SADIE

My family has always like to play "store". My grandfather had a confectionery store long before I was born, and my family owned four flower shops about 20 years ago where we all worked (that's why I look like this)...and my brother has owned card shops and now three diners with another one set to open in the fall. I think what we all REALLY like is the cash register. My brother once bought one when Hornes Dept. store was closing, and it was as big as a dog house. ( Woof just asked me what a dog house was ). That big monstrosity had ten drawers, hundreds of buttons and keys, and it never worked. It weighed about a thousand pounds and was stored in my basement until some big butch friends were here one day and were coerced into dragging it out to the curb for the junk drive.

My brother is ten years younger than I am, and when he was about nine or ten we used to play store...I was obviously still into it at nineteen or twenty. My brother would set up his little store in our gameroom and I would go up and down the stairs....each time coming to the store as a different character. I of course already had a vast array of costumes that I'd collected (and still do), and I'd change outfits every time I came to his little store. The characters were funny, or unusual....all with different names, and each one would "buy" one of his toys, or knick knacks, pay him, and then return to the upstairs after his little cash register rang them out. Mr Jones might have a cane, and a scratchy voice, and old Mrs Green might have on one of my mother's dresses (if she wasn't home), maybe a cute little number from my new wig collection etc. They were all polite and gentle shoppers. Then there was Sadie.

Sadie wore a reddish pink chenille robe and a stocking over her hair. She'd first screech down the stairs " ARE YOU OPEN?" to which a meek little voice would say "yes " and down I'd roar. Sadie would yell at him about his prices, tell him to speed it up, grab things from all over the room...like the cash register or the chair he was stilling on, and generally disrupt the whole little store before stomping back up the stairs yelling that she'd be back again later.

Now my sense of what was funny as a nineteen year old was evidently different from that of a ten year old. On his 40th birthday, my brother told me of his terror and nightmares about Sadie. I have to confess that I'd never given the whole scenario a thought....for 30 years or so. He admitted that he didn't actually have nightmares, but that he did spend a lot of time thinking about Sadie...that maybe she'd turn up at his graduation, or apply for a job in his card shop when he was first opening the business. I might note here that my brother has also been known to hide in the bushes near his house in a giant green lizard costume...or arrive at his neighbors door with a huge rubber boa constrictor dangling from a garden rake.... Now since he has grown children and is a well adjusted middle aged man,(ahem) I've decided that it's time to dig up that chenille robe and have lunch at his diner one of these days. I'll let you know how that goes. One of his childhood friends told me once that he never remembered Sadie, but that he did remember when I'd sit in a closet in the basement with a turban and a crystal ball and read fortunes. Even I had forgotten about that one. No wonder my mother still sometimes mutters " I don't know where we ever GOT him."

GUNS

When I hear that phrase "guns don't kill people, people do" I just have to scratch my head. The first ten minutes or so of our local news is usually about some young person, usually male, and usually dark skinned who has been shot. This has become so common and familiar lately that I'm more and more inclined to watch Jon Stewart at eleven instead. Seeing the parents and friends of these young kids and their neighbors and friends sobbing and asking "why?" is heartbreaking. While the African American community is certainly over represented in these senseless killings, those of us with lighter skin are also frequently gunned down all over the country every day.

I know the NRA is a powerful force in this country...and that they are very much against almost all gun control legislation. That makes me sick. I wonder how many parents who are burying their kids agree with them. I wonder how fond the parents in Columbine or in Chardon Ohio are of lax gun control laws.

Every night the emergency room doors open as another young victim is rolled in on a stretcher...and many come back out headed for a funeral home.

Trevon Martin would be enjoying the summer if the wanna be cop in Florida hadn't had a gun in his belt. Somehow our "right to bear arms" never seemed to envision the current madness that destroys a couple of lives every night in every major city in the world. I wonder how many mothers who cry their eyes out as they bury their children will ever have an NRA sticker on their cars?

COURAGE

Something about the Sandusky scandal and the Catholic church's pedophilia horror stories seems more than vaguely similar to me. For some reason or other, Jerry Sandusky doesn't seem to "get it"....as though he's not and has never been aware that what he's done to children is somehow okay.

His interview where he can't give an immediate NO to a question about being sexually attracted to young boys was more than just creepy...it was astonishing. He seems to have no concept of the tremendous damage that he's done to children who looked up to him...trusted him...and in many cases loved him.

I think the same is true for the unbelievably large numbers of priests who did similar and worse things to young kids who also trusted and loved these men who eventually injured them for life. For an "at risk" kid, sometimes these men who have preyed on them have also been the only person who seemed to care about them. That's the most twisted part of these crimes as I see them.

I find the whole Penn State mess sounding more and more familiar...people knew what was going on...just as people in the church knew what was going on...and both chose the "humane" response of remaining silent. Humane?

I have a friend who's brother was being molested by a priest years ago, and nothing was done...even his parents didn't believe him..."Father would never do that".......trusted family friend...mentor...kindly old man. That sure sounds a lot like " Jerry?....nah, he's just always horsing around with the kids..."

The witnesses who testified at Sandusky's trial were incredibly brave...and took an enormous risk. The exposure was one thing...but the psychological impact of accusing a man of a crime...when the man in many cases was someone who "saved" you..looked out for you...and treated you better than anyone else did, is another story altogether. These people were traumatized in the past, and may have had a similar experience on the witness stand.

