I'm in a Funk of Sorts

All of you who read my blog, I'm in a strange place. I've been in this place before, and I'll be here again, so I ask you to bear with me. It's pretty clear to me that my Mom is dying. Many of you already know that. I don't want to feel dramatic or be a drama queen, but I'm feeling somewhat dramatic, and more reflective than I like to feel.

I don't really feel depressed, but I do feel disconnected. I talked with Mom yesterday, and she was clearly saying goodbye. I've known that she and I were going to get to this eventually; I just didn't think that it was going to be yesterday. It's affecting me more than I thought it would.

This current state of affairs will probably go on for a while. She has her bad days and her good days. Her bad days are getting worse, and her good days are not getting better. I'm not sure whether Mom will die in a few weeks or a few months, but she knows that she's at the end. She can't breathe. The quality of her life has sharply shifted. She knows that no matter what she does, she's not getting any better.

She and I have talked about this day for at least a couple of years. It always seemed ahead of us, and now, the day has arrived. She and I are entering a new phase in her life and in our relationship. We've planned for this time, and given it much thought. I wish my Mom well on this last walk that she takes. I don't want to see her death delayed, but I don't want death to come too fast, either. Anyway, her life will proceed at its own pace and in its own way.

This much I know: my love for my stepmother has grown over the years to become a strong and wonderful chord between us that has its own sweet note. When that chord is broken, I'll never hear that note again, and my life will be a little less for that. But having heard that note and felt the presence of her life, I am immeasurably enriched by her life. I am blessed by her life.

So if I'm a little out of it, I have a couple of things on my mind. I apologize for my bemusement. I'm grateful for your love and understanding. Please keep Mom in your heart and prayers.

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.

A New Dawn

I don't mean to be ironic; it just comes out that way. I slept in my own bed for the first time in a week, and indeed, it is a new dawn, a gentler dawn, a more rested dawn.

Ron and I spent the last week at the IMEN Gathering at Camp Ramblewood near Havre de Grace, Maryland. It's a gay naturist gathering, full of a lot of flair and verve, although not always at the same time. I added my own atmospheric presence at the gathering, too.

And I wasn't even one of the fabulous ones, although if I keep it up, I'll be fabulous before I die. The pic is the part of me that can be displayed in this blog. I wouldn't want to violate my TOS.... I was participating in a Rocky Horror costume contest. I looked very scary, complete with fishnet and leather corset, not to mention the thigh-length vinyl boots with 7" heels. I was in orbit.

I continued to the wear the costume for six hours which included dinner, and a talent show performance. A girl's got to do what a girl's got to do. Beauty doesn't come cheap! Classy means more than being born in a trailer park on Christmas Eve. Sometimes, you have to show your trouper colors and persevere. I think I look pretty good for an old man.

Naked Anxiety

I cannot use adjectives around naked men.
Hot? Or not-so-hot?
Speechless with small talk.
I don't want to offend hot naked men.

My own insecurity safely in hand
I hope, I think I'm a hot naked man,
maybe I'm a hot naked man,
maybe I was a hot naked man,
maybe I could be a hot naked man.
No, I can't use adjectives around naked men.

The stomachs, the gravitas,
the wrinkled notions of
boy grown much older:
Hot I don't think so,
in this reflection of missed connections
for not being hot and
not seeing hot, too.

I cannot use adjectives around naked men.

Crumbling Rubber

I sort through piles of clothes
shirts that I wore at my desk at work
the desk where I spent hours managing
and drinking coffee.
The shirts were once white,
but drift into other faded shades
maybe token gay shades in the office
because nobody would ever bring up the subject
except me.

The bedroom piles are disappearing.
It's like an achaeological dig full
of dirt, dust, crumbling rubber,
and spent elastic.
Old papers mixed in clothes, some dead, some saved.
The saved get bundled for Purple Heart.

I cannot do this for very long, because it unnerves me.
Sorting these clothes digs up memories,
Reminds me that I'm cast off too.
Sorting my life,
Discarding my crumbling rubber,
Living out my Purple Heart.

Love and Loathing

For you readers who follow me on my adventures, you undoubtedly know that I am on the Manhunt site rather often looking for hookups, and chatting with buds, seeing who's online, etc. It's more than sex and less than satisfactory.

For the most part, Manhunt efficiently delivers the goods. Desperate men eventually find ways to accommodate each other's needs. Occasionally, though, you run into jerks. I ran into such a jerk yesterday, a gratuitous jerk with whom I had never had any contact. This is the message that he sent me:

Joker7727: wow..u are a fucking joke!!! 60 years old and u take naked pics of your self...fucking gross dude!!! no wounder people hate fags....guys like you give us all bad names. u look like a kid toucher!!! nasty dude!!!

