moody. I realized he was giving me some bad advice. This good friend who had encouraged my relationship with Michael was now coming between me and the guys I met and hoped to date. One man, a wonderful fellow, told me frankly that Al really worried him. When Al heard this, he convinced me to ditch the budding relationship.

I finally realized that Al wanted me all to himself. I found myself in a baffling situation. How had I gotten myself into this mess? He was so possessive...why hadn't I seen this before? I knew he didn't really care about me, and I began to suspect that he wished me ill. I actually moved Al out of the house a few times, but he would be back after a few days or weeks, turning on the charm. Yeah, yeah, I know it was stupid, but I'd relent and let him back in. He'd promise to change, and said that it would be like the good old days. I truly believed we could recapture those memories, and forget all the crap that had happened lately. He was cunning in his persuasiveness.

Al doesn't live here anymore, but it got even worse before I discovered a way to get rid of him. He would wake me up at all hours wanting to spend time with me, and I was losing sleep. He discouraged me from leaving my home to see other friends, and wouldn't let me have people over to my place. I was ashamed of myself, because I would actually tremble if we didn't hang out together all the time. All the fun had gone out of our dysfunctional relationship.

Al threatened my life one night, and I had to be hospitalized. He was a powerful guy. Like a typical victim of abuse, I went back to him for a couple of nights when I returned home. But I knew he would kill me, so I snuck out of the house and found a group of people who promised a plan that worked. These people prefer to remain anonymous, but I know who they are and I know where to find them. I returned home after meeting them, grabbed Al by the neck, and poured him down the drain.

Mom's Table

When I was growing up, my friends loved to get an invitation from my mom to have supper at our house. A meal at Mom's table meant that no one went hungry. We always sat at the table and shared this time together, and there was more than enough food to go around even when there was an unplanned guest. A typical supper included at least one meat, one or two green vegetables, one or two yellow vegetables, a starch (usually potatoes), rolls or bread, a relish tray and condiments, a salad following the meal, and dessert. Usually we would have to wait awhile before we could get to dessert.

Mom always fixed well-rounded, healthy meals (as defined by the era and her upbringing), but there was another reason for all this bounty. When I was little, I was a scrawny, sickly child. I always got croup a couple of times each winter, in addition to the usual maladies. My dad was in the military, so we were entitled to free medical services. When I was seven, I got croup as usual, and the military doctors prescribed an antibiotic that I was allergic to. To compound the issue, they prescribed an adult dose by mistake. The result was that I became severely ill and dehydrated, but the doctors at the base clinic did not figure out why. Finally, in desperation, my mother took me to a civilian doctor who diagnosed the problem and placed me in the hospital right away. My dad, who was away on military maneuvers, was flown home because my situation was touch and go. I was down to about forty pounds at this point, and when I was released from the hospital, my folks were instructed to put some weight on me to give my immune system a fighting chance. By fifth grade, I was the fattest kid in class.

My mother brought other items to the table...things that were not so healthy. Although she was an excellent cook, she was forever apologizing for the food she served. When she was three, my mother's eleven year old sister died. Growing up, her mother frequently compared my mom unfavorably to her deceased sister. This was not done in an intentionally hurtful way; my grandmother was trying to correct my mother's behavior. Grandma was a remarkable, resilient woman who had been through some very difficult times, and children don't come with instruction manuals. Grandma wanted the best for my mom, but the message my mother heard was that her dead sister never did anything wrong, and my mom would never be able to match her behavior or accomplishments. It's impossible to compete with dead people. My mother developed an inferiority complex wider and longer than the Grand Canyon.

My mother parented me the only way she knew how, modeling her techniques on her mother's. I was forever being compared to the children of friends and family. Over time, I harbored a lot of resentment and I lacked self-confidence. I was nervous about trying new things because there was a nagging voice in my head that assured me I would fail. I couldn't seem to find anything I was good at doing, except reading, and that's hard to show off. "Pull up a chair and watch me read!" Hardly a crowd pleaser. I stank at sports, and it didn't help to be "the fat kid." I learned to defend myself with a quick wit and sarcasm.