If every person who was in any way physically abused as a child by a trusted adult ended up telling their story in a courtroom, we'd probably see a hundred year backlog of cases waiting to be heard. Speaking up takes it's toll.

SPRINKLERS, WATER BILLS AND TIME

My grandfather would sometimes drive my grandmother crazy by dragging the hose out to water the sidewalks near their home. He said it would cool down the whole neighborhood on really hot days. I think about him when Woof and I sit on the back porch stoop with the sprinkler watering the lily of the valley and a big chunk of the concrete walk. I bought one of those tall sprinkler things that shoots out a giant mist of water, and yesterday I had it in the middle of the garden where the wind was blowing it all over the place. I know a lot of people "mist" their plants. especially ferns, and I kinda think that does more good for the person spraying than it does for the plants.

I take over paying the water bill during the summer, since I'm the gardener in the household, and after several apoplectic incidents when the bill arrived in the past, I've learned to grab it right out of the mailman's hand before anyone sees it. It's been unusually dry...hard on the hydrangeas which are blooming profusely in spite of the drought. I have "nikko blue" and "annabelle" which is pure white. The lilies are in full bloom right now...some are about seven feet tall, while others are barely a foot. Most of them have an intense aroma that scents the whole garden now. Between the lilies and the gardenia and the sweet peas, our yard smells like the fragrance counters at Macys. Everybody in the garden is thirsty, and Woof and I are doing our best to keep everyone hydrated. Woof is a little weary of me with a hose in my hand...she's ever mindful that she could wind up getting a bath without much notice.

I hate to see June coming to a close....it seems like January and February are endless months for me, and May and June fly by in a quick flash. The plants are all settled in by now, my friend Kel says we plant in June, watch them grow in July, and start to harvest in August. Woof and I have already begun to pick cucumbers, so what's up with that.

It's a cool breezy morning with a warm up predicted for the rest of the week, so with weeds aplenty to pull and a dog giving me that "let's go" look, we're off.

CONVERSATIONS OVER FRENCH CUISINE

I've always noticed couples in restaurants...doesn't matter if it's Burger King or a five star joint in a big city. I like to watch the interactions out of the corner of my eye. Early on in my own relationship when I was just getting to know my old shoe of a partner, we were at a nice restaurant chatting away about all the things he was going to have to do and change about himself if he expected to even be considered as someone I might look at twice...(just kidding..sorta), when I took notice of another couple, about our same ages who hadn't said a word to one another since they were first seated at the table. They were both nice looking...of course not nearly as spectacular as my future mate and I, but they just didn't talk to one another all through the evening. I've seen that many many times in the past, and of course there are a million and one possible explanations for what was going on....the most frightening one being that they just don't have anything to say. WAY back then, I remember saying that if we ever got to that point we should make plans to find someone else...move on. So far so good...thirty years later and we're still chatting.

We had dinner at a really lovely French restaurant near Chatauqua on Saturday with two wonderful visiting friends from DC....pristine surroundings, exquisite service and food...one of those summer memories in the making. We were at an outside table on the Victorian wrap-around porch, and I noticed an elderly couple...maybe early eighties, having an absolutely delightful time together...laughing, talking, completely focused on one another, respectful and courteous to the staff. and sipping on white wine. I had the best view of them, and when I commented on the two of them, our friend Julie said that she'd noticed them as well. I went into my above dissertation about couples who dine in silence .As they were leaving and we were debating on another bottle of wine, my partner commented on her beautiful white dress (gay guys do stuff like that)..and they stopped for a moment at our table.

One of us said that they seemed to be having such a nice time together, and arm in arm they announced that it was their 54th wedding anniversary. We had a charming two minute conversation about them taking their thirteen year old granddaughter on an upcoming African safari, and when we wished them well and offered to buy them an after dinner drink, I asked what their secret was. The lady quickly said with a laugh and a tug on her husband's arm, "tolerance".

They laughed, we pondered, and off they went to spend the rest of the summer surrounded by music, art, dance, and inspiration at their summer home by the lake at Chatauqua . Fifty four years together...and still talking, and laughing, and thoroughly enjoying life...together.

MY !

Aunt Coletta would have called this week a " BEESER"...none of us can figure out just what the word really means, but that's what we all call a really hot day. After Aunt Margaret died Aunt Coletta went to live with my cousin's mom...my godmother. I used to visit Aunt Coletta  frequently in Greentree, where she'd be sitting on the sofa, treating the latest schnauzer to a couple of M&M's (in spite of warnings from the entire world). Aunt Coletta would review the latest news with me, how one of her nieces had finally called her...and Aunt Coletta had "laid into her" for not calling sooner. If I commented on the warm weather she might say she had already "shed" twice that day..(taken off a shawl and a sweater). If I reported something that she didn't approve of she might simply reply " MY.." Now that word came to mean that your attire wasn't proper, or your voice was too loud...it kinda meant a general shock or disapproval. These days  if I see my cousin pouring his third cocktail I might catch his eye and simply say " MY....".

Speaking of disapproving, she often referred to one of the distant relatives as " old hag Petterson". I loved it when she'd say " I had to come to GREENTREE to see this". Any of the relatives that she wasn't particularly fond of were referred to as "that tribe". Once when I was visiting her I looked out the window and said " oh here come your relatives from Dormont " to which she replied a very soft " oh hell ".