This wasn't quite as bad as the message where a different jerk told me that "you old guys should just kill yourselves," but it's pretty close. The message is curious because I had never had contact with the sender, so why was he contacting me with this hateful, offensive message? I'm guessing he believes that old men shouldn't be having sex, or more likely we shouldn't be seen on Manhunt.

He pissed me off. So I replied to his message, not in kind, but intentionally. I fully expect Mr. Joker to block me after he reads my message. I hope he reads my message. But if he doesn't, at least the exchange is memorialized here:

wheaton_guy: No, I think you're the fucking joke. It's fags like you that give guys like me a bad name. I don't take pictures of myself in public restrooms like you do. And I don't know why you think I look like a kid toucher. Maybe you have some issues that you should explore with your therapist you self-loathing, ageist, bigoted asshole. Finally, if you live another 27 years, you'll be my age. You'll probably be hanging around here posting naked pictures of yourself. You might want to try a little humility, because when you're my age, you're certainly going to need it. It's my earnest hope that you never receive as hateful a message as you sent me. It's bad karma for you.

Don't mess with me.

Sometimes Everything Looks Like a Penis

Ron's out of town, and I'm randy. When I was 29 (or 39, or 49), I didn't expect to be sexually active, and well, horny at the age of 59. I thought the day would come when sex just wouldn't interest me anymore. That's not proving to be the case. The desire remains strong, even if the implementation isn't always exactly on target.

That's a blog entry in itself. When Pfizer put Viagra® on the market, it changed my life. Although the drug doesn't create or increase sexual desire, it makes the result of sexual desire obtainable. After decades of having no follow through whatsoever, Viagra was an epiphany, and an enabler of possibilities, and it probably kept my interest in sex active because it made the possibility of sexual connection with other men real. When I couldn't get a hard on, I always felt that I had let the other guy down. Now that I could actually have a much larger sexual repertoire (with Viagra's gentle, insistent help), I felt a sexual validation that I had not experienced in decades. Of course, that's in my head, and I should probably be talking to a therapist about that.

I used Viagra yesterday. I had a happy afternoon with Tim. We enjoyed the completely undignified time with each other. Sex like this reminds me of who I am.

This morning I was still a little blissful. I was walking past the Discovery Building in Silver Spring, on my way to the farmers market to pick up some produce. The Discovery Building has this huge mural along the sidewalk that combines themes of Prometheus, the Tree of Life, Neil Armstrong, Hal, and the Ultimate Answers of Physics (that's my interpretation). And the mural has a lot of penis-shaped objects in it: the Tree of Life, flaming planetoids streaking, fish of a sort, and a starry universe heading out to the Big Chill, penises everywhere, and it didn't take a huge amount of imagination for me to see them! They are there. I saw them with my own eyes. And I'm cutting my dosage in about half.

It's Not Easy Being Gay

I remember at the beginning of this year, that I promised all of my readers that I would be updating this blog regularly. I guess it depends on how you define "regularly."

Some updates: My bedroom is still a complete mess. I need to set a deadline, then get to it. It's a scary prospect for me. I keep hearing about elderly hoarders, and I wonder am I contemplating my next forty years every time I look at that pigsty (and that's really being unfair to pigs) of a bedroom. What gives here? Am I mentally unbalanced. I also notice clutter creeping back into the office, and it's giving me the heebie jeebies. I'm entering some warped zombie-like universe. Everywhere I look I see awful premonitions of my future.

Michael and I made it to the Silver Spring Farmers Market early Saturday morning (okay, 9 a.m.) to pick up our box of CSA produce. I also purchased a baguette and a container of cardamom gelato. Later on, I proceeded to prepare a spinach potato dish that Spiral Path Farms had conveniently included in their newsletter. Spinach Colcannon is a dish worthy of your consideration, especially if you fix it like I do.

We'd already eaten half the dish when it occurred to us to take a picture

Tim and I went to Sushi Damo on Saturday afternoon, just after the lunch crowd. There's nothing quite like post-coital seafood. And that sentence is wrong on so many different levels. Not a hint of Tuna was to be found.... But the rolls were wonderful: the Eel Special Roll, and the Mango Sensation. I think I can speak for Tim (and Me!) and heartily recommend both creations. I have no idea how "authentic" these rolls are, but sinking back into the taste and delight of the moment makes that judgment wholly irrelevant, for at least this particular lunch time.

