Two Richmonders Against the Odds

Good grief! Planet Bill's first post of 2011, and we're treated to a cemetery shot? Am I in a dark mood? No, not at all; I've just been roaming Richmond with my camera, and Morris & I found ourselves sticking our noses in a couple of places that were new to us. Let's take a look.

The picture at the top was taken in Holy Cross Cemetery, located at the southwestern edge of Chestnut Hill. This district was one of Richmond's original streetcar neighborhoods, and contains many examples of Queen Anne, American Foursquare, Greek Revival, Bungalow, and Colonial Revival homes. The sky was gray, and the wind was cold & brisk on the day that Morris & I rode through the graveyard. We came across a curious plot with multiple iron crosses with no names, simply the abbreviation for Rest In Peace.

Cemeteries have never terrified me. Even as a child, when I found some of them pleasantly creepy, they were assurances of the order of life. I remember visiting the graves of relatives, some known and others gone prior to my birth, and hearing remembrances of these people from my grandmother. Like the books I loved to read, there was a beginning and end, but the stories between the similar covers were colorful, fascinating, and unique. Death is part of the natural order of life. Ashes to ashes, and all that. What is important is what we write on our pages.

After a Saturday breakfast at a place called Yesterday's (appropriately named, since we were fueling up for a day of local history), we drove toward downtown. At the edge of the city limits, we took a detour up a rutted road in search of Woodland Cemetery. It was a forlorn place, barely kept, and made meaner by winter's harsh light. Groundskeeping seemed limited to common areas, for many gravesites were wild with dead weeds & brambles. The cemetery was bordered by untamed thickets on two sides, and industrial buildings on another. The two pictures, above & below, give an idea of the unwelcoming atmosphere.

What better place to bury a local hero! Yessiree, here's where you will find Arthur Ashe, champion of Wimbledon, the Australian Open, and the US Open. After a lifetime of battling racial discrimination, he rests in a place for Richmond's deceased black citizens - desolate Woodland Cemetery.

Arthur Ashe grew up in Richmond. His athletic grace was matched by his intelligence. He had to fight to play tennis, growing up in a time when he was not allowed on most courts. Ashe was a fighter on & off the tennis courts, breaking into a traditionally "white only" sport, and then becoming an AIDS activist. Ashe contracted HIV through an unscreened blood transfusion in 1983. Although he wished to keep this information private, when he learned that USA Today was nosing around his business, he pre-empted their news coup by calling a press conference to make his own disclosure of his disease. He established the Arthur Ashe Foundation for the Defeat of AIDS, and became a champion of humanitarian causes.

Arthur Ashe attended Maggie Walker High School in Richmond, a school for black students during segregation named for another determined underdog, where teachers urged their pupils to excellence. Our destination, although Morris & I got sidetracked by cemeteries, was the Maggie Walker House in the Jackson Ward District. I highly recommend the tour of Maggie Walker's home, which is now a National Park Service property.

Maggie Walker was the first female president of an American bank, an accomplishment all the more noteworthy because she was African-American during a time of unabashed racial discrimination. Her mother was a former slave who took in laundry to support the family after Maggie's father was murdered. Maggie attended the Armstrong School, and became a teacher there after graduating. At that time, only single women were allowed to teach, so she left her job upon her marriage. She rose to a prominent position in the Independent Order of St. Luke, a benevolent organization that assisted African-Americans with health care & burial services. She chartered the St. Luke Penny Savings Bank and became its first president in 1903. Keep in mind that this was even before the Nineteenth Amendment gave women the right to vote in elections. Her bank gave many black citizens an opportunity to have a savings account and buy a house.

The picture above shows one of the double parlors in Maggie Walker House. When touring most historic homes, the tour guide (when pressed) will say something like "These pieces are reproductions. We've furnished the house the way we sorta kinda figure it might have looked originally." Not so with Maggie's house. The house passed directly from the Walker family to the National Park Service in 1979, and still contains most of the original furnishings, including the pictures on the walls. Recently, the Walker descendents donated fifty additional original items to the house. You really get the feeling that you are walking through Maggie's home, and that her boisterous grandchildren may run through the room at any moment.

Another wonderful aspect of the tour is that you get to see nearly the entire house. Parlors, dining rooms, and bedrooms are part of touring most historic homes, but I always want to see how people really lived. What were the back rooms like? Above you see the kitchen, and below is the laundry room. Can you imagine cooking a meal for a large family plus guests in a kitchen with no countertops? Today we have Viking ranges, granite counters, motorized gizmos, and most Americans haven't got a clue about cooking from scratch. If the box doesn't say add water & stir it's time to make restaurant reservations.

A small bedroom for a granddaughter has her collection of dolls on the bed.

Now, I can pretty much assure you that you're not going to take a tour of a gilded-age mansion and hear a tour guide say "Mrs. Vanderbilt repaired to this chamber when she needed to take a slash." Next we see Maggie Walker's bathroom, complete with clean-but-stained toilet, bidet & bedpan. There are no pretenses here; the tour guide will even point out the upstairs window where Maggie's son shot & killed his father, mistaking him for a midnight intruder.