Aunt Coletta also smoked into her nineties. She'd hide her cigarettes when the priest would come to see her...she was worried that he wouldn't give her communion if he knew she smoked. You see my grandmother, her sister had always said that any girl who smoked would do ANYTHING.

A few years before she died she asked me to take her to see my grandmother's grave...her name was Eleanor, but Aunt Coletta called her "Elnora". The grave is located down somewhat of a steep grade, and we traveled slowly...with her cane and a firm grip on my arm. When we stood before the big granite stone Aunt Coletta sort of bent over very close to it while I stood back to respect her moment of grief. When I moved a little closer to comfort her ,the situation was actually a little different than I had projected. Aunt Coletta was grinding out her cigarette butt on the grave as she said very softly " that's for you Elnora ".

SCHNAUZERS, BOOZE, AND THE AWNING MAN

Aunt Coletta and Aunt Margaret always preferred to be called by their proper names, however we always called them Montie and Tootie when we reffered to them. They were my mother's aunts, my grandmother's sisters. They spent most of their lives together, never married, eventually living with their brother Maurice...who was a "confirmed bachelor". Sometimes I wonder if my gay male friends qualify as "confirmed bachelors" as well. Anyway, Margaret and Coletta were "proper".

They kept a perfect home, collected beautiful things, had lovely china and table linens, lace curtains, and a not too friendly schnauzer...who was always given M&M's as a treat. Consequently they went through an unusual number of schnauzers.

Our mothers regularly visited the aunts, and my cousin and I usually went along. There was always a considerable amount of prep before one of those visits....hair combed with a little Vaseline Hair Tonic, nice clean ironed shirt, clean shoes etc. The visits were nice, not really fun, and highly scrutinized...especially by Aunt Margaret. She was the first woman treasurer of the Potter Bank of Pittsburgh ( which became PNC)...long retired by the time we'd visit her, while Aunt Coletta had been payroll manager at Rosenbaums department store.

The conversations might consist of a twenty minute discussion of why the awning man had come a day early that year to put up the porch awnings, and how they'd consequently decided to keep ten thousand dollars in their checking accounts in case he ever prematurely arrived again. My cousin and I would sit like little princes on the sofa during the visit, on our best behavior while we took little bites of our cookies. One of our wilder relatives had visited the aunts a few weeks before and when they turned on the TV for him he'd decided to lie down on the floor. After a lengthy discussion of what might have possessed him to do something so unusual, it was decided that "there's probably nothing wrong with it...we're just not USED to it".

My cousin and I eventually began to sense another possible side to the perfectly lovely and proper little world of Greenleaf Street. My parents bought a big bottle of Canadian Club one year at Christmas, and with the whiskey purchase a nice black and gold ornament was included, with a big CC in the design. When we visited them after the holidays my cousin whispered to me to "check out the Christmas tree in the front hall". The tree was perfect of course, festooned from the angel on the top all the way to the trunk with a whole lot of those ornaments...a whole lot. We were always accustomed to hearing our aunts say things like " well, maybe I'll have a light little cocktail...just this once".

Margaret and Coletta must have had a hell of a lot of light little cocktails.

Once again for fear of overwhelming my faithful readers, and because it's about 150 degrees where I'm sitting, I'll need a part two for this one! It's even too hot for a light little cocktail these days.

WHERE HAVE ALL THE CATHOLICS GONE ?

I had an interesting discussion the other night with a good family man whose family no longer goes to church. They were always involved with the local Catholic church...he was president of council, and instrumental in creating a children's choir, organizing the fish fry, and even getting the church painted after a successful fund drive. His wife was a Eucharistic minister, festival worker, part time landscaper, and faithful herder of the kids to Mass on Sunday mornings. He was telling me how bit by bit they lost all interest in the parish. It seems that the decree from the bishop that mandated a state police background check for him and for his wife was insulting to both of them. While they understood the logic of this in light of the child molestation that was clouding the entire Catholic church, they resented being investigated while the group of people who had actually perpetrated and covered up the crimes were not. The kids weren't being preyed upon by the cafeteria ladies, or the  Eucharistic ministers.

I go to church if and when I can find a building that doesn't look like a space ship or a moose hall, where the music isn't all Kum by yah sounding, and the priest actually has something to say. This ain't easy to find these days. I've left church in a bad mood too many times...insulted, bored, or with a headache. While I'll never leave the church, I really wonder why so many many many good people will say the same thing...." Well, yes, I was raised Catholic..but..."

AUNT KATIE (2)

We had one of those old 45 record players with the big fat center tube that would repeat a song. When my brother was about 4 or five he'd ride his hobby horse like a maniac for an entire afternoon while the song "Witchdoctor" played over and over and over....and Aunt Katie would be right next to him...ironing. She had the patience of a saint..usually. Other times she'd be overseeing my mother making something in the kitchen and say ' My God woman...that's not how you do that! " She loved all of our dogs..and when any of the relatives lost one she would cry and say that she'd never get close to another animal again....then you'd see her with the new puppy on her lap.