Sunday, Ron and I attended a (very) (gay) pool party in the neighborhood. The looksist and ageist demons were dancing in my head while I was attending this spectacle. Bawdy ballads, anyone? Care to hear about the latest naked sightings of young male celebrities? Are you interested in knowing the real inside dope between Sal Mineo and Tony Perkins? I thought so. The aforementioned Spinach Colcannon was devoured in its entirety. One-half pound of melted cheese just about guarantees a cleaned out dish at a potluck of this caliber, although I continue to be dumbfounded and amazed at the results and my reaction to those results. Sometimes, I just want to turn in my card, and slink back into the slimy shadows from which I emerged after Stonewall.

My Busy Week

Last week was (what passes for me) a busy week. I'm not altogether sure that it was a busy week, because when you are retired, it skews your sense of how the world works, but I think it was a busy week, when I reflect on it, which I do now that I'm retired and really have little else to do except to comment, reflectively, on my busy (or not so busy) week.

Monday started off with a SAGE - Metro DC meeting. That seems like weeks ago, but it was only last Monday. SAGE used to mean Seniors Active in a Gay Environment. Now, I'm not sure what it means. The organization didn't change its acronym, it just changed the words, which confuses the hell out of me. I can't keep up with all this change. Excuse me while I adjust my teeth. They are chattering. Afterwards, Joe and I went out to dinner at Sergio's a Salvadorean restaurant in the 'hood. It's pretty basic, and very good. Go for the taco special and for the pupusas. You can't go wrong with that advice.

Tuesday, Tim came over for some recreation, and we ended up at Sergio's for dinner. Imagine that - taco special twice in one week! The tacos are are white corn soft-shell filled with chopped meat and sauce, slathered with sour cream and guacamole. It's not for the faint hearted. The margaritas are good, too, but I opted out on Tuesday, because Tim and I headed out to Billy's for C1 dancing. Billy is a great caller, and it's a fun floor.

Wednesday made its way into my life. The day was cool, but sunny, so I took off for several hours of bike riding trails in Montgomery County. I explored the lower part of the Matthew Henson Trail, which branches off the Rock Creek Trail near Dewey and Randolph Roads. The trail is beautiful, and I want to go back and see how far beyond Georgia Avenue it runs. I biked 31 miles and called it a day.

I had been anticipating Thursday all week long. Thursday was the day of the DC Lambda Squares Annual Meeting. I spent much of the day preparing for the meeting, getting items printed, and preparing a report. The meeting went well, although I'm always nervous when I'm in front of a lot of people. We had a good turnout, and the beginning of a good discussion about the future of the club.

Friday dawned very early. I got up shortly before 5 a.m. and headed on down to the three husbands to get them off to the airport to Buffalo. Afterwards, Ron and I headed off to the Silver Diner for breakfast, where I received a call from Buffalo - Michael had forgotten Flat Margy, so I had to break into their suburban castle, kidnap Margy, and send her by overnight to the Crowne Plaza in Niagara Falls, New York. I couldn't figure out how to fix the lock box, so I'll return the keys when they get back.... The rest of the day is a blur. We had some soup, then watched a movie, although I haven't a clue at this point what it was.

Yesterday wasn't quite as eventful. I did my laundry, and stretched that out over several hours. I also sent out a flurry of DC Lambda Square-related emails. Sometimes the appearance of busyness is business. It salves my corporate guilt. Perry and I took a coffee break at Starbucks. We also discovered a comprehensive neighborhood bakery, which makes excellent eclairs. I made chili and cornbread for dinner. Ron fixed his famous Parmesan Cauliflower. It's simple food that's simply delicious.

And finally, today, the beginning of a new week. We'd put off shopping for several days, so I was preoccupied thinking about provisioning at Giant. It was Giant's Grand Re-Opening. Pretty weird if you ask me. But the store is offering a lot more selection in food, and vastly more shelf space for all of us mindless consumers. Today, I did some research for Caribbean recipes. I'll be trying them out on Ron for the next three weeks or so. Tonight was fried bananas. Okay, but I need a little work on my technique. Maybe there is a Jerk Chicken in my future. Is that similar to Choke a Chicken? Inquiring Minds Want To Know.

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).

Elder Think Tank

Yesterday, I attended a meeting of the Elder Think Tank. It's a program sponsored by the Metro DC GLBT Community Center. The Elder Think Tank recently elected new leadership, and that was evident at the first meeting.

The Elder Think Tank is focused on aging issues for the LGBT communities. Many of the people around the table are experts on LGBT aging issues. Others are activists who have specific interests around these issues. I'm one of the latter.