In the next photo we see why there was a bedpan in Maggie's bathroom. She spent her later life as an invalid. She had diabetes, and her cause of death in 1934 was listed as "diabetes gangrene." Her two sons and their families lived with her, and there were up to ten people living in the 28-room house at one point. Upstairs, Maggie had her own little oasis: a large bedroom, her own spacious bathroom, and a kitchenette that had been fashioned from an upper enclosed side porch. The kitchenette had a wall of windows that faced east, and I imagine that she enjoyed this cheerful, sunny room in the mornings.

She also enclosed a porch off her bedroom at the front of the house, which you can see in the first photo of the Maggie Walker House. Here, she liked to sit in her wheelchair to watch the traffic go by, looking down at the Jackson Ward neighborhood that she helped make the "Harlem of the South" and the "Black Wall Street of America."

Alcoholism took its toll on her family. It is said that her husband and both of her sons were alcoholics, and that her husband came home drunk and was trying to sneak into the house via an upper rear porch when his son fatally shot him. There had been a series of neighborhood robberies, but the family had to endure a murder trial before the son was aquitted. He never recovered emotionally from the tragedy, sank deeper into the drink, and died a few years later.

Ending your tour today, we have a few more photographs. These were taken in the very old section known as Union Hill, a district which dates back to around 1805. Thanks for dropping by, and I hope your year has started out smoothly.

Castaways

Thinking back to your childhood, what changes did you go through in a four-year span? Four years is a long time in the life of a child. I remember thinking after each Christmas that Santa's next visit would take forever. Meanwhile, without even realizing what was occurring, I was going through amazing changes from one year to the next.

The growth of a child doesn't wait. It cannot be put "on hold." I've always thought it strange that I don't remember my infancy, when my mental and physical development was at its peak. Living each hour was an explosion of experiences that refined my motor skills, vocalization capabilities, cognitive thinking, and ability to interact with the world around me.

As I learned the basics of moving, talking, eating, and controlling my bowels and bladder, my parents also taught me how to interact with other people. They taught me to use good manners, obey rules, consider the safety of myself and others, and share my toys. My parents were the stewards of my development. I am grateful that I had such loving and responsible guardians.

I feel a bit unsettled today. I'll tell you why, and maybe you can help me out by sharing your comments with me. I had mixed feelings when I heard about Florida's State Supreme Court decision concerning gay adoption. For those of you who may not have heard, a judge ruled that the state law blocking gays from adopting children is unconstitutional.

Why do I have mixed feelings? First of all, I am happy about that decision. The state, though, intends to appeal it. They think it is horrifying. They cite studies that show that gays are more likely to abuse drugs and alcohol, and that gay relationships are less stable than heterosexual marriages. I am sure that we will be treated to newscasts of outraged citizens bitterly denouncing the judge's ruling.

Where are these people when it comes to opening their homes to foster children? For years the state of Florida has been using gay households as dumping grounds for the "undesirable" children in need of foster care. Does the kid have mental, physical, or behavioral problems? Are they "too old" to adopt? Diseased? Ugly? Halt or lame? Stick those kids on the list for queers. Hell, they'll take any scraps we throw them. We'll save these shiny-looking kids for the choosy heterosexual foster parents.

Let me be clear. I think these kids are valuable. But the state of Florida does not. Otherwise why would they have allowed these two children to live in foster care for four years with gay men, when the state's position is that their home is unfit and dangerous for adoption?

Here's an interesting quotation pulled from a news article:

John Stemberger, chairman of a successful drive earlier this month to pass a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage in Florida, called the ruling
"classic judicial activism" and predicted it would be reversed on appeal.
"Everywhere in the law where children are affected, the standard must always be what is in the best interest of the child," said Stemberger, an attorney in Orlando. "What is stunning to me is that when it comes to dealing with gays, that standard goes out the window. Children do better with a mother and a father."

Oh, really? How many children does Mr. Stemberger foster in his pleasant home? In the landmark case the children are ages 4 and 8, and have been in the care of Martin Gill and his partner since 2004. That's a lifetime for one child, and half a lifetime for the other.

When I was a teenager, over half of my close friends were being raised by single parents, resulting from unsuccessful heterosexual marriages. Of the others, two lived in homes with unhappily married parents. One friend broke down in tears one afternoon and told me that her parents' marriage was horrible; her father had slept on the couch in the den for years and was an alcoholic. From the outside, she seemed to be from an all-American home, but the emotional turmoil inside that home had her marrying the leader of a religious cult within a few years. Having a mother and a father coexisting under the same roof did not make her "do better."

Awhile back I saw a documentary about two gay men, both nurses in a pediatric AIDS unit, who took five children into their home that no one else wanted. They fed them, clothed them, educated them, hauled them to after-school activities if they lived long enough, kept them on their individual daily medicines, disciplined them, and loved them. One of the fellows gave up his career to provide at-home care to these sick children. The film is We Are Dad, and here is what one viewer had to say about it:

By chance I had the honor to see We Are Dad. It totally changed my mind regarding adoptive gay parents. I grew up with the (wrong) notion (given to me
by the adults around me) that gay parents couldn't provide a healthy medium for a developing child to be raised in. Come on! How many nuclear families screwed up their kids. And these two gay guys are the best. After seeing it and pondering about it I am a lot more inclined to be all for gay marriage and adoption by gay parents. I am really glad I saw this factual film. It opened my eyes, mind, and heart. I recommend to anyone to see it. You will have more facts with this documentary on which to base your opinions so you can also give it established on some ground and not only on discrimination and narrowness of mind like I did.

