Carefully Picking my Way

This weekend, I was on a panel discussion of the topic, "Navigating the Issues of Homosexuality and Same-Sex Attraction While Going to Church." The panel was held at the Circling the Wagons conference in Washington, DC. A couple dozen people attended the session, asked questions, and shared stories. Randall and Tristan were also on the panel, and each of us had unique perspectives on threading the eye of the LDS needle.

I am a gay man with a lesbian heart, so I brought my own agenda. I had a few specific things I wanted to say, so I made a list of questions, some of which I wanted to answer, and in the course of the discussion, I was focused enough to have the opportunity to say the things that were in my heart and on my mind. In this blog entry, I'm going to repeat my list of questions, and then try to answer them honestly for you. This is my take. I appreciate the journeys that Tristan and Randall are taking. Their insights, and the insights and contributions of the people participating in the discussion added to my own understanding. The panel reinforced my belief that we are all on our own journeys of discovery and understanding.

Briefly, my situation is that I was excommunicated from the LDS church 30 years ago, and I started attending church again in November of 2011. Being excommunicated means that I am not officially a member of the LDS church (although officially an ex-member), I cannot take the sacrament of communion, I cannot hold any church callings or positions, I cannot give prayers in church meetings, I cannot give talks in church meetings (although I can participate in Sunday School and Priesthood discussions), I cannot pay tithes or offerings, and I cannot wear temple garments. The practical effect of these prohibitions is to isolate a person who has been excommunicated.

So in that context, I provide these questions and answers from my own experience in the Kensington Ward. I hope and pray that these will spark some thought and discussion in the hearts and heads of church members and help them remember not to leave behind their lesbian, gay, and transgendered brothers and sisters.

What do you tell members when they ask inevitable personal questions about where you are from and about your family? Mormons like to know all about you. I have yet to introduce myself in Priesthood Meeting. I felt that telling the brothers about myself in any honest way at all in that setting would stigmatize me. So for the first few Sundays, I artfully dodged that introduction. I don't regret that.

When members come up to me and introduce themselves to me one-on-one, I tell them my story. So far, no one has left the room screaming. I tell them that I've been in the Kensington Ward for 22 years, but only started attending in November, that I've returned to the church. When I am asked if I am married or have a family, I reply that I am not married, but that I have a husband at home who is not a member of the church, and that he and I have been together for 29 years. In all my conversations with members (numbering several dozen, by now), responses have always been respectful: they either ask me about Ron and our life, or they say, "That's nice," and they change the subject.

What have you told the bishop and priesthood leaders about your situation? The second Sunday I attended, I went to see the Bishop, and I told him that I was apostate, excommunicated, gay, and atheist, and he smiled and said, "Welcome to the Kensington Ward." And he has made me feel welcome. I have also spoken to the High Priests Group Leader and told him about my circumstances. I felt that I wanted to be as open and honest as possible. I don't want my leaders to find out through some other means and have them feel like I was deceiving them. I know this is a tough decision for some gay Mormons to make. Kensington, Maryland is not Kaysville, Utah. I think how you answer this question may depend on how much you trust your bishop and leaders. Obviously, since I'm excommunicated, there isn't much that my priesthood leadership can do to discipline me if my bishop or stake president felt inclined to do so.

How have ward leaders responded? The ward leadership has responded in a very kind and loving way. The bishopric all know my name and greet me every Sunday. For the first few months, the only real contact I had with ward members was in meetings. I decided that something had to be done, so I contacted the Ward Executive Secretary, and I gave him all of my contact information. In addition, I went to my High Priests Group Leader and requested a home teacher. As soon as I took that initiative, all kinds of things have started to happen. I was immediately assigned a home teacher. The Ward Missionaries came over for a visit. I'm pretty sure I've become a Ward Council project, and I welcome that.

What are the biggest obstacles to re-integration in your ward coming back to church after being away for so many years? Has your homosexuality been an issue? My transition into the ward is very much a work in progress. So far, I think it is going pretty well. One of the biggest obstacles to being part of the ward is not having any official way to be on ward contact lists. Consequently, I didn't hear about activities or really know what was going on in the ward, except what I would hear in meetings. Because I do not have a membership number, nothing happens automatically. So I request that I be added to various lists. I finally added my name to the priesthood roll, as well (that's why those blank lines are printed at the bottom of the page).

Another big obstacle for me is the lonely feeling that I can get when I'm at church. So I now always sit in the center of the chapel so that families can fill in around me. After meeting, I can then introduce myself to the people around me. I joined the choir, not because I have a great voice, but because it's a great way to get to know other people in a happy, social space. I try to attend some of the ward socials and other events.

Not having callings also keeps me out of the mainstream where I might be meeting other members. So I really try to attend my meetings when I am in town. My home teacher suggested I take a notebook with me, so that I can jot down names of members, and begin to know who people are. I'm happy to meet with the ward missionaries, because it helps me learn a lot about the ward and its people, and because they need to hear my story, too.

My homosexuality has not been an issue. It's never come up. In fact, on at least two occasions, I was told that Ron would be welcome, too. On the other hand, it is not widely known among ward members that I am gay. But among the leadership, my personal life has never been an issue. Check back in six months.

Why did you decide to go back to church? Someone at the panel discussion actually asked me this question. It's the only question here that is really difficult for me to answer, because some days, I really don't know except that I have felt strongly moved to be back in the pew. I love these people. I want to be in a faith community, and this is the place. The God that I do not believe in has called me to a place I did not want to be in, and I accept that. God is remodeling my heart. Church is not an easy place for me to be, but I'm grateful that I'm here. I feel this place, right now, is where I'm supposed to be. Okay, this is a meandering answer, but it's the best I can do right now.

How do you handle instances of homophobia, misunderstanding, or discrimination? So far, I haven't experienced any. I think I've probably forestalled some of it by pre-emptively telling my story as I meet members. Having said that, if I do run into problems, I will attempt to talk with the person involved in a loving, caring way. If problems can't be resolved, I will talk with the bishop or my priesthood leader. If I run into misconceptions or mischaracterizations during lessons, I will add my two bits to the lesson discussion. If a letter is read over the pulpit in sacrament meeting, or if a sacrament meeting talk is given that is offensive, I will talk with the bishop.