I want to get involved because I believe that LGBT people have unique needs that can't be adequately satisfied within the current way of caring for aging people. Even "gay-friendly" institutions are no substitute for LGBT people caring for each other. I also believe that we can't wait for the government or the healthcare industry, or communities of faith to take care of our needs. Our communities need to clearly define their needs for our aging members, AND the primary responsibility for satisfying those needs must come from our communities. We need to build the institutions and the social infrastructure to take care of ourselves.

Here are some ideas on how to do that

• Examine our needs.

Whether its a focus group, a survey, or conversations within our communities, we have to explore the needs of aging LGBT people. I believe that LGBT communities have unique social, health, and safety needs that are not immediately apparent to our families and "gay-friendly" service providers. Our communities are in the best position to articulate our distinctive needs.

• Engage our communities.

Our communities do not have the infrastructure, yet, to take care of a huge increase in their aging populations. Groups like the Elder Think Tank need to find effective means to have conversations with social groups, the bar crowd, pick-up sites, religious communities, political groups - in short in every venue where aging LGBT people find themselves. We can't be quiet, because if we live long enough, all of us will need assistance.

• Take care of ourselves.

The primary responsibility for ensuring a successful fade to black rests with all of us. It's more than financial planning or long-term care insurance. It means reaching out to aging LGBT peers, to family members, and establishing networks that encourage preventive health care, socialization, physical activity, good nutrition, continuing education and travel, and compassionate care.

Many of us don't have strong family ties; we can't count on children or siblings to help out. But we can build robust social networks among our peers that can encourage practices and a life that we can live out in our own homes among our friends. The keys are cooperation and compassionate care.

Our communities should also use appropriate technologies to reach each other, to work with care providers, and to provide community resources. Whether it's on the Internet or the iPhone, we can make a presence that builds a necessary infrastructure to strengthen and enrich the lives of aging LGBT people.

• Look to care providers.

Where we as communities or networks of friends cannot take care of each other, we have to engage care providers. I hope that many of these care providers can come from our own communities, and that they will know our needs. In any case, we want providers, facilities, and institutions - an infrastructure - that are compassionate, knowledgeable, and accountable. We live our lives differently, and our providers must understand and be flexible to the familial, legal, and social hurdles that affect our communities.

Reynaldo's 60th

Happy Birthday, Reynaldo!

Birthdays are a good time to reflect on a good life well lived. Today is Ron's 60th birthday. I looked at him carefully this morning, and he doesn't look like he's 60. In fact, he doesn't even look like he's 59! He's aged well and gracefully, probably because of his gym workouts and the prunes that he eats (cherry essence, I'm not kidding).

Ron is so health conscious that he scheduled a doctor's appointment on his birthday! And now, he's on his way to the gym. I believe his secret is moderation and vegetables in all things.

I first met Ron at a potluck. This is pretty typical behavior for both of us, because we both have lesbionic instincts. He had a dish of haroset (veggies!), and I had spinach enchiladas. I think he wanted to date me because I would be a reform project. All night long I pretty much chain-smoked cigarettes, and we still ended up going dancing together. Or maybe we were both desperate. We were both crazy dancers.

Ron, Happy Birthday, and thank you for being such a blessing in my life. I didn't buy you anything, so I'll have to be your birthday present this year.... I love you.

Happy's Healthcare Debate

I'm just about over the health care debate. It's just another example of the Republicans making outrageous charges (Pull the Plug on Grandma), and the Democrats immolating themselves. It is not a public debate that has any substance, and our politicians seem incapable of providing any leadership. No wonder the American people are upset (if misguided).

For the record, the Republicans (with a few exceptions) have sunk pretty much lower than a sewer beneath a whorehouse. This "public" outcry about a public option is a staged event by the Republicans to embarrass and demoralize Democrats. The Republicans have declared Duck Season on the health care reform. The Republicans don't believe in Town Hall Democracy; they just shout down the opposition. Folks, this is not a debate.

As for the Democrats, they are as dithering as ever. I'm not going to call them spineless in the face of the Republican onslaught, but in war, you fight the enemy where you find it, and the Democrats do not have a coherent message about reform. They need to get their act together.

So here's my take on it:

• Socialized medicine

  Why not? Unsocialized medicine certainly isn't working. As for government involvement in healthcare, it's already happening. Medicare is expensive, and it needs to be revamped, but nobody calls it socialized medicine. I think the government has a large and important stake in health care, regardless of the insurance company lobbyists. I'm really pissed that our lawmakers are not even discussing a single-payer option. As for a government insurance option, it's a pale alternative, but really should be considered. The health insurance industry is out of control. It's a greedy middle-man infrastructure that is sucking cash out of the rest of us.

• Rationed Health Care?