Florida should put its money where its mouth is. If they think gays make unsuitable parents, then don't use them as foster parents. Let the straight Floridians take on the burdens from broken heterosexual relationships. Instead, the state says that gay households are unfit for adoption, but sees no hypocrisy in funneling its unwanted children into them for foster care.

Now, with this recent court decision, it will be interesting to see how Florida, and the rest of the nation, reacts.

Collards, Cornbread, and a Love Doll

Sunday evening I went over to my friend John's for dinner and a movie. We do this fairly regularly since he has a big, crisp screen on his wall and I have a Netflix subscription. Sometimes we dine out, and sometimes we fix dinner at his house. This time, John prepared a delicious dinner before we watched the movie I took along.

John grilled thick, juicy pork chops outdoors, and he also fixed collard greens, fresh corn, and iron skillet cornbread. After a satisfying meal, we settled down to watch the movie. I have to give Netflix credit for having a great selection of DVD's. I've watched many films that, otherwise, I would not have had easy access to view. More and more classic, foreign, documentary, and obscure films that would have been too unprofitable for the VHS format are being released on DVD's.

Last night we watched an enchanting film called Lars and the Real Girl. I've enjoyed nearly every film featuring Ryan Gosling, and when I saw that Patricia Clarkson also appeared in the movie, I decided to give it a try. Ryan Gosling plays Lars, a painfully shy loner who lives in a garage behind the home of his brother and sister-in-law. Lars orders a life-size love doll from a website, not for sex but for companionship. He believes that his new friend Bianca is real, proudly introduces her to his shocked brother & sister-in-law, and from that point on the film is a delightful journey.

An astute doctor (played by Patricia Clarkson) instructs the bewildered brother to play along with Lars' delusion, assuring him that it will pass when Lars no longer needs it. The reaction of the townsfolk to their newest citizen is heartwarming, and soon Lars is taking part in social activities with Bianca in tow.

This film speaks comically but eloquently about the healing power of acceptance, kindness, and love. I can't help but wonder how much more splendid our world would be if we treated each other with such tender compassion. Please add Lars and the Real Girl to your short list of must-see movies. Your time will be covered by Planet Bill's guarantee of satisfaction, and if you feel your ninety-five minutes were wasted each moment will be refunded. This film is a jewel!

(Note: you may click here for your own love doll, but be forewarned that this is an adults-only site!)

The Cat Lady of Monte de los Almendros

For several years, my friend Suzanne lived on the Mediterranean Coast of Spain. Recognizing a golden opportunity when I saw it, I was her first guest from the States. I enjoyed my visit thoroughly, and returned as often as I could. I made a total of fours trips during her years there, ranging from ten days to three weeks in duration. Suzanne lives in Amsterdam now, but I have yet to make a trip to The Netherlands. Keep the faith, Suzanne!


My first trip to Spain was also my first European journey, so I decided to splurge and fly first class. I bounced from home to Atlanta, spent some time in the private lounge, and boarded the big jet for an overnight flight to Madrid. The flight was wonderful, sort of like traveling on Air-Tran, I would imagine. I've never flown Air-Tran, but my buddy Sheldon tells me that no matter how long the flight, they won't throw you a pretzel fragment - or even a life-threatening peanut.


Before the plane left the gate I was presented with a crystal flute of champagne and a dinner menu. There was also a small dop kit in my seat containing all sorts of comfort items, including one of those eye-masks I remember seeing in old movies and I Love Lucy episodes.


What to order for dinner? As I pondered the menu, a flight attendant brought me a dish of mixed nuts. Served in a gold-bordered white china bowl, the nuts were piping hot, and there wasn't a lowly peanut in the bunch. See what I mean about being similar to Air-Tran?


Here's what I ordered, as described by Delta's sky-chefs:

Warm Smoked Chicken Roulade topped with grilled Eggplant and Feta
Cheese
Chilled tender Citrus Shrimp served on a bed of Lettuce
Tomato and Caper Relish will accompany your Appetizers (Well, I should hope so!)
Spring Mix with sweet Pepper Julienne and Cucumber
Assorted Rolls and Butter

Asian-Style Beef Tenderloin
Pan-seared Omaha Steak crusted with Szechuan Pepper and Ginger,
accompanied by authentic Shaoxing Rice Wine Sauce, served with Shiitake
Mushrooms in a Jasmine Rice blend and Bok Choy

Fruit and Cheese
Dried and Fresh Fruit with an International Cheese Board featuring
Gloucester, an English cheese with a silky texture and mild flavor; Domaine de
Provence, a goat's milk cheese from North America with a tangy, distinctive
flavor; and Danish Esrom, a piquantly-flavored semi-soft dairy cheese

Raspberry Poached Pears with Mango Puree

I was so relieved to see that I would be dining just like I did at home every night, and the meal was delicious. Just like Air-Tran, the flight attendant brought a tray-sized tablecloth, and tucked a cloth napkin over my lap. Wine flowed, chomp chomp, and the service was attentive.