How can you be of service to ward members if you can't hold a calling? Virtually every week in priesthood meeting there are announcements for various work projects. Now I've only been on one or two, but I know I can get involved in many others. What I mean to say is, I have lots of opportunities that don't require a calling at all. I think the greatest service I can be to ward members, though, is to be consistently present, to listen to them, to love them. I am hearing some of their stories. I really try to be open to their experiences.

Any thoughts about what will happen in your ward when people come to the realization that you aren't going to "repent?" What does the long slog look like? How will you navigate that? Of course, I have doubts and awful imaginings. Maybe by my presence, the members will realize that I don't need to repent of homosexuality or repent of the love I share with my husband. I'm sure, though, that some members of the ward will be troubled by my living and social situation.

The long slog looks hopeful. At my current rate of meeting ward members, I will have worked my way through the roster sometime in 2017. The long slog requires patience on my part. That isn't one of my strong suits, but so far, it's working. And I'll navigate through all of this by continuing. I just walk up to the church's front door and open it.

If the LDS church's stance on homosexuality doesn't become more reasoned and nuanced, will you continue to stay or will you eventually feel you have to move on? I honestly don't know the answer to this question. Ultimately, I'm hopeful, although I'm sure that the LDS church will never move as far as I would want it to. If I were to feel utterly rejected in my ward, I would probably move on. But I don't believe that God has called me to an impossible task or an impossible situation. I need to learn patience. I need to be my authentically gay, skeptical self. I need to continue loving a community from which I was absent. Maybe a reconciliation of our hearts can be effected. I'm waiting on and trusting in God. I don't have to believe, but I do have to be there.

A New Day

Don't you believe it! How do you like the new pic? It's very controversial in some circles. Some of my readers (all five of you) think that it looks like on old doddering fool getting ready to drool. I like to think that it makes me look surprised, excited, and energized. You tell me what you think. I really, really want to know. And, in fact, this blog has a comment facility such that you can add your reasoned comments and intellectual critiques of my new pic! I'm looking forward to a rewarding and lively interchange of ideas.

So, it's been ages since I have added anything of any import to this blog. That isn't to say that I've been dead, or anything like that. And it doesn't imply, although you might think so, that I have a boring, insular, and somewhat pathetic life. Nothing could be further from the truth. I have talked with intellectual giants (well, I consider her a giant) since my last blog entry. I have eaten the nectar of ancient civilizations. I have been challenged by the real and theoretical artistic post-contemporary vision of modern Catalan art. Finally, I'm discovering a bridge to the gulf of a difficult past. There was life before Happy. And my post-apocalyptic view still remains intact, knowing that over the next 40 billion years, I'll be, well, Happy.

2011 has been the year of the Cosmic Road Trip. It started with a stint in Ft. Lauderdale with Ron, ramped up with a trip to the Pacific Northwest, recycled on a bicycle trip down the Great Allegheny Passage with Jerry and Rick, went full-throttle with a square dance convention, gay cruise and Catalonian vacation with Ron, and now will play out a trajectory of a visit to my sister, then off to Rexburg, Idaho to see my daughter and my newest grandchild and Moscow, Idaho to see my Mom, and I'll end it up with a weekend in York, Pennsylvania square dancing with Tim. But that travel is also insinuating its way into my life on Bucknell Terrace, too with some examining and rethinking. It starts out with butterflies beating their wings, but perhaps some real growth and change can result. In any case, my heart is full and very happy. I'm grateful for the experiences, and for being able to have a Cosmic Road Trip.

I may be Pollyana's stepbrother, but examining the context of the road trip would also reveal how profoundly moving this whole experience has been for me. I find myself turning over small (and large) parts of my life and looking at them from a different perspective. I feel alive, restless, scary, and awkward all at the same time. The road trip within has been dramatically shaped by the Cosmic Road Trip without. While I don't believe that I've seen this year anything that has been radically different than in other years, it seems to be facing me with a clarity, saturation, and brightness that I've not experienced before.

In 1976, I had a born-again experience. I woke up one morning, and the world had changed. It was the deepest experience of my life. I remember it like it happened yesterday. My life this year is approaching in its multiplicity the profundity of that moment in 1976. That's why I'm dancing. It's also why I'm writing these feelings down, before they fade and become shaped again by other events. I feel caught up in something greater than myself.

Traveling has the capacity to broaden horizons and change circumstances. I love being wide-eyed somewhere other than Wheaton (although I love Wheaton, too!). It was hilarious to be in Florida in February and hear a young, drunk, sexy-looking, blonde guy discourse on Floridiots. I've never been quite so entertained in a hot tub. It also cast a light on my own fears and prejudices about growing older (he would have called me ancient, but thankfully, the ambient light did not betray me), and about what it means to me to be gay. Oh, you bet, I do have a gay identity. And I wish they would send me the homo card to go with it. I'm definitely not a Floridiot, either, although I think I could enjoy becoming one.

April saw me zipping off to Seattle and Moscow. Moscow means Mom. It also means the University of Idaho, and it means hometown. My feelings about Moscow are mixed. Part of it is the distance I have put between me and my hometown. Part of it is that when I go there, I go there to visit my step-Mom, and not much else, except for at least one stroll on the University of Idaho campus, my Alma Mater, and a school deeply tied up with my adult life and career. I see in my Mom a woman growing very old, more infirm every time I visit. She's full of life, with a great laugh and sense of humor, and she knows that she's about walked to the end of the path. I'm ambivalent about her approaching death. I'm grateful that she and my father chose to spend a life together so that she could be my Mom. In her, I see me in the next quarter century. Her journey will some day be my journey, and I'm glad to see it close-up a couple of times a year. I'm always surprised by our mortality.

Bob lives in Seattle, and I try to see him whenever I get to the Northwest. Bob and I go back 30 years. He's pretty much retained his hardline left-wing radicalism. I've retreated into a comfortable leftish centrism, which doesn't always please Bob. Our friendship is one of shared experience over the course of a couple of years in the early 80s. We both survived Washington State's Nuclear Desert and came out fast friends. Our lives went in very different directions, but at heart, we're small town gay boys looking to get laid every now and then, but never by Republicans.