  Just about every conservative pundit is claiming that the administration plan will ration health care. I'd just like to point out that the current health care system rations health care. Millions of people receive no health care. Millions of people use emergency rooms, and leave the bill to the hospital, and ultimately the taxpayers. Millions of people pay for their health care out of their own pockets and can't afford treatments that would heal them. The fact is that we have a health care system that rations health care in arbitrary, injurious and expensive ways. I believe that that the insurance industry is afraid that the administration may actually try to rationalize health care, that the government might demand a system that is based on health outcomes rather than the number of procedures performed. The current system really is broken

• Death Panels

  I can't finish this without discussing death panels. There's a lot to say here, first being that the Republicans raising the issue are lying through their teeth, and they know they are. Of course, a lot of gullible people believe the Republicans, too.... It's a scary world outside the Beltway. On the other hand, it would be nice to be able to visit a health provider and have that provider talk about palliative care, hospice care, and other kinds of end-of-life decisions, and have Medicare cover the cost of that visit. This whole death panel mess is about as low a debate as I've ever seen the Republicans go. They Republicans need to pull the plug on it.

I want to know what the final plan is going to include. I hope it is a real reform that heads us down the road to controlling costs and to providing quality health care to all Americans. And if that's socialism, I'm all for it.

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.

I Was on Vacation

I haven't written in here in a while. I'm still hanging around, just not always in Wheaton, Maryland. I've spent the last week in Idaho and Washington State. I'm sitting on the deck behind my friend Bob's house, thinking about life, and hanging out.

Bob and I go way back. We met in the Tri-Cities (Washington State) about 28 years ago. The intervening quarter of a century have taken us to very different places, but in the midst of a lot of change in both our lives, we've maintained a friendship. I think that both of us were afraid to lose the friendship, because it was rooted in some unique experiences in 1982 and 1983. Those years were full of new beginnings for both of us, and because we shared many of those experiences, we've felt connected over time and place.

I came back to the Northwest this past week for a family reunion and for a 40th year high-school class reunion. I had a wonderful time catching up with my brothers and sisters, and with classmates that I hadn't seen for forty years or so. I'm grateful for these opportunities, because I miss my roots, not only the mountains and the country, but I miss the people with whom I grew up. So it was very important to me to be here this last week.

The family reunion was a minor miracle, of sorts. My brother, Steve, called me last Monday and told me that he'd be here. I was so grateful that he could be with the rest of us. Lesley and he drove up here in their RV from Colorado Springs, and camped out north of Harvard. I picked Steve up on Thursday, and he stayed with my brother, Frank, and me at a guest house (the Peterson Barn) in Moscow. Wendy and Lesley were not able to be here, but I'm thankful that they graciously lent us their husbands for a few days. It was the first time since Dad died that all four of the Burlison kids were in the same place, and Michael and Katherine, Mom's kids were also with us, so it was a nice clan indeed. My sister, Grace, brought her daughter Lyn and her grandson Keshawn with her. It was the first time that Mom had seen her great-grandchild, and the first time Keshawn had met many of his great-aunts and -uncles.

We had a bench dedication in the arboretum. Frank had suggested late last year that the family place a bench in the arboretum to remember Dad. The bench is in a truly beautiful corner of the arboretum on the university campus, and is the first bench placed in the "old" arboretum. I hope that it gives a place for reflection for a tired faculty member or a confused student. It's facing a Giant Sequoia near the west end of the trees. While we were having the dedication, construction of a water line was going on. It was very loud and busy. We moved the gathering to the other end of the trees, which was much less noisy. Steve began with a prayer. Karen (Frank's former wife), Michael, and Frank spoke for the family. Keshawn read a letter from his Uncle Joe telling about his feeling for his grandpa. Aunt Virgie Lee, Uncle Harry, and Mom each said a few words, and Grace finished with a dedicatory prayer for the bench. It was very simple and very nice. Later, the family had a picnic at Mountain View Park at the edge of Moscow. Katherine did a bang-up job on the food! We all know how to eat.

Saturday, the family and some friends went out to breakfast at the Breakfast Club. Katherine has a regular breakfast group there, although we increased its size a bit. I was able to talk some with Cheryl and Bill, who are close friends of Kat. Beware, the servings at the BC are huge and good, so order wisely. After breakfast, Steve and I headed up to Potlatch for our class reunion. I enjoyed seeing many old friends (and being able to recognize most of them). I had a couple of nice conversations with old girlfriends, and meeting up with high school best friends was good. The connections are still there. The wife of the class president happens to be a teacher. She taught all of my kids. We talked about the intervening forty years, and all I can say, it's hard to believe that time has gone so quickly. Marta and her husband Mel both look good. I enjoyed the time with them.