Breakfast was Fresh Fruit (no descriptives!), and a Savory Carmelized Onion and smoked Gouda Cheese Omelet accompanied by lean-grilled Canadian Bacon and roasted New Potatoes (with the amount I was paying, those potatoes had better be new).


The sun was coming up as we flew over Spain, and in Madrid I boarded a flight to Malaga. Once I located Suzanne in the airport, we set out for the Costa Tropical along the coastal road. Heading east, we gradually left the tourist-laden Costa del Sol, and the road hugged the seaside mountains. All I needed was a head-scarf and sunglasses, and I would have felt just like Grace Kelly. I just hoped for a happier ending as we whipped around the cliffs. The Mediterranean was sparkling and blue, and I was with my dear friend from childhood. Life was good!


I'm sure I will write more tales of my travels to Spain, but this story is about a lady I saw from afar until my final visit to Spain. To have a clear picture of the story, though, I need to tell you about the location of Suzanne's home. She lived above the tiny village of La Caleta, which adjoined the slightly larger town of Salobreña.


We turned off the coastal road and began to climb the mountain, Monte de los Almendros, named for the almond trees which dotted its slopes. The drive up was dizzying after my long flight, and involved a lot of gear shifting as the vehicle negotiated the serpentine road. The drop-offs were sheer, and the road was closely bordered by villa after villa, each enclosed by stuccoed privacy walls and secured by gates. Good Lord, how far up did this mountain go? The sea looked far away down below.

Suzanne's villa, like the others, sat on a steep slope. I soon settled into the leisurely lifestyle, waking and sleeping whenever I liked. Each evening found us on her upper terrace, wine or martini in hand, talking and laughing, gazing out at the blue sea. Each evening, I noticed that cats began gathering at the same time, when the shadows started to first lengthen. Each evening, they came, singly or in pairs, and perched on the top of a wall separating two villas down below Suzanne's place. There were a lot of cats.


Then, as the cats waited, we would hear the car before we saw it round a curve in the road. Every day at this time before twilight, a Mercedes sedan would pull up beneath the cats gathered on the walls. A man was behind the wheel, and he left the motor running while a strikingly elegant older woman got out of the car and began placing bowls of food along the top of the wall. After she stepped back, the cats would begin to eat.


Suzanne explained that these were feral cats, and this English woman came very day to give them food. And so, each day I would watch for her, and I would gaze at her ministrations through Suzanne's binoculars (a must with such a scenic view of the Mediterranean, and handy for spying on neighbors). I noticed that the lady never attempted to touch the cats, and they never drew near her. They waited patiently and warily until she withdrew before they began to eat. When her work was done, she would get back in the car, and her husband would drive them back to their villa.


Watching the daily feeding of the wild felines became something I enjoyed each time I visited Suzanne. Prior to my last vacation in Spain, I got word from Suzanne that something terrible had happened. The Cat Lady had gone to England to visit family, and left the care of the cats to her husband. Somehow, either by accident or carelessness, he got too close to one of the cats. The cat, feeling threatened, bit the man during his evening duties in his wife's absence. He returned to his home, and treated the wound himself. He sickened quickly, and by the time he sought medical attention, it was too late. He died of septicemia.


On my last visit to the Monte los Almendros, we were invited to a garden party at a neighboring villa. There I met the Cat Lady. Her name was Glynnis, and she was as lovely in person as she had been from afar. And she still came each day when the shadows grew long to feed the cats that gathered on the wall.

Craig Ferguson, Call Me!

I got a bit of a shock this morning. For months (okay, years) I have been going through life assuming that Christopher Meloni is my boyfriend. Nevermind that Mr. Meloni is a happily married father; I ignore that detail. I was understandably dismayed this morning to learn that Chris is Maddog's boyfriend! On the heels of learning this, my television reminded me that I have another true love. His name is Craig Ferguson.


While sipping coffee and snooping around on the Internet earlier, the Sunday Morning show on CBS aired a segment on Craig Ferguson, the host of the Late, Late Show. I'm not sure when I first watched his show, but I do remember thinking that we shared the same kooky sense of humor. Craig's show opens with a monologue that is unscripted, and he delivers it unaided by tele-prompter or cue cards. If I find myself awake at midnight on a weeknight, I frequently say "Oh, the hell with bedtime! I'll stay up for the Late, Late Show" and I promise myself a nap the next day.


One of my favorite parts of the Late, Late Show is when Craig reads and answers e-mail questions from viewers. His parodies of Prince Charles, Sean Connery, Michael Caine, and Angela Lansbury (as sleuth Jessica Fletcher) are too darned funny. I also like it when he gets tickled at himself and bursts out laughing. There's no doubt that he is "not right" in the head, but that's part of his charm.


One thing I can tell you about Craig Ferguson is that he is a very tender and passionate lover. I know this from personal experience. One night after I had clicked off the television, Craig came to me in a dream. Most of my dreams are not in the least erotic, leaning more to floating or flying, or trying to figure out how in the heck to get off of a perilously tall structure like a bridge or a building. On this particular night, Craig and I did not meet at my house or his, but apparently in a tent. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Craig was feeling frisky, and things progressed from there. I also learned that Craig is assertive, without being selfishly aggressive. A dream lover in every sense of the expression. Yes, I know that he is heterosexual and has a seven-year-old son, so shut up.