When I graduated from Duquesne I landed a teaching job in Los Angeles. As I was making plans to drive across country, Aunt Katie asked if I'd like some company. I said sure, and the two of us drove three thousand miles together.in a VW bug. She was in her seventies at the time, and when I'd suggest we stop for the night she'd often say we ought to keep driving a little while longer. She also flew back home...first flight in her life.

Upon arriving at my school assignment...and first real job, she came in to meet the principal with me. Before I even had a chance to sit down in his office, she spoke up. " Now do you realize how lucky you are to be getting my nephew to work for you?" He kinda stumbled a bit and then said yes..and Aunt Katie said something about how things would probably work out fine.

Now these are just a few memories of mine about a really big personality in my life ( Aunt Katie was actually about 5' 1".) Every one of my cousins have their own memories of course, and we have great times sharing them. We do still wonder if Aunt Katie really did chase an escaped monkey around Waldameer park when it was trying to grab cousin Janet's skirt. Being that I once saw her use a broom to sweep a garter snake off the porch...I tend to think she probably handled that monkey too.

It's interesting that Aunt Katie never had a lot of things that we all seem to value in our own lives. No spouse, no beautiful home, no nice things, hand me down coats, no car, just enough money to get by, but man, what a rich life. and what a legacy.

AUNT KATIE

   Everybody in the world ought to have an Aunt Katie.  She was my grandfather's sister on my mom's side of the family, but my dad and his mother happened to live upstairs from her when he was about three. She took care of my dad a lot, and eventually got to know my mother because Aunt Katie insisted that everyone should know everyone else. I got to know her because she came to our house every Wednesday and ironed and cleaned and cooked and babysat.  Sometimes she'd bring my cousin Jimmy with her and she'd make us noodle soup for lunch.  She'd usually make the dinner on Wednesday's too, and my dadi would drive her home in the evening.  She had different days where she'd do pretty much the same thing for the other relatives, and more than fifty years later, when we all get together, we still talk about Aunt Katie....like we did Saturday night at my nephew's graduation party.
   We were all sure that we were Aunt Katie's favorite. ( I do know for a fact that I was actually the chosen one).  Actually that was really her gift...to make each one of us feel that we were special.  It's remarkable that Aunt Katie had so little and also such an abundance in her life.  Her face was burned and scared when she was very young when her long hair caught fire, but I never remember any of us even being aware of that. She lived very simply, usually in just a room or two, but we all loved going to see her. That was partly because her house always smelled like fresh baked goods...and that was because she baked all the time. If you just happened to pop in on her on a Sunday morning, she whip up bacon and eggs, fresh rolls just out of the oven, and she'd squeeze a couple of oranges for juice. Lots of us still make or at least attempt to make her Hungarian pull apart.
  I often took her to church on Sundays..."God's not asleep you know". She also show up when I sang in the choir...and I'd see her beaming in the pew. I remember taking her to a piano concert once at Heinz Hall where she leaned over at one point and said (much too loud) " they ought to hear YOU play the piano". Aunt Katie was always on your team...always a steady and encouraging fan.
   While I'm sitting here typing I have Aunt Katie's picture in front of me...and it's a beautiful morning at the lake..I can kinda hear her saying " You'd better get out there and start pulling weeds boy!..so maybe I'll continue tomorrow.  Any tribute to Aunt Katie is going to take more than one blog.  In the meantime..Happy Birthday to someone who lives on in a whole lot of hearts...Aunt Katie, we just never stop talking about you.

FATHER'S DAY

Walking past the Father's Day cards or seeing the ads for gifts for dad's isn't as painful as it was the first year after my dad died. I'm sure those special days are hard for a whole lot of people. My Dad died twelve years ago, and left a big empty space in our family. Being that he had no relationship at all with his own father, his role as dad was extremely important to him. He always tried to give me and my brother all the things that he never had.

My dad worked his whole life...into his eighties....until he got sick a month or so before he died. When I was a kid he worked for the Parker Pen Company.

Those were the days when people still used ink pens. He was also the kingpin of our family flower shops...he could sell anybody anything. If you walked in the door...you left with a purchase. My brother is the same way, while I'd be so afraid of offending someone that everybody was allowed to "think it over". They kept me in the back...arranging the flowers.

My dad didn't always agree with me, but he always respected my commitment to the things that I believed in. He hated the war he was in, and later the Vietnam disaster, but wasn't about to march in the streets, however he was proud to see me head out with my protest signs when I was a young kid.

I have lots of gentle memories of him trying to help me be like the other guys...futilely trying to teach me to play sports...suggesting that I might like to go to summer camp ( my cousin and I thought of going to summer camp the same way we thought about going to Thorn Hill reform school ) It always felt like a threat to me.( Neither my cousin nor I was ever sentenced to one). My dad did insist that I take swimming lessons three times a week at the YMCA when I was about 13. I really balked at the idea until the first day when I got a good look at my personal instructor. After that I was always early for my lesson.

A few years before he died, we were meeting for dinner after I finished facilitating a support group for families of people who were at that time dying from AIDS. It was a really emotional evening for all of us, and I was telling my dad about people talking about things they wished they'd said but never got a chance to say them. I asked him if he thought the two of us had any unsaid words. He said no. So I said " well I do". When he asked what that was, I told him that I wanted to hear him say that he knew I was gay, and that he loved me. His reply was " You know I do"...to which I responded, "that's not what I wanted". My dad then said to pull the car over, which I did, and he looked me straight in the eyes and said " I know you're gay, and I love you". Those were some of the most precious words that I've ever heard. I miss you Dad.