My CRT continued with a jaunt down the Great Allegheny Passage with Rick and Jerry in early June. Over the course of a week, we pedaled about 225 miles from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to Cumberland, Maryland. Both guys are far more doctrinaire (my word...) than I about environmental issues, and also (I think) about personal responsibility. I heard quite a bit over the week about the environment, global warming, fracking, and consumerism. I hope that at least a little of the dialogue has rubbed off on me. The real discovery on this beautiful trip down a rail trail is how free I feel on my bike, how my bike and I are this entity hurtling down a path, carefree, sweaty, sometimes rainsoaked. It's a complete marvel to me how a man and his machine blend into a wonderful pumping organism speeding (or not) down the trail to a new sight, a new place, an ahhh vista, or a heart-stopping moment. I was thrilled by the trip, and happy to share it with two intrepid cyclists. Does it really get better than this?

Also this summer a friend, Steev, turned me on to Mormon Stories. I checked it out, joined the Facebook group, and have begun to rethink my relationship with the Mormon tradition. In the meantime, my youngest daughter invited me to come visit her. I love her very much. I think her kids are angels. This invitation has sparked some introspection (oh yes, I'm capable of that...), and I feel humble, fearful, happy, tentative, gay, and grateful all rolled into one emotional point. I've purchased the plane ticket for a September visit. When I found the Facebook group, it felt like I was returning home. I felt a tremendous loss on leaving the LDS church, but I realize that the tradition extends far beyond the institution. I just want to connect my current life to the life I left behind. I want to reknit a connection. I want to acknowledge to the people I love within and without the LDS church, and Mormonism that I need to reclaim a spiritual community that evicted me. This is part of my Cosmic Road Trip. I'm not asking to be re-baptized. I'm telling people that I'm Mormon, and gay, and atheist. And that's not a contradiction. It's me.

Okay, let's get away from this heavy stuff! For a few days in June and July, I was at the gay square dance convention in Atlanta, Georgia, Gone with the Windmill. I danced a lot of Advanced, and on the last day, way too much Challenge 1. My gray matter was spilling on the floor. Tonight is the first night that I'll have danced C-1 since Atlanta, and I'll have to post a status on Facebook chronicling the result. The Fun Badge Tour was one of the best. I was impressed.

It's really time that I ended this blog entry. Two days after returning from Atlanta, Ron and I flew off to Barcelona, and spent a week on the cruise ship, Nieuw Amsterdam, with 1700 other gay guys and 30 lesbians. Ah, RSVP, thank you! We had a blast. Well, what did you expect? So, the first port of call was Tunis. To put it mildly, it was not one of the favorite ports of call among the men (and probably the women). Tunis is dusty, hot, and second-world. But it's also strikingly different than any other port we were in. I've never had a trader right in my face trying to make a sale (okay, I ran into something like it in the Yucatan). I saw camels up close. I walked through the Roman baths in Carthage. I had a wonderful lunch of Tunisian specialties made for tourists, just like me. What isn't there to love in an experience like this? I don't know if I'd like to spend three weeks in Tunis, but 5-1/2 hours was spectacular. Sure, I'd do it again!

Okay, in Europe, it's easy to get overdone with Madonnas. They are everywhere, and that's because ancient churches are everywhere. And saints are everywhere. And everything is older than dirt. And every place looks like a postcard. I love tour guide history. I think I could almost become a tour guide, just about anywhere, after this cruise. All of them were unrelentingly cheerful, even when it was hot. All of them new the tale that made this place the most beautiful, historical, important place in the Ancient World.

I loved it. I loved every moment of it. I loved every church, every square, every ruin. I loved soaking up the experience in a different place in a different way imagining the histories, the people, the forces, that propelled and animated this place, and finally I'm in it. I'm part of the picture. I'm crossing a bridge across the Tiber, and staring up Il Duomo, and walking in the twisting alleys of a Provencal village. This is not Wheaton.

And I loved the cruise. The porn stars got deported in Tunis (their underwear was worn too provocatively under their cheeks). It was reported that their debarkation was a mutual agreement between them and RSVP. I can't wait to see RSVP's promotional materials for 2012 :-) The ship was very comfortable. The food was grand. The entertainment was fabulous. Amy Armstrong and Freddie Allen, I love you! The entertainment on a gay cruise really is a cut above. Amy is sometimes painful to watch, but only for the poignancy of her performance. She has an astonishing voice. A lot of the comedic talk was about alcohol, self-image, and sexual attraction, and the talk wasn't happy talk. It was the tip of an iceberg of alienation. We see it surface in our lives from time to time, but what's beneath the surface is the real story. Maybe gay men (lesbians?), and the large women who entertain them really are profoundly alienated from each other, and from the world off the cruise ship. How far is the social distance between sexual connection and deep friendship? Just askin'. Thanks, Amy for letting me ask the question after your fifth Cosmopolitan. I couldn't do that!

The lesson of Catalonia is, again, we're not Spain. It's like being gay in a straight world. People around you presume you speak Spanish, but you're really Catalan. I was quite taken by the country, the people, the FOOD, the place. I would go back tomorrow. Spain has a peculiar hold on me, and Catalonia has settled on my mind.

After debarking from the cruise ship, Ron and I rented a car and drove about 145 kilometers northeast of Barcelona to Castelló d'Empúries. It's a small fortified town about 8 km from the Mediterranean and several km east of Figueres. We stayed in a small, family-owned and operated hotel, the Hotel Emporium. The family adopted us, and really wanted us to love our vacation and see everything we could see in that part of Catalonia. We did. The church in the town dates from the 12th century. The outside is plain; the inside is exquisite, and yes, you'll find St. Sebastian bleeding near the door. The old town is a maze of streets and alleys, although after we had been there a week, we were not getting lost so often. And the food. I loved the food. The hotel had a gourmet restaurant that re-created Catalan cuisine in a beautiful way. This was not street food, or some odd tapas. This was an offering from the soul of a Catalan kitchen.

Which isn't to say I didn't enjoy the street food, or the cafes. Because I did. We had a platter of tapas in Girona that made me happy. I ate anchovies at every opportunity, because I could. A Frenchman served me a sandwich in Prats de Mollo, and I'm sure that it was the authentic sandwich that I'd been waiting six decades to eat. We even ate at our favorite Indian restaurant in Barcelona. Govindas. Check it out! Ron, Brian, and I had eaten there five years ago. It was a hoot to return. I loved the Indian food, Catalan style.