Another thing that bonds me to Craig is that he is a fellow recovering alcoholic. He is candid about this, although he wisely declines to specify the name of the 12-step program that saved his life. The Sunday Morning show included an excerpt of a serious monologue from earlier this year, and I'm including a link here because it is well worth your time. As you watch, you will sense that the audience is initially a little confused to hear him speak to them with seriousness in this from-the-heart chat. You will see for yourself why I love this man. He does not shut the door on his past, and he has moved on to a wonderful life.


So, I relinquish Christopher Meloni to Maddog, knowing that I have a new man in my life. Call me, Craig!

A Quick Thursday Post

I got this suggestion from Janet, who lives across the pond at Parkeresque. Try this:

1. Go to google.com
2. Type in find Chuck Norris
3. Click I'm Feeling Lucky

The image on the left comes from Jeremy, and he offers a nice selection of toilet paper for home or office. You can visit his site by clicking here in case you're looking for an imaginative (but useful) gift for a housewarming, birthday, or just want to spruce up your own home. Karen, there's even TP inspired by your hero, John Wayne!

Take a look at this story in the Chicago Tribune about one of my blog buddies, Billy Bump. I found it quite inspiring. Bill has 27 years worth of hard-earned sobriety, and despite a challenging homelife, works each day helping others who still suffer with alcoholism. Thanks for sharing your story, Bill!

I hope everyone is doing well, and enjoying signs of spring. We're seeing the early seasonal flowers here in Richmond, and my sinuses are telling me that spring is already here. This morning before my early AA meeting the birds were singing their hearts out as the sun was waking up. Whee!

The Horsehair Wig

In 1988, Michael and I decided that we would take a road trip to Iowa to visit my grandmother. It was April, during that in-between time when the weather is restless and grumpy, like a woman who is seven months pregnant. We made it to a spot in the middle of nowhere west of Indianapolis on the first night. We figured that putting ourselves on the far side of the city would keep us free of morning traffic, but we hadn't counted on running out of motels as soon as we did. We finally found one called The Riviera, a twin for the one made famous by Alfred Hitchcock. The next night we stayed in Urbanna, Illinois. The following day put us in the middle of Iowa.


The first thing we did when we got to Grundy Center was check into the little motel east of town. I knew that if we showed up at Grandma's before we checked in she would barricade us in her home, because spending money on a motel was just crazy when she had plenty of room for guests. When I was growing up we would take a family trip to visit Mom's relatives about every third summer. I could always count on the color of Grandma's house and the color of her hair to be different than the last time I'd seen her.


On this trip, Grandma's house was still barn red, because she was now in a wheelchair. Since her leg amputation, she couldn't get out to paint her house like she used to do. Michael was nervous about meeting her, because I'd already told him that she either liked you or she didn't, and there wasn't any room between the two. It was dusk when we pulled into her driveway. Did I tell you this was a surprise visit?


We knocked on the door and Grandma swung it open, peering up at us. She looked first at Michael, then at me, and then back at Michael.


"Why, Michael!" she cried warmly, and ushered him in. She'd never even met the guy, and I was like a wagon he'd dragged along with him. I followed, feeling a bit neglected. And that was that; they were like two peas in a pod. We spent a wonderful evening with Grandma, drinking coffee and talking. She was outraged that we were spending good money on a motel room, but when I told her we had already checked in, paid cash, used the towels, and licked the water glasses she relented and let us return to the motel for the night.


I thought a motel would have kept Grandma from going to a lot of trouble. Instead, when we returned the next day we discovered that she had stayed up all night baking pies, bread, and cookies. She had also pulled out her old family photo albums. She knew how I loved to look through these pictures from the early 1900's, and we sat and drank coffee and ate pie while we turned the pages of the album. Michael and I sat across the table from Grandma, and she provided commentary and back-stories on the people in the old albums. Some pictures were studio portraits, but most were candid shots of daily life at the turn of the previous century.


Grandma thumped one picture with a gnarled, arthritic finger. It showed a very handsome man, and even though the picture was black and white, you could tell his eyes were as piercingly blue as my grandmother's. She told Michael "That was my dad. I didn't like him much." As I said, she either liked you or she didn't.


Another was a picture of a big old pig with swarming piglets. "That sow had fifteen pigs!" Grandma said in wonder. I thought of vintage Iowa chops and scrapple.


At the very front of the album was a studio portrait. At first glance, a woman in a beautiful white gown, hands clasped behind her, a handsome face framed by coarse, dark hair pulled back and secured at her neck.


"That was my teacher," Grandma said proudly, "He taught me how to tat."


Indeed, a closer inspection showed Michael that this was either a handsome guy, or a woman with unfortunately mannish features. D.G. Berg, formerly in the U.S. Cavalry, later a teacher in a one-room schoolhouse, lived with my grandmother's family. My great-grandfather was the head of the school board. Back then the term was "confirmed bachelor," and D.G. Berg always wanted to have a nice picture of himself in a dress. So, my great-grandmother made him a lovely dress; he got a horsehair wig and followed his dream.