JOHN R. DALEY

There are lots and lots of people who have influenced my life...and that process of course continues today. One person who helped me become whatever it is that I've become, or that I'm still evolving into was my mother's father.  My grandfather was one of the most good natured people that I've ever known. His favorite sayings were " throw your shoulders back" and "keep a stiff upper lip".
He had friends from every walk of life, which was evidenced by the people who showed up at his wake. O'Brien's funeral home was filled with everyone from the mayor of Pittsburgh to a couple of guys in dirty work shirts who knew him from the Oyster House where he'd meet his friends for a beer.  I tease my friend Bill about always talking to people wherever he goes...whether he knows them or not, but that's really a charming way to travel through your life. My grandfather was always looking to discover the best in people...he always told me to "look real hard, and you'll find some good in everyone."
  When we'd pass a beggar on the street he'd always give them money...and he never really had that much. When I told him that my mother said that the person probably was going to use it to buy a drink,my grandfather said maybe that was true but maybe the man really was just hungry. Once we met two nuns downtown and he insisted on giving them money...telling them to buy some ice cream for the whole convent. It wasn't at all unusual for someone to show up at my granparent's door with a message from my grandfather that my grandmother would make him a sandwich. (My aunt Ruthie would sometimes answer the door there and smile very sweetly while she told the person she'd get them some food...as she silently slipped the latch on the screendoor. When I was about ten, my grandfather and I were room mates at a summer cottage, and the first thing he did was fill up a dish with a whole lot of silver change..mostly dimes and quarters, and announced that it was for both of us...to use "whenever we needed some money"  I was the kid with unlimited resources at the penny candy store that summer.
   I think his greatest gift to me was his unconditional acceptance and support. He'd sit forever while I'd practice the Kyrie from the Missa Salve Regina, always saying to "keep at it...you're getting it"...or " atta boy" when I'd show him my kinda okay report card.  I was not the most conventional sort of a kid. ( I can imagine some of you chuckling at that statement)...but whatever I did, my grandfather's unwavering delight and acceptance felt so loving and reassuring that I felt I was allowed to have really big dreams.
  His big Irish heart was broken when my grandmother died.  He said he wouldn't sing anymore after that, and this was heartbreaking for all of us.  He always sang around the piano while my mother played "Galway Bay" or what he said was the "unpublished" verse from "Where the river Shannon flows".  I learned from his profound grief just how deeply love can hurt.  Eventually he did sing again...but there was a little something missing.  Since I'd always kissed him on the cheek when he'd come and go, after my grandmother died he said I should kiss him twice...one for my granmother.
   Now my grandfather died on a cold October day when I was 13. That was a lot of influence..in a short period of time...and a long long time ago, but I try to see things with his eyes when life gets rough and complicated.  I remember as clear as a bell when I stood with my mom and dad beside my grandfather's casket and my mom said " I really loved my mother...but I absolutely idolized my dad.". I think I did also.

TIMMY

Timmy and I were fraternity brothers at Duquesne....Sigma Chi's.  About six of us actually became good friends...(I never forgave the guys who hazed us when we were pledges...somehow beating people never impressed me as the best way to form a friendship.)  Timmy was always the star of the annual carnival shows where he'd consistently steal the show..singing and dancing to songs like "Trouble in River City".
Timmy had a great sense of humor, and a heart as big as anyone.  The two of us opened a flower shop a long time ago and since I was still teaching at the time and he didn't know doots about arranging flowers, he'd hold the fort every day until I got there at 3. If someone came in about a wedding Tim would schedule an appointment for them to meet with me...since I was a graduate of the FLORAL ACADEMY  OF PITTSBURGH.  Ahem. One day I arrived and was alarmed to hear that Tim had made arrangements for a wedding without my expert oversight.  He said that he'd suggested that the bridesmaids carry a dozen gladiola stocks...like giant torches, and since the bride was to be escorted down the aisle by both parents that she ought carry a wreath....so she could lock arms with both of them..and perhaps "ring" one of the bridesmaids when she tossed her bouquet.  That wedding actually took off without a hitch...except for the unusual floral selections.  Timmy looked at me as we taped down the crash and said " SEE?"
  When Tim had to work bartending on a New Years Eve, he asked me to come to the bar to keep him company. I should have known better.  First as the bar began to get busy, he asked if I'd help him just serve beer from the tap, and I did. It wasn't long before I was serving everything...with no experience..and with no idea of where Timmy had gone. At one point I spotted him partying with a group of people..while I was running the now very busy bar. I'd periodically yell to him about the price of a gin and tonic...and he'd say "who's it for?"  He would then glance at the person and maybe say "a dollar"..or if he didn't like the patron's looks he might say "two fifty".  I never did get the swing of things that night...but people seemed to feel sorry for me...were mostly patient, and told me how to make their drinks.  I ended up workking with him for quite a few months, and met his many and varied customers...from Bullia who was about 75 years old and was homeless...living under the Panther Hollow bridge...and would put a few nickles down on the bar and order a beer, to Antoinette who would get drunk and dance on the bar with a baton while his mother would cheer and clap for him, to Anna who was a waitress in a classy resturant and would bring us gourmet snacks. They all loved Timmy, and were willing to give me a chance. When a new customer would come in the door Timmy would shout " Not YOU again!"  He made that crazy old bar famous.
   Timmy was a letter writer, a guy who spent many a Thanksgiving serving dinner to people who had nowhere else to go in a local resturant, and the guy who could bring any group of people to life. He died on the 13th of June...much too young, and much too quietly. His family knew that he and I had been friends forever, but requested that I not speak at his funeral. They were afraid that I'd somehow embarass them.  What turned out to be embarrasing was the cold and distant service that actually happened. Nothing personal...nothing about the people like Carol and her family who loved him and took care of him when he needed it most...of the friends who drove for hours to pay their respects...or the tears in the eyes of the homeless old woman who sat in the back pew. He was carried into church by people who he happened to be working for at the time...while his fraternity brothers sat alone. Tim was a wonderful man..who went out with a whimper when he deserved a bang. I wasn't allowed to give a eulogy that day...so Tim...this is for you.