Which brings me to another insight. Ethnic food, no matter where it's prepared somehow absorbs the place that it's in. That is, Indian cuisine in Langley Park, Barcelona, or Amsterdam is Indian cuisine, but parts of Langley Park, Barcelona, or Amsterdam assert themselves in the food. I discovered this with Catalan pizza, too. In fact, McDonald's is not always McDonald's, either. Every culture leaves an imprint, and I was amused and intrigued by it.

Yes, we went to the Dalí Museum in Figueres. We re-visited the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. We visited the Jewish Museum in Girona. For me, the most surprising visit was to MACBA in Barcelona, where a curator took a group of us on a tour of the collection, and in the course of an hour and a half he gave us a cogent, credible, philosophical perspective on contemporary Catalan art. The art would have been completely inaccessible without his fast-paced and penetrating art history lecture. It was a tour de force that had all of our heads spinning, and I think every person on the tour was hanging on to the words that spilled out of his mouth in such complete thoughts and elegant explanations. It was performance in an art space. It was at least an upper-level semester art appreciation course crammed into our time together. I've never seen anything like it.

Okay, I'm going to end this. I'm out of breath, and perhaps you are too. Or maybe you're just bored. I kind of feel like the parent of a first-born child. Such a parent acts like it's the first time it's ever happened. And when I see behavior like that, I remind myself that it is. And that's my Cosmic Road Trip so far. It's still in progress. I'll let you know what happens next.

White Bread on the World Stage

I'm part of a dining group that has potlucks around a theme. I've written about some of those dinners in this blog. The next dinner's theme is German. I have in my head a notion about German food, so I was delighted when the host wanted to sample German culinary culture around the world - including Pennsylvania and East Texas.

My own family has German roots. My Stepmom's father was born in Germany. Until I started thinking about this meal theme, I didn't think that German had too much to do with the way I ate as a child and growing up. I'm changing my mind. My grandfather was a farmer in and Colorado. He always had a large garden and a root cellar. My grandmother raised chickens. I'm pretty sure they raised some pigs, too. Grandpa liked his sauerkraut. Grandma sometimes made him spaetzle, but more often chicken soup with biscuit dumplings.

I think underneath the food I grew up with was this Germanic theme that emphasized meat, root vegetables, and garden vegetables. We often baked our own bread and desserts. We rarely purchased prepared foods or ate out very much. The food was hearty and perhaps heavy, and often overdone.

So along comes this German-themed dinner. I decided to pick a place that was not Germany, but German-influenced. I also wanted to prepare a homey dish. I settled on a dish from the Alto-Adige region in Italy, Speck Knödel. It's a bread dumpling (as opposed to a biscuit dough or noodle dumpling) that uses Speck, a cured and smoked bacon imported from Alto-Adige.

Speck is hard to find in the greater Washington, DC area. I finally procured a (large) quantity from Antico Mercante in Atlanta, Georgia. It's a slab of bacon, and it has a subtle, smoked taste to it. I've been eating too much of it. It makes the Speck Knödel into a wonderful dish.

Of course, I get to experiment on Ron. I made this dish this weekend, and it tasted really good. I've had bread dumplings before, and they are often heavy. These were not. My Mother made a bread dressing and stuffing when I was growing up, and these dumplings taste a lot like that dressing. I think it's interesting how the form of food changes as it moves from place to place. Do noodles become spaetzle, then bread dumplings, and finally dressing? Maybe not, except that there remains a commonality of taste and ingredients. It's been a lot of fun exploring some (perhaps stretched) cultural culinary connections.

When my Mother Died

In the weeks after the funeral,
The widows came to the house
Corningware, Tupperware, Rubbermaid.
The doorbell rang; each dish accepted,
acknowledged, and refrigerated.

Jello eight ways. Three kinds of macaroni.
Spaghetti and meatballs in a metal bowl.
Four tossed salads with five different dressings.

Three molds, five glass baking dishes, four casseroles,
washed, dried, and returned.

December, January, and February.

An Important Part of Cooking

An important part of cooking is creating the smell. Try this: heat the oven to 400°F. Take some chicken giblets, and maybe the wing tips, and place them with a little oil and butter in a small iron skillet. Sprinkle them with salt, a grind of pepper, and two large pinches of thyme. Set the skillet in the oven for fifteen minutes. In the meantime, chop half an onion, a small carrot, and a stalk of celery. Add to the chicken giblets, and continue cooking for another 15 minutes or so.

Take a sniff. The smell is herby from the thyme. The onions are fragrant, and you can smell the sweetness of the carrot and the fresh whiff of the celery. The aroma hits my nose when I open the oven door.

Quickly, my chicken stock takes shape as I dump the skillet contents in a saucepan, and add some water, a bay leaf, some cloves, and allspice. As the stock bubbles, the wonderful smells continue, and my home smells lived in and loved. The joy of onions, carrots, and a chicken neck transform a cool autumn day into an abundant scent of memories.

Dinner and All That (Explained to the Uninitiated)

Ron pointed out to me that I tend to gloss over details in my blog entries. So I thought I'd try to explain better what I mean in my annotated version of yesterday's entry.

Sometimes, dinner is just what dinner is. You can't explain it. It just happens. Well, actually you can explain it, but I put in those two sentences for dramatic affect. And dinner doesn't "just" happen, it takes a fair amount of work, if not planning. The less planning the more chopping, paring, and drinking spirited beverages. I know this from personal experience.I like the word melange*. I'm not quite sure what it means (I really do know what it means, because I looked it up before I published this blog post), but I think it explains tonight's dinner perfectly (It didn't, but that's the subject of another blog post).

Ron had prepared a list of dining possibilities inside our kitchen. I kid you not! He withdrew a list from his shirt pocket. I was totally amazed! They included green salad; warmed over veggie stew (more about that later*); watermelon, beet, and tomato salad; potatoes; roasted cauliflower; corn on the cob; and beet greens. He said we didn't need to fix all of it(!), but these were the options. He was going to pass on the veggie stew, but everything else was in play, if I wanted it.