There are at least seven other pictures of him in my grandmother's photo album. Some are formal portraits, others show him around the farm. He was part of my grandmother's household. D.G. Berg had served his country (one picture shows him in his Cavalry uniform), and then he served a growing farm community. He lived with them, played with them, helped with farm work and household chores, and taught my grandmother to read and write. She loved him.


He also taught her how to tat, and that was a beloved hobby that she continued until she died at the age of ninety-two.

I Like You Just The Way You Are

In my car early this morning, the nice lady on NPR told me that today marks the 40th year that Mister Rogers' Neighborhood has been on television. Although Fred Rogers died in 2003, his show lives on. She also played a snippet of a conversation with Fred that ended with him telling me that he likes me just the way I am. That was a very nice thing to hear first thing in the morning. He was a gentle man in a comfy cardigan sweater.


I was more of a Captain Kangaroo kinda kid, myself. Dancing Bear, Mr. Green Jeans, Mr. Moose (think ping pong balls), and Bunny Rabbit were my morning companions after breakfast. Grandfather Clock seemed kindly and slightly spooky at the same time. Didn't Bunny Rabbit wear glasses? I'm sure he did, and they made him look smart. He must have been crafty, because he always managed to cadge carrots from the Captain.


When I got a little older, Bugs Bunny was my favorite, and I still love all the old Warner Brothers cartoons. I think my first exposure to classical music was via these cartoons. My dad enjoyed these old cartoons, too, and we would watch them together when he was home. My mom would just roll her eyes to see her Navy frogman husband laughing out loud at Foghorn Leghorn and the little chicken hawk. Then she would dash off to scrub, scour, or wax something in the house.


I still like to watch old cartoons, and I know that my dad would, too, even though he'd be close to ninety. I wish I could sit beside him today and chuckle at the old Looney Tunes characters. My dad always loved to laugh, and (just like Mister Rogers) he loved me just the way I am.

Questions That Drive People Crazy

Why doesn't Tarzan have a beard?

Why do we press harder on the remote control button when we know the batteries are dead?

Who thought it was a good idea to put an 's' in the word 'lisp'?

Why does someone believe you when you say there are four billion stars, but check when you say the paint is wet?

Why do Kamikaze pilots wear helmets?

What makes us think pressing the elevator button more than once will make it arrive faster?

Why do we park on a driveway, but drive on a parkway?

Paper or plastic?



Someone I know can be driven to fits by that last question. Seriously. I witnessed an explosive, foaming-at-the-mouth rant because of plastic grocery bags.

Why are some people remarkably unable to mesh with society? Recently most of us have heard about a man who went into a town's council meeting and killed several people with a handgun. Apparently, he was upset over parking tickets. I'll admit that I've only heard bits and pieces of this story, but what I found most astounding was watching this man's brother on a news segment act as though these killings were justified.

But let's get back to Paper versus Plastic Man. First, a little background.

I am close friends with a family of Rednecks. I'm labeling them as they describe themselves. Actually, they are down to earth, accepting, riotously joyful, and a heck of a lot of fun to spend time with. They are also always willing to lend a hand whenever I need them. They are the Aplin family.

Both Cathy and Ronnie come from large families, and there are many stories I could tell (and someday I may), but today I want to write about Cathy's brother Ralph.

I don't know Ralph that well, and he is just one in a large, colorful cast of wacky characters. Ralph is one of those folks who is stymied by human society. Highly individualistic, he gets along much better with animals than people. Paradoxically to some, he is also an avid hunter. He is a loner, and his family will see him frequently for a spell, and then he disappears for months or years.

At one point, he lived alone in an apartment with his dog, and was an arms dealer. Cathy told me that every room in his home was filled with guns and ammunition. She fully expected to turn on the news one evening to hear that he was in a stand-off with the SWAT team, barricaded in his apartment with his dog.

When things didn't make sense to Ralph, he made his own rules. During the summers when Cathy & Ronnie lived in a house with a pool, Ralph would come by with groceries and we would have big cookouts. Ralph always brought discounted meats and seafood. Here's how it actually worked. Ralph had a pre-set price in his head on food items before he went to the grocery store, and he always had a Sharpie pen in his pocket. It didn't matter that the grocer decided that shrimp would be $10.99 per pound; Ralph felt quite strongly that shrimp should not be more than $4.99 per pound and so it was. He would whip out his Sharpie, boldly cross out the grocer's price, and replace it with the price he was willing to pay. And it always worked. We always ate well at these cookouts because Ralph had a good eye for quality meats and seafood. Perhaps this came from being an outdoor sportsman.

One day he was looking through the meat section, and a woman picked up a nice roast. Ralph snapped it out of her hands, told her "that's too much," wrote in the Ralph-price with his Sharpie, and handed the package back to her. Faced with a crazy man with an indelible marker, the woman could only utter a tremulous "thank you."

At one of these gatherings the subject of plastic grocery bags came up, and Ralph was off to the races. He didn't like plastic grocery bags. He hated it when they'd ask him whether he wanted paper or plastic. I finally went in the house to get away from his rantings. I could hear him all the way in the house. Finally, he got himself so worked up and angry that he stomped off to his truck and left. One thing about Ralph, he never approached a topic with indifference.