I also had a chance to see my high school bud, Rick. He still looks and talks like Rick. He's still hunting, fishing, and ATVing, very much like we used to do. The most startling person there was Alvin. He looks exactly like he did in high school. It was pretty amazing. He's still as happily reserved as he was back then. I enjoyed talking with him.

Sunday, Grace and I went to have brunch with her childhood friend, Carolyn. Carolyn had been at the bench dedication in the arboretum, but she and Grace wanted to talk more. Carolyn's family and ours go way back together to 1946 or so. Grace and Carolyn have stayed in touch over the years, and both are at similar places in their lives. I think they are going to plan on doing some travel together. They would both enjoy that. It's funny, we all sit around and talk about getting old, never imagining that we'd make it out to here. Growing old is kind of awe-inspiring. Each succeeding day finally begins to add up. We've all mellowed.

Yesterday, Grace and family left Moscow, and so did I. I came over to Seattle to visit Bob, so here I am, typing this blog entry. I'll post it when I get back to Wheaton, because I haven't been able to find a working Internet connection on most of this trip! Oh well.

This Old Bod

Well, not that old, but creaky, sometimes. I had knee surgery nearly two weeks ago. Initially, I felt no pain. The surgeon had me on naproxen, which kept the swelling in check, and I iced the knee throughout the day. Naproxen is a powerful NSAID, and it upsets my stomach, but it's very effective as an anti-inflammatory and kept the swelling in check.

I finished the naproxen on Saturday. Sunday I went to the Pride festival downtown, and walked too much. My knee and leg swelled up. I've been using ibuprofen since then, and it seems to help, but it's not quite as effective.

I also have slowed down on my activity, a bit, EXCEPT for the physical therapy. I started PT five days after surgery. The therapist has steadily increased the amount and number of exercises. They are challenging, on the verge of painful. The therapist told me that I have to push my performance, but not to the point of injury. I'm continuing to ice my leg three times a day, too.

I had the stitches removed yesterday (and covered with steri-strips). I'm continuing with PT for another couple of weeks or longer.

The Pot at the End of the Gay Rainbow

If we can't adequately take care of our parents, how do gay people expect to take care of themselves as they grow very old?

I'm now of the age that when I get together with friends (who are also usually around my age), talk often strays to taking care of infirm parents. The stories often are not happy. These are not tales of Mom and Dad taking off for a Caribbean Cruise or a drive in the Great Smokies. More likely these are plaints about Medicare coverage, short-term memory loss, chronic pain, and the oxygen tether.

In my immediate circle, our surviving parents are in fairly good physical health, considering that all of them are on the sunset side of 80. All of them have their aches and pains. One suffers from COPD. Another has had TIAs that caused memory loss and anxiety. Another has some signs of chronic depression. The common thread to all of these elderly people is that they are becoming increasingly isolated from family, friends, and caretakers.

Their isolation isn't deliberate, but as physical infirmity increases, the task of seeing other people, getting out of the house, shopping, getting one's hair done becomes onerous to the point that our parents just don't get out anymore. Most of them also have the frame of mind of not wanting to bother other people, so family and friends don't visit as often as needed. Finally, the cost of caregiving, and general maintenance of their homes poses financial strain on some so that repairs, or modifications (to accommodate their infirmities) don't get done.

I don't have any solutions to this. I know, though, that our parents' caregivers have a tremendous burden, and at the end of the day, our parents' needs are still not met. And it's not about money, either. Most of our parents have financial means to take care of themselves reasonably well. The real problems are that they've outlived their social network of friends, and that their families are often scattered and far away. They've experienced creeping isolation for months and years, and wake up one day to find out they are pretty much housebound and very dependent on one or more caregivers who also have busy lives of their own.

This is all prologue. My friends and I are getting older, and we've all seen the golden years up close and personal with our parents. What's our pot at the end of our gay rainbow?

Most of my gay friends have the financial means to live to the end of very long lives, the current financial mess notwithstanding. We've seen our parents grow old, and the solutions to their situation are variations on the theme of duct tape, twine, and rubber bands. The financial framework has worked okay, if not quite well, but the social component has not been particularly good at all for our parents or their caregivers (often one of our sisters, or maybe one of us). What lessons have we learned, and how do we make the very old phase of our lives gold rather than dross?

Gay people need to think as seriously about their social future as they do their financial future. Most of us will not have family to take care of us when we are very old, so the threat of isolation for us looms even larger than with our parents. We will also probably live longer than our parents, so the isolation may be longer and deeper, too.

Here are some needs. I'm not sure how to get there, but perhaps out of this, a necessary discussion about the kind of old age that we want can begin.