Okay, here's the lowdown on those asterisks and the veggie stew. I'm not sure that I literally "like" the word "melange," but it fits in well with my narrative style, at least I think so, and I'm writing this blog. If you can come up with a better word, please comment on this post. Oh, and about the veggie stew, it was another chili debacle. I accidentally put too much heat in it, like two ancho chilies and a fair amount of chipotle chili powder, plus some significant amount of cayenne pepper, and many grinds of black pepper. Honestly, it did not taste too hot for me, but when Ron started sweating profusely, I kind of figured maybe I could have used a lighter touch. Bless his heart, he did not complain until after eating at least three spoonfuls, and then he ate the rest of the bowl with a manly determination. You have to love this guy!

Ron's keen on corn, almost like he was born in Kansas Do Tel Aviv natives eat corn on the cob? or something. I really wanted some fried potatoes (it's a well-known fact that fried potatoes contain significant amounts of essential vitamins and minerals, especially if they are Idaho potatoes). The veggie stew had so much chili in it, that I figured the fried potatoes would cut a little of the heat, and my heartburn wouldn't kill me when I went to bed. I did have heartburn, and it did affect me when I went to bed, but I consider that as a minor penance for subjecting Ron to the veggie stew earlier. Besides, it really tasted wonderful, smoky and hot. I was a go on the beet and watermelon salad, and the beet greens. Operation Melange Dinner* was about to get underway.

*I started using nomenclature like this after Operation Iraqi Freedom. I figured if Dick Cheney could co-opt a perfectly useful word and turn it into a militaristic slogan of American Imperialism, I could do the same when referring to certain culinary operations in my own kitchen. Besides, I'm quite sure that Dick and Lynne must love chili because they are from Wyoming, and Wyoming is famous for buffalo chili. The Cheney's would probably think that my vegetable chili was a little effete, and if the shoe fits, wear it.

I figured Ron could eat the corn, and I would eat the veggie stew. I peeled the potatoes; he finished prepping the watermelon, beet, and tomato salad*, husked the corn on the cob, and washed the beet greens. *Did you do a double take when you read watermelon, beets, and tomatoes? I did, too. But I have learned that Ron's recipes, while exotic, are more than worth the experiment. The salad was very good, with watermelon sweetness and crunch, and the subtle flavor of the beets, plus their texture. This dish deserves a repeat on the dinner table. I got the potatoes frying about the time the beet greens were cleaned. Then all we had to do was to wait on the potatoes, warm up the veggie stew, and zap the corn on the cob.

And we did all that, got it on the table, and had an absolutely wonderful meal. He loved his corn, and the potatoes did cut the chili burn on the veggies. We had this colorful, delightful, and fresh meal that was tasty, and didn't have any cholesterol, corn syrup, BHA, or BHT. Nothing came from a box. Most of it came from the CSA farm in Pennsylvania. The food was good, and the company unsurpassed. I enjoy these cooking adventures with Ron, and appreciate his skill, talents, and inquisitiveness in the kitchen. I'm happy he cooks for me! Real food for real homosexuals.

Mt. Sneffels We Are Here

Montrose, Colorado is a pretty good location to get to the other places you always wanted to visit. We went south to Ridgway, Ouray, and Telluride. Heading out of Ridgway is the Mount Sneffels viewpoint, actually a spot that is used by the highway department for gravel. But, it has a picturesque fence from which to take picturesque pictures of loved ones in front of Mount Sneffels. So we did.

Lesley, Grace, Mt. Sneffels, Happy, Steve

Short and Sweet

Happy on Fire

Okay, Fans, all four of you. I realize that I've been remiss over the last few weeks. Lots of stuff has happened, and you don't know jack. If I were you, I'd go somewhere else to read the news!

Not that I'm mocking you, or anything like that, like you don't have lives or are a bunch of losers, no, no, Happy would never do that, unless he thought he could get away with it, and make you believe that he actually cared about somebody, other than himself, which is kind of an interesting concept, anyway, because why would anyone except an egocentric person with an outsized concept of self keep a blog anyway?

None of this has anything to do with why I'm writing this entry, or why I entitled it, Short and Sweet. With a title like that, you might think I was going to write about waffles or cookies, both of which can be short and sweet, and in fact, I have some great cookie recipes on my recipe blog. That's probably too literal a reading of the title of this entry. In fact, I was going to make this entry a short summary of my activities in the last two weeks, but that's probably boring. But I'll do it anyway.

High on the list, while I was at the IAGSDC Square Dance Convention, Chi-Town Shakedown last week, Brian sent me one of those email questionnaires that you complete and send out to 147 of your closest friends. Brian in his own responses indicated that I was slow, perhaps a little sarcastic, and (if you really read between the lines) somewhat unhinged. To my credit, I completed Brian's questionnaire, and I'm quite pleased with the results. I'm grateful to Brian for providing the opportunity, even though it was an immense distraction (me thinking about it while on the dance floor trying to do-si-do). It consumed me. I spent hours awake at night thinking about an appropriate response. So I'm glad that that's been dispensed with.

The square dance convention was fabulous. I helped lay the flooring on the Wednesday before the convention, and met Norman during the work. Norman is this nice optometrist from New York City. I could just fall into the pools of his eyes. Dreamy in a mature male, who hasn't gone to seed, bearish sort of way. We hung out together on the Advanced floor for a couple of days. He's trying to nail down his Advanced calls. I was slumming because I just couldn't face the Challenge 1 floor. I danced several tips there on Friday, and decided that my head hurt too much to continue. I was nursing a sinus infection, and just couldn't do Challenge. Norman and I took a very satisfying nap Saturday afternoon, that left me refreshed and ready for more dancing.

It's great fun to have enough confidence in a dance program to go on auto-pilot and just move about the floor. I can do that at Advanced, and it's my own little heaven. Dancing is a lot like organized religion. The caller calls, and the dancers obey. Sound familiar? It's very hierarchical, a real S&M relationship. I had a great time dancing with Norman.

So on Sunday afternoon, the very last session of dancing, I went back to the Challenge 1 floor. I had a fabulous time on it. I was in a square with three (straight) couples from England who were square dancing across the United States. They dance C1 flawlessly, and helped me through it. What a dream square. I moved on to another square, and this guy bops up, takes my hand and we dance together. I get into another square, and there he is again, smiling at me, and hugging me 47 nanoseconds too long at the end of the tip. I ask him, your room or mine. He says yours, and asks me if his partner can come along. Whoa!