One summer when I had some time off work, I spent a few lazy days at the Aplin's pool. Ralph was working the night shift, and he was often there, too. Even though he was known for going off like a bottle rocket and getting into fights, I never felt uneasy being there with him alone. We'd float in the sun, sometimes talking, but mostly lost in our own thoughts. Ronnie worked an early shift, and after finding us in his pool on the third day, he just shook his head and drawled "I'm gonna post a sign out front that says Fags and Lunatics Welcome."

You'd have to know Ronnie to know that he meant the "welcome" part with all his heart.

God in a Box

Yep, that's me...all dressed up and ready for church. No, this isn't a recent picture, even though I am dressed like an old man with my fedora and Hush Puppies. I am slightly taller now.


My mom and I went to church when I was a boy, but as I grew older the trips became infrequent. Perhaps we picked the wrong church, or maybe my mom was worn out from a week of waxing the household appliances. Perhaps doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs, and the mayor of Virginia Beach crowded us out of the pews. Our church had grown from a small congregation in an unassuming building to a bigger, better, more affluent house of worship. Nevertheless, I did have a foundation of Sunday school, church services, and vacation bible school when I was growing up.


One thing I recall was my amazement at how slowly time passed when I was trapped in a pew listening to the preacher drone on and on, when I really just wanted to be home riding my bicycle and playing with my dog. I wonder now if God didn't feel the same way some days depending on the sermon. The church I attended believed in predestination, and when that belief was explained to me I guess I missed the bigger picture. I thought "What's the point of anything if every thing's carved in stone and there's no way to change it? What's the point in being good or trying to do my best? God's not paying attention to it anyway."


As I grew older, I became aware of other denominations and religions. I learned that people believed in widely varying things. It was a bit confusing, but very interesting. Some churches had statues of Jesus's mom and his friends tucked away in nooks and crannies. One of my friends' family drove a car with a little plastic saint glued to the dashboard to keep them safe in traffic. Some people didn't even believe in Jesus! People across the ocean worshipped a guy with his big, fat belly hanging out. I had cousins who traveled halfway around the world to teach ignorant people the right thing to believe, and they were very proud of themselves for doing that.


When I was a teenager, my mother told me about an old lady who was deaf as a post. She couldn't drive any longer, but she would crank up the volume on her television to watch the religious programs on Sunday. Her son and his wife, new to their belief in Christ, would visit her after church. One day this man told his mother that she was going to Hell because she did not go to his church. The old woman was quite hurt, but when she tried to explain to him that if she went to his church she wouldn't be able to hear any of the sermon, her son said that didn't matter - she just needed to go and sit there. I didn't understand how anyone could tell their mother that she was going to Hell.


As a young man, I had my doubts about God and religion. Some of the adults I had admired growing up who I thought were good, honest people and went to church all the time seemed like hypocrites when I found out they had human faults like adultery, greed, dishonesty, and just plain meanness. I thought going to church meant religion, and, by extension, I thought religion equalled spirituality. I wanted to live a spiritual life, but most religions wanted to exclude me; those that didn't wanted to exclude everyone else.


It seemed like most organized religions existed in little boxes. Beliefs and customs were put in the box, along with people who fit in with those items. Somehow they managed to stuff God in the box, too. Everyone else was refused admittance because there was no room left inside the box. Some of the rejected found other boxes to climb into; others, like me, wandered around on our own.


Eventually, I learned that religion and spirituality are different, and that my doubts about faith were based on humans, not God. I've come to believe that God prefers being outside the box. He created an unimaginably big world, and I think he likes all of it. I believe He loves people whether they are inside a little box, or roaming around in the fields. I think his love is limitless, even though mine is not. I do try, though, because I think that is what God wants. I am stunned each time I see someone waving a sign saying that God hates someone. The God I have come to know loves inclusion, and I believe He'd be quite tickled if we unfolded all these separate religions just like cake boxes. I think God would clap his hands and laugh with us if we'd look around, wave to each other and hug.


I believe God loves to laugh. Otherwise, why would He have created the Platypus, the Giraffe, and the Human?

Treat the other man's faith gently; it is all he has to believe with. His mind was created for his own thoughts, not yours or mine. - Henry S. Haskins

The Little Father

Have you met someone in your life travels who, even years later, gives a lift to your heart when you remember them? Perhaps they were (or are) a part of your daily life, or maybe someone you encountered only once or twice. Something about them made a lasting impression, an impact on our lives, and from time to time we think of them with gratitude.

I first met Father Fred when I was in my early twenties. One of my favorite co-workers, Flossie, had a son who had just started high school at a Catholic school for boys. Tuna (his real name was Vincent, as I recall, although no one called him that) was a bright young man with a zest for life, but he had never enjoyed good health. Tuna had a passion for sports, and he begged Flossie to allow him to play football when he entered high school. With many misgivings, Flossie finally relented, and let him try out for the team, hoping he wouldn't make the cut.