• Financial independence that will last to the end of our lives.

How ever we plan to retire and be financially independent, we should definitely have a rational plan that has a reasonable chance of success. Financial planning is key, considering that many of us will end up living very long lives, far beyond the time that we stop working. Working with a financial planner, and mapping out a financial future is our responsibility, and the first step to finding the pot at the end of the rainbow.

• Housing that meets our physical and social needs.

Many of my friends are already considering housing that meets their physical needs. We're talking about single story homes here. Stairs become increasingly incompatible with old age. Of course, other considerations include wheelchair accessibility, ease of bathing, and dressing, and means of food preparation as we grow older. Beyond the physical, I also want to live in a community where other gay people live. I don't want to retire to a community or an assisted care facility where I could not live my life as I want to. And I don't want caregivers who would in any way object to my life as a gay man.

• An assisting social network that will help us remain in our homes, and keep us in a larger social world.

We need a corps of elderly gay boy scouts, or its or moral equivalent. A major burden of elderly people is getting around, getting to the store, to a doctor's appointment, or to the movies, or lunch with a friend. Chores around the house are a challenge: housecleaning is a strenuous activity. Finally, we may need a daily call or reminder to take our medications. The most important part of this is face-to-face human contact. It helps stave off social isolation. Somehow we need to develop a community that cares about its members.

• A means to keep us mentally and physically engaged with the world appropriate for our mental and physical abilities.

Mental and physical fitness are a personal responsibility. Clearly, if we don't use it, we lose it, and that's especially true as we get very old. We need the means, institutions, and our own devices to stay fit mentally and physically. I'm not sure how to do it, maybe it means having a dog, and working in the garden, and doing a daily crossword, but we need to work at keeping engaged with our world.

Have I covered all the bases here? What's your take on Grey and Gay, and what's the pot you're looking for at the end of the rainbow?

I hope you join this discussion. I think it's critical for the gay community to recognize the scope of this issue, and start talking now about needs, plans, and institutional/community structures that can help LGBT people have a secure and happy old age. Sooner or later, if we live long enough, we'll all get old. Let's be ready for it.

Odd 'n' Ends in Wheaton

It's potluck for today's posting. I apologize to all of my (seven) fans out there, but life is just too busy to keep this up to date in any kind of dependable manner. You're just going to have to put up with it. It sounds like this blog may be in its death throes, but that's JUST NOT THE TRUTH!

Jerry peddled all the way to Wheaton on Wednesday from Arlington. He came here for lunch at Woodlands in Langley Park. It's an Indian vegetarian restaurant, and the food is just plain wonderful. Of course, it gives me heartburn for the next day or so, and I always eat way too much, but that's my problem. You should go there and eat!

Jerry is taking an Indian vegetarian cooking course in Arlington, so we stopped at the Indian market next to Woodlands so that he could buy some black and green cardamom pods. Jerry cooks authentically. In fact, Jerry is about the most authentic guy that I know. He's getting ready for a cross-country bicycle ride. You'll hear more about that in this blog.

In other excitement around here, Ron and I are planning a road trip for May. We're going to a naturist gathering for a week in Alabama (yeah, I rolled my eyes in disbelief, too), then on to Mississippi to visit his Mom for a few days. It's the second road trip for the Prius (the first one was a square dance weekend to Poughkeepsie, NY). This will be a couple of thousand miles, and I have all the guidebooks and maps. I'm psyched.

I'm also making a quick trip to Moscow, ID the last week in April. The Women's Center at the University of Idaho invited me back to participate in an event on the 30th. I'm very happy to be able to do this. I'm very fond of the University of Idaho.

Yesterday Tim and I made a pilgrimage to Suburban Hospital. Tim needed some repair work done. I got stuck in a social faux pas (and in the aftermath, learned about Buridian's Ass, and indeed how I appear, sometimes, to be (actually!) an ass. Tim's looking good, and we got his prescription filled for happy stuff so that he's in no pain. He should be able to start drinking shortly.

And that's the news from Bucknell Terrace. Oh, I should add that I went square dancing last night with Marshall's Deputies. We learned all about "weave" from quarter tag, waves, and t-boned positions. I still do the call wrong, but at least I know that it's wrong.

Square Dance's Slow, Twisting Death Spiral

Tim and I were out dancing last night at a Challenge 1 club. I was talking with one of the oldtime dancers. He told me about dance nights twenty years ago when eight squares (sixty-four dancers) would show up for Challenge 1 dancing. We had two squares and two extra couples last night.