So that's how I met Michael and Steve. Michael is a hot little cub, and Steve is a big and very friendly bear. So we snuffled off to room 1530, and I discovered my inner bear. It turns out that Michael had been stalking me since Silicon Galaxy, which was was five conventions ago. He saw me in the Moonshine Tip, and had to have me. Such are the siren ways of square dance conventions.

The other wonderful experience at the convention was the piano bar. Chip Prince played all the show tunes, and several of us belted them out. I haven't done that in twenty years, and I only know three musicals, but it was so much fun, and hilarious, too. Thanks, Chip!

Joe Branch and I went on the Fun Badge Tour together, seeing the nether regions of Chicago, then I trekked with Grace to Calumet Park, and spent the night at her place. She turned me on to Ancestry.com. Very Interesting.

Now I'm back home. I've been out on my bike. I'm getting ready for the IMEN Gathering. This is our week in the sun. I should be packing, but I'm not. Actually, I should be writing out Condo checks, but I'm not. That will get done before we leave, or the world as we know it will be fundamentally changed. I'm really in a mood to do nothing, so I'm writing this interminable blog entry, instead.

Last night, Leo came over after work. Work drag is a big turn on for me. So I drag him inside by his tie. Leo is an overachiever. Really. So he wants me to be the cowboy and ride, ride, ride. I agree that that would be a good idea. I put some lubrication on my fingers, and prepare my delicate regions, only to discover that I haven't completely washed my hands of the chili peppers that I was roasting and skinning for dinner. Oops. Later on, Leo tells me, "Your ass is on fire." Boy, was that an understatement. Toward the end of the performance, he needed me to help him reach satisfaction. I was hesitant to do it, because of the perhaps residual damage I might cause to his member. But he urged me on. He reached Nirvana. I hope it was not a lot hotter than he expected.

Today, a couple of Ron's friends came over, Chris and Peter who were later joined by Jay. We went out to lunch, then came home for a wonderful conversation about life as gay men. I do not believe that straight men sit around the living room (or a campfire) and talk about being straight. Believe me, gay men talk a lot about being gay. I think it goes with the territory. So I told them my Leo story. They laughed their asses off. So did I. In fact today, it's only a warm memory, rather than hot sex. Leo, it really was on fire.

I'm on Battery Power

The passing thunderstorm caused me to unplug my trusty computer. Is that for real? Can computers really fry themselves? Inquiring minds want to know. Drop me a line and tell me your horror story.

Big things happening in Washington! West Virginia Senator Drops Dead. Jeff Sessions Questions Elena Kagan's Experience! Salahis Sighted Near White House! It must be summer time in the city. Well of course - the Supreme Court's out of session, but not before assuring that every citizen has a right to a handgun. Richard Daley, you should be ashamed of yourself! Republicans are introducing legislation requiring hospitals to distribute a loaded handgun to each newborn when it leaves the hospital. U Betcha!

Speaking of Chicago, a bunch of gay square dancers will be there next week subverting the local citizenry at the Hilton Chicago Hotel. Grab your pets and your children. Watch out for gender benders. Don't drink the water. Of course, I'll be covering this event right here in this blog so that you don't have to go yourself. It's a public service that I take seriously.

Oh, I almost forgot. The Proposition 8 case has gone to the judge. It seems that the defenders of marriage aren't very good at defending "traditional" marriage; I'm guessing because they couldn't figure out exactly what they were defending. Their argument went something like this. Homosexual people should not get married to each other because they cannot procreate (not because Proposition 8 discriminates...). When asked by the judge about heterosexual people who can't have children, the defense backtracked quickly saying that heterosexual, but procreationally impaired people had a right to marry, because traditionally they had always had a right to marry. Hmmm sounds like the same thing to me. The case come down to the state putting the rights of a minority on the ballot and letting the voters decide that discrimination is okay. Should the state be allowed to arbitrarily remove basic constitutional rights of a large group of people because the voters think it's okay? It seems to me that the state should be promoting families rather than finding ways to weaken them. How would heterosexual couples feel if they were on the wrong side of this argument? Let me know. I'll publish your comments.

Well, that's the word from Wheaton. Tune is sometime soon for an update. I promise a pic or two from Chicago.

Life is a Delight

The last week or so has been a delight. I've gotten in touch with some old friends, took a couple of long bike rides, and enjoyed a square dance. Right now, I'm enjoying the aroma of freshly baked bread. I just finished sending off an email to two long ago friends. This has been a quiet day at home with Ron. This is a contented day.

Wedding Bells, Revisited

I think that Ron and I have trouble committing. It's really weird, when confronted with the reality of marriage, it's hard to say, "Okay, let's do it." Part of it is reluctance to accept an institution that has been, in the past, hostile to our interests and to our understanding of the relationship and friendship that we share. Part of it is, simply, marriage sounds so permanent. Are we really going to be together for the rest of our lives? Well, of course we are!

I came home last night, and Ron was entertaining a delightful visitor. Ron was radiant, happy, alive with the excitement of the moment, and it melted my heart. I was grateful and happy for the joy manifest; I was deeply touched. Well, the three of us sat up and talked until 1:30 a.m. I hope that Michael has more energy this morning than I do.

Ron took Michael home, and when he came to bed and crawled under the covers, I told him how happy I was for him and for us. He is so profoundly a part of my life. I love him with all my being. I told him that I wasn't going to call him my partner anymore; he's my husband, that man who is my other half, the man who cherishes me more than anyone else, and the man who has captured my heart. He takes care of me as I take care of him. He's my husband, whether those wedding bells ring, or not.

Are There Wedding Bells in My Future?

Let me state right off that I feel ambivalent about the subject of same-sex marriage in general, but maybe not about my same-sex marriage in particular. I think that anybody who wants to get married should be able to get married. Deep down inside, I'm pretty sure I want to get married. I'm not convinced that marriage is the gay issue, but it has come down to that ever since the Massachusetts court ruled in favor of same-sex marriage.

So where does this find me and Ron? I was talking with a friend last night, and he and his partner have decided to get married. Like us, they live in Maryland. They will go to the District in a few days and get their license. Soon after, they'll tie the knot. Two square dancers that I know, also from Maryland, danced down the aisle together last week. The reason for all this activity is that Maryland Attorney-General Douglas Gansler has ruled that Maryland will recognize out-of-state same-sex marriages.