Tuna did make the team, and he was on Cloud Nine. His dream had come true, and he eagerly exchanged his school uniform for his football jersey each afternoon for football practice. One afternoon, during a scrimmage, Tuna was tackled hard. He stood up, wandered a few feet, and collapsed on the field. He was rushed to the hospital, and later died.

My boss Cathy and I went to the hospital immediately after the accident to be with Flossie. Tuna was still alive, but the outlook was grim. Father Fred, Flossie's priest, joined us in the waiting room. He brought a sense of calmness and assurance to the chaotic little room. He was serene but not detached. Father Fred met privately with Flossie, and spent time with Tuna doing whatever priests do at times like these. He surprised me, though, by coming back to the waiting room to spend a little time with Cathy and me to be sure we were okay. Something about him assured me that, although Flossie would have to say goodbye to her son, God was there with all of us and everything was happening the way God intended. A few days later, Father Fred also made a point of coming up to Cathy and me following the funeral to comfort us and tell us that our presence was helpful to Flossie and her family.

Father Fred was a small, spare little man with a balding head and spectacles. He had a lively step, a bright smile, and warm sparkling eyes. As my Aunt Therza would have said, Father Fred was "cuter than a speckled pup under a mushroom on a rainy day." Not being Catholic, I doubted our paths would ever cross again, but I was wrong.

I transferred into a different job with the company I worked for, but by this time my former boss Cathy was a very close friend. Although I was still in the closet at work, when I met my partner Michael I knew it was time to tell Cathy that I was gay, so that she could meet this wonderful new person in my life. Cathy and Michael hit it off right away. A few months later, Cathy met the man who would become her husband, and Cathy and Dan started going to a different Catholic church close to their new home after they married. Re-enter Father Fred, who was the priest at their new church.

I would now see Father Fred socially when all of us gathered at Cathy and Dan's for dinners. Father Fred was a scream, and he could put the saltiest sailor to shame with the length and breadth of his profanity. He would hold us spellbound with his stories, until we dissolved into laughter. Fred had a gift for telling a story, and we enjoyed his quick wit. He was interested in the goings-on of each person in the room, however, and when Michael fell ill Father Fred always managed to find a quiet place for a few minutes of private conversation. His energy was amazing, and he seemed able to be everywhere at once.

I'll never forget a story he told at Cathy's table one evening. Father Fred had bought a small cottage in the country outside our city for a personal retreat, although he continued to live at the church parsonage. A winter storm caused him to worry about his cottage, so he drove out to the country to check on it. He promptly got his car stuck at the end of the driveway. Father Fred was pleased to discover that good old redneck boys live for days like this. They grab their girlfriends and hop in their 4X4 pick-up trucks. With the girlfriend planted right next to them on the seat, they roam the countryside looking for folks who need to be towed out of ditches and gullies. One of these helpful couples found Father Fred, and had him fixed up in no time. Fred was quite impressed. He was also amazed by the girlfriend who, despite her 1980's big hair and make-up, jumped out and pitched right in. Father Fred said "her jeans were so tight if she'd farted it would have blown her boots off."

Time passed and Michael's illness worsened. After he had been hospitalized for about a week he buttonholed one of his nurses for information. The nurse told him that he was reaching the end of his life. Michael was no dummy; he knew he had been moved to the hospice floor, but I think he just needed to hear it. Nonetheless, it did throw him into a tailspin. His mom and I would alternate spending nights with him; the hospital provided a fold-up cot. One night when it was my turn to stay with Michael, I walked his mother out to the parking deck because it was late and dark. When I returned to the door of Michael's room, I heard what seemed to be a conversation, but when I entered the room Michael was alone.

I asked Michael who he was talking to. Michael said he was talking to God. I asked Michael if he'd like me to leave the room and come back in a little while. Michael said "No, that's okay. I don't think God wants to talk to me."

Uh-oh.

When pressed, Michael said that God wouldn't want to talk to him because "God doesn't like gay people." Okay, now I knew I was in over my head and needed to call in reinforcements. I'm not a wise person, but I knew that this was no time for platitudes. The next morning, as soon as the hour was decent, I phoned Cathy and Dan. It was time to call in the Big Guns.

It was time for Father Fred.

Father Fred called me. I recounted the previous evening's conversation with Michael, and Father Fred said he would take care of it. That morning, Father Fred blew in. I left the room, and Fred and Michael spent time together. Father Fred found me in the waiting room, and told me he had to run because he had two weddings and a funeral that day. He said all should be well with Michael now.

He also told me what he told Michael, and I know now that he did this so that I could benefit from this message as well. He said:

"Michael, you know how you've suddenly had something get in your eye, and it drives you crazy? It seems huge, your eye tears up, you can't see. You can't think of anything else until you get it out. It feels like it must be as big as a boulder, and then when you get it out of your eye you can't believe it...it's such a tiny speck that you can barely see it. Michael, that's what you're doing. You are worried about something that isn't even as big as a speck in God's eye. Do not be afraid. God loves you and He is with you."

After that, Michael's smile returned. He was in pain, but his joy for life and his belief in God's perfect and infinite love was restored. And when God came for him a few days later, Michael met Him with a tranquil heart. God had prepared all of us for this by sending his powerful instrument, little Father Fred.

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.

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?