The square dance population is aging quickly. Since I started dancing with DC Lambda Squares eight years ago, I'm wagering that the average age of the club has increased eight years. And it's still a viable club. Elsewhere, it can be pretty glum in Square Dance Land. Many clubs have folded, or are down to a single square. Part of the cause is self-inflicted: many clubs have dress codes and are couples-only. When a partner dies, which is happening with increasing and heart-breaking regularity, the other partner, usually the wife often quits square dancing for good.

An old age square dance population also has other issues: mobility and focus both being challenging for older dancers. Thankfully, in the clubs I dance with, the dress code is relaxed, but it's still a couples world. Tim and I have been able to dance as a couple, but that would certainly change if we were dancing in a different part of the country.

In DC Lambda Squares, we have diminished numbers, too. Each year, getting new students for square dance classes is increasingly difficult. Because square dancing needs at least eight dancers, it is an activity that requires ample space, and a caller (it takes specialized training and knowledge to move square dancers around the floor). The expense of rent and caller fees looms large for clubs organized like DC Lambda Squares. Another kind of club arrangement is a caller club where the caller rents the hall, and charges a door fee to cover expenses. In either model, the dancers have to pay enough to keep the enterprise afloat. Lately, fewer dancers are doing that.

Can this downward trend be reversed? Probably so, but to do that will require some painful readjustment.

The biggest challenges for the activity appear to be its image, its learning curve, competing activities, and a viable support model.

Image may be the biggest public relations nightmare. Crinolines and cowboy boots keep people off the dance floor. People coming to the activity cannot picture themselves wearing the outfits, and in fact, more clubs are going casual except for regional square dance events. (My own aside, "They look so gay!") Frankly, the costumes are offputting for most people.

Has anyone noticed that square dancing is, well, square?

Other image issues include square dancing's rigid gender role prohibition about men dancing the woman's part, and to a (much) lesser extent, women dancing the man's part. One of the main reasons for gay square dancing was to provide a place where dancers could dance whatever they wanted, and in fact, many gay square dancers are skilled in both roles. Another image problem is that non-dancers remember their disastrous introduction to square dancing in grade school. Introducing children to square dancing when those kids are at an age where they *hate* the opposite sex usually means that they will never get over their aversion. And believe me, they always remember their square dance adventure in fifth-grade gym. It wasn't pretty.

Square dancing also has a big learning curve. It takes about a year to learn proficiently, the first couple of square dance programs (Mainstream and Plus about 100 calls or movements). Most potential square dancers don't feel they can commit to a year's worth of classes, before they get to dance. Instead, they would rather go to a dance, and simply dance! The learning curve is a killer! The square dance community is wrestling with this by offering ABC programs and other kinds of introductions to square dancing, but as long as square dancing remains an activity of aficionados rather than a social activity for dancers, those efforts are doomed to failure. In some ways, the ABC program hearkens back to country square dancing. In the old days, you came to the community dance. You didn't have to know the program, because the caller taught it to you as the night progressed. Dancing was a social activity.

Okay, I'm an aficionado. I like dancing on the edge - a program that challenges my skills. But you don't learn dancing in a class, you learn dancing on the dance floor, and maybe the square dance community needs to rethink completely its means of instruction and its daunting learning curve.

These days, square dancing has an extraordinary array of competing activities. Our society is rethinking what it wants to do socially. Square dancing not only competes with bowling or the Elks Club, but with the very notion about what people want to do with their "free" time. The demands on that time are increasing. People are working longer. Kids activities require more parental involvement. The internet has opened up new ways of social engagement that bypass old ways of getting out and socializing. This competition is real, and it's not only beating up square dancing, it's beating up all kinds of other socializing including bowling and the Elks.

Part of the solution is to identify social activities and situations that engage our society, and organize square dancing in those places. Saddleback Squares, anyone? (And I'm not kidding.)

So how can square dancing remain viable? The quickest way to turn it around is for clubs and callers to recognize that they will have to change radically their approach to the activity. The image has to change, and younger dancers have to be engaged in a manner that fits their lives: no long-term commitment to square dance classes, no outfits that make you feel like a freak, immediate gratification - if you come to a square dance you dance; no matter what your skills are, and great social and entertainment value for the money spent.

I think that can be achieved. It will be painful for the aficionados like me, but ultimately, it will save the dance. Our greatest challenge is to bring new people in the front door to enjoy our wonderful activity, because once they are in the door, they often decide to stay for the dance.

Night Angel

This morning in the filtered gray light of our bed, I looked over at Ron's sleeping curves, the line of his neck in light and shadow. He lay beautiful in the night, his cropped hair lightly on the pillow. I moved closer against his flanneled warmth, grateful for his love.