The square dancers married for love. My other friends married for the benefits that Maryland offers married couples. Perhaps Ron and I should get married for the showers. After 27 years, lots of stuff begins to wear out, and nothing matches anymore. Is that a good enough reason to get married?

For all practical purposes, Ron and I have tied all the legal knots that we can to make sure that we remain together and that our wishes our followed in times of illness or death. Admittedly, marriage would make much simpler (and considerably less expensive) what we have done with trusts, will, and powers of attorney (and several thousand dollars). And marriage would add a guarantee about our intentions that all of our legal work can't, because under the eyes of the law, in spite of everything we have done, we are still regarded as two unrelated adult men who live at the same address.

Should we get married? Will you search out our bridal registry? Should I wear white?

Southaven Nights

We're still in Southaven. Ron called the airlines this morning after discovering that our flight had been cancelled a second time. Our next attempted departure will be on Tuesday. That's a week we've spent here. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Today's adventure started with the tire indicator lit. So when we got to Mom's we checked the tire pressure and found a nail in the passenger-side rear tire. Alex got out her compressor (she has everything in her garage), and topped off the tire, and proceeded to top off the other rear tire. In the process, the valve head came out, so now I had two flat tires, instead of one. We proceeded to change the tire with the defective valve, and went in search of a place to change the other tire on a Sunday.

Walmart, what a marketplace delight, especially for people in need on a Sunday. I filled out an order, then we were off to a Chinese buffet for lunch. It wasn't bad. I didn't have intestinal discomfort afterwards. Ron and I went back to Walmart, but the car wasn't ready quite yet.

When it was ready, I was told that they hadn't done any work on it because the valve is a special valve only available from the dealer. I told them to go and install a regular valve. At this point, I don't care about the rental car or contract; I need a car to drive. The guys quickly repaired both tires, and we came back to the hotel.

The problem, then, is what to do for dinner. We were invited over to Larry and Sherri's to eat and watch the Super Bowl. Ron and I are actually a lot gayer than that. We called Alex and politely declined, then went for a walk, had a nap, and ended up at the Olive Garden for dinner. We had a nice glass of wine, some bread sticks, some pasta, and a nice evening of looking each other in the eye and thinking what a nice evening to be together with you.

Memphis Barbeque

Okay, after that last whiny blog entry I should be ashamed of myself. Tonight, we took Mom to the Olive Garden to meet up with Ron's sister, Alex, and have dinner. Well, 6:30 on a Friday night in Southaven, Mississippi is the time when the natives all go Italian. The place was packed, and we were shunted off to a very smoky bar. I wasn't too keen to spend 45 minutes there to be seated for dinner.

Alex suggested that Ron and I go somewhere else to eat if we didn't want to wait for dinner, and that she and Mom would eat at the bar. After a few indecisive moments, Ron and I headed for the door, jumped in the bright red minivan, and headed down Airways Boulevard in the direction of Scooter's Barbeque.

We had seen Scooter's when we first got into town on Tuesday, but I didn't think that we'd actually have a chance to eat there. It's a very down-home unpretentious carryout/restaurant. The video was playing some great rockin' blues and the smell from the kitchen was 100% barbeque, a wonderful smoky aroma that let you know you were in the right place for some great food.

I'm a fan of pulled or chopped pork sandwiches. For dinner tonight, I had a chopped pork sandwhich with slaw, barbeque beans, potato salad, lemon cake, and iced tea. It set me back $4.95. The barbeque spoke to me with its vinegary smoky-sweet goodness. The meat was moist, tender, and most of all smoky, but not assertive or bitter. It is some of the best 'que I've ever eaten.

The sides were good country cooking, too. The beans were sweet, but not too, with chunks of barbequed pork. The potato salad would have made any of my aunts proud to say it was there own. The lemon cake was just the right way to end this memorable meal. Scooter's should be on your list of places to visit when you get tired of Graceland or the Orpheum. Head for Southaven, and the corner of Airways and Goodman.

Snow Daze

Ron and I are sitting in Mom's kitchen with Ron's Mom. It's an exasperating experience. She is experiencing memory loss, and it's getting worse. Right now she is quite lucid, but it's not going to last. Ron is far more patient than I, but I'm pretty sure that it makes him a little nuts, too: the endless questions, the crying, the paranoia, and the frustration. She's often angry and sullen. Yesferday she was certain that we were going to poison her.

Of course, the situation changes minute by minute. It takes nothing to set her off. She lives in a very looking glass world. Life inside these walls is not always what it seems.

Oh, the snow. Because of the weather in DC, our flight was cancelled. We are rebooked for day after tomorrow. The next 48 hours will be extremely time dilated. I had to change the hotel and car reservation. While changing the car contract, I realized that my driver's license was missing. My license wasn't in my wallet, my jacket, the hotel room. I eventually found it in the car underneath the beverage holder. Maybe I'm the one with memory loss. I also called the snow guy to clear our steps and walk. We're getting back to DC about 10 p.m. Sunday evening, and I didn't want two and a half feet of snow outside our front door looking for a shovel. We've made our arrangements. Let it snow (brave words, here).

sparkle

A paradox of time unfolded.
A messy catapult exploded
lovers' reveries of distant stars,
querulous quantum leaps so tiny
a billion billion billion fit inside my heinie
squatting on a beach quite cold
inside my trunks some sparkles bold, and
instantly my buttocks warmed quite brightly;
a vibration, cosmic, shuddered from the planet Mars,
a broken thought bent in a jaundiced eye
of pain-ed hearts, of tears, and lines unsightly.
Looking back from future time I picked a scab
I felt a stab. I knew the emptiness, the scars
from family, friends, and lovers, now acquaintances
dismembered by a messy, passing comet,
their faces silent, contorted by the time compression.
My heinie now a hillock and each memory
a flower growing growing growing and exploding
in ten thousand thousand silicon dioxide
integrated circuits, parsing passing reveries
of Mars of bars of stars of lovers and their lips
of my organic, vegan boyfriend and his hips
writhing on a beach and pulling down my trunks
playing with my heinie and a messy catapult
exploded sparkles bold and buttocks warmed.

The Office

Okay, The Office is about the personal miserable lives of employees at a paper company. I have a different tale. It's also about a lame life (mine), and although it doesn't take place at a paper company, paper plays a big role in the misery.