FIRST THINGS FIRST

So as I turn the key once again I'm still awed by the vast expanse of the lake.

We tend to use the side door and come right into the "lake room", almost all glass with a sliding glass door out on to the outside upper deck. I have to of course open that door immediately so that Woof can be the first one to step out and check out the beach. We added all the glass and the deck soon after we moved in, and the whole area looks and feels like the view from the deck of a ship. We have four cherry red umbrellas that attach to the rail for shade...( I bought them at a ninety percent discount sale...and when they're all open we often get mistaken for a Chinese restaurant or a beach cafe...but what the hell.) That deck is great for coffee in the morning, and a Lemoncello while the sun sets. Of course I've added flower boxes with matching red geraniums just like any respectable gay man would do.

Woof expects a walk down the wooden steps to the beach before I even unpack the twelve matching pieces of Amelia Earhart luggage from the car, and of course I oblige. She's finally outgrown (for the most part) the temptation to find a delicious dead fish to nibble on, and is happy to prance through the water as we take in the fresh breeze and cool water.

Next is a trip to the garden across from the house...with almost an acre of land...mostly in full sun, I feel like I have an extravagant blank slate of ground to grow anything I can imagine. Scott is a local farmer who plows a big area for me every year, and I plant about three dozen tomatoes, zucchini that grows as big as  torpedos sometimes from week to week, eggplants, cucumbers that end up as pickles, broccoli that my friend Kel shared his salad recipe for, and all kinds of peppers. I grew an artichoke last year that cost me about eight dollars...and I couldn't quite justify the cost, so I'll wait till I get to Jerusalem someday to learn about them.

The flower garden keeps expanding...and expanding. It begins under a big old iron arbor, and consists of winding grass paths that start where I planted about a gazillion daffodils, to a rose garden dedicated to my partner's mom, with a little plaque and surrounded by a little black fence. The paths wind around curly willow trees, through a cedar arch and past a hundred year old life sized statue of Our Lady of Victory. She guards the shasta daisies. Last year there was a semi circle of night blooming jasmine that began with a tiny plant from my friend Elliott about 30 years ago.

Woof and I end up checking the apple trees and bemoaning the fact that the birds eat every last sweet cheery before we ever get even one to taste. The pear tree is still young, but we'll get a few plums this year. As we wind our way out of the garden we pass the English climbing roses, the sunflowers that will tower over everything by August, and past the lilacs that seem to love the brutal winters on the lake.

After checking out the grounds as we like to say, Woof is content that all is well and she settles down on the deck to nap. I on the other hand try to decide where in the world to begin weeding, but before I start to make those critical decisions I usually pour myself a glass of wine, sit back with my feet up on the railing...and contemplate not doing anything at all. Who knows.

A TRIP TO THE COTTAGE

My mother has been traveling the two hours or so from Pittsburgh to Lake Erie on weekends ever since she was born...first to rented cottages with an entourage of her parents and various aunts and uncles, and later with my Dad to his mother's cottage.."the Iroquois". She now comes with us on many a Friday afternoon...with Woof attempting to sit on her lap as she did as a puppy.

My favorite way to leave is with nothing but my car keys, but my mother's "luggage" is another story altogether. I told her that she needn't bring what one might pack for a trip on the Auquatania for a summer in Europe....it's just a weekend at the lake....but alas, we eventually get on the road. Part of what takes a bit of time is the fact that she packs us a lunch.  There's something about that  which is so familiar, and such a treat...and something that only happens when she comes along...but something that I treasure and have locked away somewhere as one of those little things that people don't do very often of...but should.

It's an easy and beautiful drive on a good road that traverses typical Pennsyvanian landscapes of lush greenery and purple, pink, and white wildflowers. The rest areas are all landscaped and pristinely clean. We usually make one stop for my mom and I to stretch and for Woof to check out who else has been to the pet area. There's a tower on the courthouse in Mercer that we've all tried to be the first to spot along the way. The first one to see it always says " I SEE IT ! ". I remember doing that as I kid, and even when I make the trip alone I still say it when it comes into view. At one point the highway goes across a big swamp...my dad used to tell me that it was so deep that they'd never been able to locate the bottom. I think of that when I drive there too...sometimes my dad made things up.