While I was in fifth grade being fat, my mom was busy getting help. I do not know what prompted this, and my memories of this period are vague. My mother was hospitalized with a "nervous breakdown," and I went to stay with a friend and his family. I didn't know exactly what was going on, but I knew that my mom had to be away for a while. I know that my dad and I went to see her, only because we were in a bad car accident after one of the hospital visits. I remember the accident, but not seeing my mom during her time away.

When she came home, she was a woman on a mission. She went through the attic like Sherman went through Georgia, and she threw out a big pile of toys and belongings from her childhood. It bewildered me to see all these things waiting for the garbage men, and I wanted to rescue some of the items. In some way, though, I knew that even though I did not understand, it was important for my mother to get these things out of our house.

As I grew older, my self-esteem grew also. Through an insightful and inspiring school teacher, I discovered hidden skills...talents that would bring me out of my shell, and serve me well as I became an adult. My mother, because of her quest for self-understanding, began praising me and rejoicing in my accomplishments. Her meals remained as delicious as ever, and they were no longer served with a poison pill.

All Creatures, Furry and Scaly

Like many kids growing up in the suburbs in the 60's, I had a collection of pets. My dog, Pebbles, was in for the long haul, and others had cameo appearances. Pebbles rolled her eyes at each new pet, and if it happened to be a kitten, she borrowed from Dorothy Parker and muttered "What fresh Hell is this?" under her doggy breath.


I was an EEO animal owner, and my parade of pets included a bird, various cats (George, Samantha, Sallie Egg, Zebulon, Alexander, and Mildred to name a few), five hamsters, a raccoon, a fish, a bunny rabbit, and countless snakes, toads, and turtles.


My dad was in the Navy, and was on the UDT/SEAL team. This gang of exuberant loons was located by design in a private fenced-off compound toward the edge of the base near some piney woods in case they got too frisky with their explosives. One day my dad came home from work and placed a container on the driveway. It looked like a very tall, fat, olive-green soup can, and had probably held a mortar shell before my dad put the snake in it. "Bill, this is a pine snake. It's not poisonous, but it's wild and it might bite you when you pick it up. Be very careful when you reach in this can, because the edges are really sharp." I looked up at my dad and blinked, then promptly walked over to the can and ran my thumb along the sharp edge. Sure enough, it sliced my thumb wide open. My dad just closed his eyes, shook his head, and went into the house for a cocktail.


I was too excited about my new snake to worry about a bloody thumb or a snake bite (it did), and I decided that such a beautiful, splendid snake needed a more handsome home than an old bomb can. I quickly rustled up a wooden box, and with all the passion of someone who would later consider becoming an interior decorator, proceeded to transform the splintery box into a home fit for a king snake. I placed strewn grass on the bottom of the box along with a couple of small toys, added a container of water, and artfully placed a small tree branch against the inner side of the box. Once I got the snake settled into his new digs, I scampered off to find some food for him. When I returned a few moments later, the snake was gone. I looked high and low, but finally had to admit to myself that this snake did not appreciate his lovely new home and would not be back. Dang, I didn't even have time to name him. I went inside to pout and whine about the snake and my thumb (which had suddenly decided to throb). When I complained bitterly about the ingratitude of snakes, my dad just grinned.


I really loved cats, but I treated them terribly when I was little. I wasn't being deliberately mean; I just wanted to be a cat, and I envied their ability to fit into places I couldn't. I would mash them behind the pump, into holes, and up thorny trees, waiting for them to come out and tell me what they saw back there, in there, or up there. It didn't take any of them long to learn to stay put wherever I had shoved them, and out-wait me. They knew I'd get bored soon enough and wander off, and it would be safe for them to emerge while I was elsewhere creating more havoc.


I'd like to say that pet ownership taught me responsibility, but I'd be lying. The novelty of feeding them wore off after a couple of days. My parents knew that unless they wanted our household pets to look like the soulful-eyed schlock-art paintings of alley kittens and trashcan puppies that were so popular at the time, they would have to take over administering food and water. I did learn that bites and scratches heal, and that pets love you and usually want to be around you, even when your friends don't.


Some pets were more memorable than others. I can't remember even one of the hamsters' names, but they just slept all the time anyway. My long-suffering beagle, Pebbles, deserves her own blog entry, so maybe I'll work on that soon. In the meantime, I think I'll go slice my thumb open on some raw tin for old times sake.