I finally got tired of the mess. Ron asked me what I wanted for Christmas, and I told him a visit from Clutterbusters. It didn't come to pass. Instead, he offered to help me clean up the office, so he and I have been tackling it, pile by pile for the past week. Progress has been slow but steady. Here are the BEFORE pics.

The mess has been growing since 1994, the last documented archaelogical dig that took place at this location. Lots of dust has accumulated, and some organic compounds have broken down over the years. Lots of computer technology crap has accreted over the years, much to my hidden shame.

Ron took on as his special project to tidy up the bookcase. The bookcase had turned into another lateral storage and retrieval area. Unfortunately, it was becoming a lot easier to store than to retrieve. I became quite frustrated with the office, and really haven't used it for a couple of years, and I was angry with myself for wasting valuable space in my home with an ugly mess.

We're not done yet, and we'll be sorting crap for a while, and storing "stuff" for a flea market sometime in the spring. But we are making tangible progress. Here is what that looks like so far:

The corner consisted of boxes of papers that I had not looked at for fifteen years. I threw out the papers and saved the photos, because a picture is worth a thousand words, or something like that.

This corner contained records of a group that no longer exists. I shredded hundreds of address and lists, and threw out all the paper, flyers, announcements, and detritus that collects in an office when you are its co-chair. It's gone!

So far, we've removed sixteen grocery sacks full of paper wasted and six garbage bags of computer disks, drag, radical faerie costuming, plastic bags, and evidence of a life that needed some organizing skills.

We aren't done yet, but we're making progress!

More Odds and Ends

Check out the Swartzentruber sisters. They make quilts, beautiful quilts in Holmes County, Ohio. Ron and I spent a day in Amish country, and had the privilege to visit their home and see the quilts. You should see them, too. Mrs. Swartzentruber asked us, "Where are your wives?" I told her that we weren't married, but I'm not sure if the situation sunk in.

The family reunion was nice. It was a pleasure meeting Davita. I hope that we didn't all scare her off. Joe and Karen's condo renovation project turned out fabulous. The view of downtown Chicago and the lake is unbeatable. Gracie and CJ love the unimpeded living room, and use it as an exercise room.

Coming over the Alleghenies, we saw some pretty colors. While we were in Holmes County, it was pretty rainy. Crossing the rest of Ohio and Indiana was anticlimactic, much like the leaden sky, overhead. In Chicago, Ron and I stayed at the Inn at Lincoln Park. Joe told me later that the hotel was slated for demolition so that developers could build a high rise and retail space, but when the property market crashed, the hotel gained a new lease on life. Pity.

The hotel was a little strange. Qualitywise, it's like an aging Quality Inn. You might want to stay on the lower floors, because the water on the upper floors wasn't always hot. The elevator is very European, as was the help, and the service. Very strange, indeed, in the heart of Chicagoland. The big plus was the bed. It was comfy.

Friday, we did some sightseeing with the family. Friday night ate at Bubba Gump's on Navy Pier. Saturday was at Karen and Joe's so that we could all see the new place. Sunday, Grace hosted a cookout. I made my famous Norwegian Potato Salad. Darryl is turning into quite a griller. We met his girlfriend. Karen, Joshua, and kids also came to the cookout. It was very nice seeing them.

This morning, Ron and I went to Millennium Park to see the shiny peanut. That place is classy. The fountain wasn't working, but the weather was beautiful, and we took a nice walk throughout the park and environs. From there it was out of Chicago, and on the road to Cincinnati, and we're holed up here in the Fairfield Inn.

It's Been One of Those Days

I've been meaning to get to the latest Economist since 7 a.m. It doesn't seem to be in the cards. This retired state puzzles me, because I always run out of time. Happily, supper is in the oven, and it's been a wonderful, if another lost day.

The official business started with going to the gym with Michael. He and I had our usual square dancing discussion. It's useful to me to hear how somebody else thinks about square dancing, the club, dance etiquette, level snobbery, etc. I usually keep these thoughts to myself, so it's nice to have a sounding board to hear something new, and to try out ideas.

Gym. I want a gym-toned bod with the emphasis on toned, but alas, I'm really very blobby. Oh, I know. Body image. Blah, blah, blah. I don't hear you! I think I'm losing the battle with gravity, but I'm doing pretty well back at the gym. I just wish I could see some instant results. About the only consistent result is that I'm hungry all the time. Hmmmm.

Back on the home front, I saw those two excellent tomatoes wanting to be eaten. I suggested to my better half that he and I go shopping for parsley. $65 later at Safeway, we were home making a tuna stuffed tomato. It was delicious. These local farm grown tomatoes make me think I'm going to be at the farmers' market this weekend, too. The tomatoes have this celestial (or maybe platonic) tomato taste. Ummmmm.

Ron gave me a back rub. We took a walk. I'm cooking some stuffed poblano peppers for dinner. Life is good.

Last Weekend

I've spent most of the last 26 years feeling disconnected from where I came from. All of my DC friends know I'm from Idaho, but the most direct manifestation of that is my fascination with potatoes. I get back to my hometown usually a couple of times a year, but often I just fly in, and fly right back out again. I haven't had an opportunity for a long time just to take a car trip around the Pacific Northwest.

This last week, I came back for my second high school reunion that I've attended this summer. They were three weeks apart, and worth the effort getting here. This last weekend was Moscow High School's class of 1969 reunion. It had a good turnout of about 80 people, and we look pretty good, considering the mileage.

6 p.m. Friday night, most of us met at Mingle's, a bar down on Main Street to talk and drink. When I walked in the door, Steve, a classmate and former neighbor grabbed me and immediately introduced me to Ben, whom I did not recognize at all (sorry, Ben...), and drinks all around. Many conversations, explanations, and exclamation later, I stumbled back to the hotel at 1:30 p.m. feeling quite warm and fuzzy. It was a real joy to see all of these men and women after forty+ years.

I ran into three men who were my best friends in grade school and junior high: Bruce, Paul, and Clay. Bruce, Clay, and I had survived the rigors of Mrs. Jantzen, and Mrs. Day. Paul was a neighbor kid with whom I had grown up. I was deeply touched to see them and hear their stories. Clay's sister, Maggi, crashed the reunion, with loud and wonderful results.

I walked away from Moscow and Potlatch when I moved back to DC. I'm going to be much more careful about staying in touch with these men and women who made me part of who I am. I want to remember and honor that.