We've had our cottage for 16 years now...( the best thing my partner and I have ever done together....except maybe when we spent his birthday in a remote little cove on Capri stretched out on white chaises between the rocks while the waves crashed all around us and the waiter returned periodically to see if we wanted another glass of wine). Anyway the trip is easy, the landmarks all familiar, and sometimes includes a stop at Eddies famous hot dog shop which has been there since 1947. My friends from Japan came to visit a few years ago and I think it was the highlight of their trip.

We exit the highway by Paschske's Mums...which has been there for eighty years. I buy cuttings in May and by Fall I have about ten million plants. Woof begins to come to life about there...and as we travel the last few miles through the vineyards she knows where she is. As I pull into the driveway, there's a feeling that I only get when I pull into that driveway. Whatever has been challenging with my job, or my busy days at home ,seems to just vanish into thin air as I put the key into the door. It's as exhilarating each time as it was the very first day that we owned it. I marvel at the vastness of the water, the ever present fresh air coming off the lake, and the inescapable feeling of being the luckiest guy in the world.

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STREET

Tommy Maley lived across the street from us and he used to crawl out of his bedroom window and sit on the roof in his underpants and smoke cigarettes. He was kinda weird and kinda cool. His parents seemed pretty much oblivious, and our side of the street was discreet. Aunt Cassie and Uncle Al lived next door...he was quiet and nice and she was the neighborhood gossip machine. She had bright orange hair, and insisted that everyone call her "aunt". Actually only the kids called her that, even though she didn't really do anything to deserve the title. My Aunts were all nice...and gave me things, and Aunt Cassie just talked about people. When I'd come home with a juicy tidbit about old Mrs Wilson having a boyfriend, my mother would say..."where did you hear that....Cassie Winters? "

The Riley's next door lived in a very busy house. Bill, Tom, Jimmy,Jerry, (twins),Lulu,Lizzy, and Monkey. (I'll be damned if I can remember the little one's real name...they just called her Monkey). Mrs Riley was French Canadian, and a really nice lady, while Mr Riley seemed to mostly go to work or sit reading the paper. Bill was the first boy other than mean Beecher or Tommy in the underpants that I got to know. Bill spent a lot of time talking about California where they used to live or Lionel trains. More about him later.

Vinnie and Jimmy lived next to them....nice kids who played with the Riley's while their mothers drank coffee together until they had a big fight. I think it was about dirty diapers or all the kids or something, but even speaking their names in the same sentence would result in someone saying "shhh".

Mrs Gore had two kids...Bobby and Beverly. I am absolutely sure that what everyone from that neighborhood would remember about her was how she would call her kids. It was like BOBBY.....BOBBY GORE in a really loud sing song kinda way....then BEVERLY.....BEVERLY GORE. We'd all laugh when we heard her, then Bobby and Beverly would turn red and go home.

Susie Edgar lived next to the Humphries. I have nothing to say about them because nobody ever saw them either. Now my mother and I just had a discussion about whether or not Susie also had a duck....like my friend in Erie.

I find it hard to believe that I knew two people who had ducks...c'mon now...it's a little unusual for city people to have ducks. The scariest thing however is that I was thinking it's name was also Margaret. Then again I got 10 emails last week from two friends in Girard Pa who found duck eggs in a public pool and took them home and now they have nine ducks. The mother ran away. ( no wonder..maybe Mrs Riley should have done the same). Ducks Ducks Ducks.

Rounding out the block were the Larsens and the Shields. Beecher bullied the Larson boy...who was really nice and became a Franciscan brother...he sent me a Christmas card from Sweden this year. His sister was pretty, and I think I might have gone to her prom. Bobby Shields was our friend, and not just because his mother gave us real popsicles instead of Kool Aid ice cubes. The only problem with Bobby was that we suspected his older brother of being a member of the much feared Panther Club. They were the ones who roamed our woods and threatened to beat us all up or kill us and eat us or something.

Bobby never mentioned his brother...but his ties to organized crime made us all wary.

It was a fun neighborhood...parents all visiting one another on Christmas day, and acting like crazy 30 year olds (which they were) on New Years Eve. They barricaded the street once a year for a big block party, and many of us kids have stayed in Christmas card contact ever since. Woof and I were sitting on the porch last night watching the lightning bugs, and I told her about doing that as a kid...a long long time ago....with another dog also named Woof. She seemed more interested in trying to catch a lightning bug than in hearing about any other dog in my life. She's always had a jealous streak.

THE OLD NEIGHBORHOOD

We moved to Greentree when I was about seven...the neighborhood didn't change very much during the ten years that we lived there. Mrs Turocy lived in the first house, and we never saw her...I mean never. The only time I was on her property was when my mother chased me up the street because I'd talked back to her...and I took cover in Mrs Turocy's pine tree. Of course I don't remember what I'd said to my mother....but I'm sure I had a point. Next to her were the Stroh's...Jehova Witnesses, and a reclusive old couple as well. Mr Stroh changed a lot though...once he got a dog. The dog was rescued as I remember, and he was as big as one of the bulls in Pamplona. Mr Stroh used to walk him a lot..on a massive length of rope...and he started being much more visible and friendly because of "Pal". Mrs Stroh never came out of the house. The Kirby's had a son named Beecher who was mean most of the time..doing cruel things like erasing our hopscotch game on the street with their garden hose....while the girls and I would huddle together and whimper. The Kirby's had more money than most people...and they drank a lot. A lot.

After Mr Kirby died, Mrs. Kirby would take a cab to the liquor store...and sometimes she would just send the cab driver...and pay him for the trip. I liked Mrs Kirby a lot, she taught me how to grow tall zinnias, and she'd make Beecher pick them for me. Maybe that's why he was so mean.

My pal Susan lived next to them with her two brothers and two sisters. Other than the time we threw a dead snake on her while she was lying in their hammock, as I've written previously...we were great friends and neighborhood leaders. Susan's mother grew beautiful peonies, and every year they were the talk of the neighborhood. She had a big long row of them in reds and whites and the standard pinks. One year as we all waited for the annual display, her little boy Chuckie came into their kitchen with a sand bucket filled with all the little round buds. No peonies that year.

Barbara and Marie lived in the last house on that side of the street. Their mother was really pretty...and proper..but in a nice kind of way. Their yard was always perfect, and they had a screened in porch that was the holy of holies in the neighborhood. You had to be on PERFECT terms with Barbara and Marie in order to be invited onto the porch to play Chutes and Ladders. When it rained the elite would be on that porch...being treated to frozen Koolaid ice cubes held in a paper towel...and munching on Cracker Jacks while the less fortunate were trapped in their hot little houses. Barbara and Marie smiled favorably on me sometimes...but not all the time...so I had sorta mixed feelings about those two.

The other side of the street was more volatile and hence much more interesting...I'll get into that later. I still hear from some of those old neighbors today...we reminisce about all the good times there...but we don't say too much about things like the snake...or the taxi's...God forbid we tarnish the memories of our perfect childhoods.

A LETTER

I like to write. I still chuckle when I remember that I was a co-editor of my high school yearbook...and I wrote all the sports captions...me...who doesn't know right field from left field, has no idea what a touchback or a full court press is....and can't hit the little thing they use in badminton...and can't catch things like car keys when someone tosses them to me. I can get a letter to the editor published, and use funny return addresses on birthday cards (like Calista Gingrich....or Dick Cheney) but my favorite thing to do is to actually sit down and write a letter...or get one.

I have just a handful of friends who still take pen to paper, and we've been doing it for years. Lou is a friend that I stole from my partner...she always wrote him long letters, and he'd share some of them with me...to the point where I wrote to her myself...trying to get in on the action. She still writes to him, but I get special letters myself now. She sits outside at her picnic table in Florida and writes about her dog or her cat and her hopes and dreams...once explaining a relationship that was failing this way " we just keep disappointing each other".

Adrian writes from Iowa..with million dollar plans to renovate an old gristmill...and what it's like to have no money at all. His letters come on the backs of ads, or on big yellow sheets of really old paper. David writes from LA, where he and his partner have a friend who brings them calla lilies from her garden. I met him when I met my first boyfriend....the boyfriend didn't last, but David has. He wrote to me last week. Terri writes from Chicago...or Colorado, and she often writes about the beauty she sees all around her. Terri is the person who thinks the meal you made is always the best she's ever tasted, that the ocean looks more beautiful every time she sees it, and that she has the most wonderful friends in the world. Being with or hearing from Terri is always a shot in the arm.

While I currently have 853 emails that I haven't quite gotten to yet, and I love to get cards in the mail...getting a letter is a really special treat. I tend not to read them standing by the mailbox, or right after I spy it in between the ads and bills. I save it for when I'm sitting on the concrete bench in my garden, or snuggled up with Woof in the morning sunshine...so I can savor the words...and focus on the gift that I hold in my hand. Taking the time to write a letter is monumental for me. It's one of those things that forces me to take a step back...to "save" the emails...and to put off the whole world for awhile. Knowing that someone else has done the same...just for me...can really make my day. What a rare treat...one that I'm determined won't become a lost art.

TIME FOR A ZERO TOLERANCE POLICY?

  Anyone who flies these days would never say certain words anywhere near airport security.  Words like "bomb" or anything similiar that might be uttered in any context might well get you into a whole lot of trouble.
The same "zero tolerance" for kids who might bring anything resembling a gun or a weapon to school might result in the suspension or even expulsion of a six year old. Sometimes such strict regulations can seem absurd, but both airport security and most school districts don't budge on these issues...too many things that were never even imaginable have now become tragic parts of our history.
  This past week two very young kids killed themselves...one was twelve and one was only seven.  While suicides by children this young are really rare...they became reality for two families in the last few days.  The reasons for both are reported to be the result of bullying. Now even with all the focus lately on anti bullying programs all over the country...there is still a huge problem for any kid who is in any way different.  Something still isn't working.
  I think we need a zero tolerance policy in this more and more viloent world...just like we have about weapons and bombs in the airports and schools.  Just a hint of bullying ought to be enough to call for an investigation...and a trip to the office...and a warning.  Maybe this sounds harsh or like an overreach, but watch what happens when a kid brings a licorice gun to a kindergarden classroom, or when someone makes even a muted reference to a bomb while you're in a security line at the airport.
   Crazy...too much....impossible?  If you found your twelve year old hanging in his bedroom or your seven year old hanging from his bunkbed, and you knew what drove them to it...maybe this would make more sense.