Baseball

Where are you going, Dad?

"I have to check on my car!"

My Dad was struggling to get up. He hadn't owned a car in 10 years. He could barely walk, even with a walker. The Alzheimer's was stealing his mind. Old age was stealing the rest of his body.

"Where do you want to go, Dad?"

"I'm going to play tennis with Ken Winetrout."

He used to play tennis every weekend when I was growing up in Massachusetts, but Ken Winetrout had passed away a few years before.

For over an hour, he insisted he was on his way to play tennis. "But you don't own a car Dad." "I really thought I did. Are you sure?"

In the past year, his physical and mental condition had reached the point that my sister and I put him into an adult family home. An adult family home is a great alternative to a nursing home. It's an actual home, staffed 24/7, but with at most 6 residents. My Dad's place had 1 other resident with an actual family taking care of both.

Mengistu (Dad) was an Ethiopian refugee married to Adi (Mom), with 3 kids, Kaleeb (10), Betty (8) and Favin (6 months old). They all took great care of my Dad. People with Alzheimer's often don't sleep well, so my father was often up all night, keeping Mengistu, Adi or other caregivers awake to make certain he was safe. Usually at night, he insisted that he had to go take care of his car.

Although my Dad couldn't play actual tennis, I owned a Nintendo Wii, and wondered if there was any chance he could use that for simulated tennis. Maybe he could sit in his chair, swing the remote control and hit the virtual ball.

I brought my Wii in and hooked up the cables. I put the control in his hand and showed him how to swing it. Over and over, I demonstrated how to swing the remote. Over and over, I held his hand and swung it for him. No matter what I tried, his eye-hand coordination just wasn't fast enough.

Oh well, it was worth a try. Betty, the 8 year old lady of the house, and I played Wii tennis while my Dad watched. He had a big grin on his face, and was engaged in the action as if it were a real tennis match. He had so few pleasures, it was great to see him smile. So, a partial win, but he wasn't playing tennis.

When I visited my Dad the next time, though, he had an even bigger grin on his face.

"Chris! I was always good at football and tennis when I was younger."

He played varsity football and tennis in high school.

"I was never very good at baseball, but I was playing baseball!"

He could barely believe it. Neither could I. I thought that my Dad playing baseball was as real as his car.

"I was playing baseball with the boy."

It turns out that Kaleeb, the 10 year old boy, taught my Dad to be a pitcher in Wii baseball. I couldn't believe it, but I turned on the Wii and we played baseball. The pitcher swings the Wii remote downward, as if you are hammering a nail. My Dad could manage that motion. He was the pitcher, and I was the batter. I was never any good at real baseball, likely worse than my Dad ever was, but here we were, my 87 year old father and his 49 year old son playing baseball together.

Kaleeb bounded in a few minutes later.

"Kaleeb, I just have to say, that was so awesome. It was beyond awesome. I can't thank you enough."

Kaleeb just glowed. There was such a great family in my Dad's adult family home.

My Dad died 2 months later.

Montezuma Pass

Jeff and I had chatted online for a long time, over a year, maybe two. At the time we were both involved with someone else, so it remained just chat, though the chat always made me laugh. He told me the dirtiest, most disgusting joke I have ever heard. There was a strong mind behind all the banter. And we seemed to be compatible in the bedroom.

It came to pass that we were both available. Jeff was a decorated veteran of the second Iraq war, was leaving the military in a couple months, had some free time, and asked if he could fly to Seattle in mid-May for the weekend to get some time in a civilized part of the US.

When he landed that Friday night, the connection was instantaneous. If this were a movie, at this point a montage with sappy music would show us holding hands doing goofy things seeing the sights of Seattle (even though some homophobic homeless person yelled at us). Jeff was especially amazed by the statue of Lenin that sits in the Seattle neighborhood known as the people's republic of Fremont.




The weekend was so magical, that when he left, I knew I had to see him again, and soon. So I arranged to fly two weeks later to southeastern Arizona where he was stationed, Fort Huachuca in the town of Sierra Vista.

When I landed in Tucson, he met me at the airport in his full battle dress uniform. I could barely walk he was so damned handsome. The magic from the first weekend continued that weekend. He took me to Bisby, AZ, an old mining town now gentrified into a tourist destination. We hopped into a Mexican border town for a couple of hours, and then headed back to Sierra Vista.

Jeff fed me at this steak house in the middle of nowhere, or it seemed like it to me. Apparently it had been owned by a gay couple, one of whom was a drag queen, but it had been recently sold to new, more traditional owners.

After a great dinner, it was starting to get dark, but Jeff said, "I have one more place to take you." We started driving south, almost back to the border, it seemed. The road got rougher and rougher, finally turning to a dirt road that climbed and climbed, taking several switchbacks finally arriving at Montezuma pass national monument, at over 6500 ft.

The sun was a blazing ball of fire, and a desolate desert valley opened to the west, burning red from the sun. Jeff took me in his arms, and said, "I know it's way early, but I'm falling in love with you."

A tear came to my eyes, and I replied "I'm falling for you too."

If this was a movie, the helicopter filming the shot would take off and swoop around the pass as we embraced, the sun setting in the distance, the camera flaring as it pointed directly into the sun.



It was the most romantic moment of my life, shot in glorious Technicolor.

This was not a movie, however. It ended a couple months later. I still don't fully know why, but I have some pretty good ideas. Jeff was in transition, leaving the army, going back to school in the midwest. There was an age difference, and we were facing a long-distance relationship. Mostly, I'm sure he saw aspects of my personality or some bad habits that simply turned him off (email me for the list, as it's too long even for a blog).

A month after my trip to Arizona he flew to Seattle for the 4th of July weekend. As soon as I met him at the airport, it was clear he had grown distant. Something had happened, but I didn't know exactly what. I tried to create as magical a time as we had in Arizona. A friend of mine owned a multi-million dollar home on a lake at Whistler. The house was empty and amazing. We mountain biked on the trails, canoed on the lake, ate too much, fooled around in the bedroom, but it was not the same.

By the end of the weekend, I'll never forget, I finally said, "Jeff, you're about to engage in an amazing new chapter of your life. Whatever happens, I wish you all the best."

The wave of relief that flowed over his face was palpable. It was so sad for me, but I was happy to show him my love the best way I could, by letting him go.

We continued to talk on the phone regularly, but by September, when he was in college, he stopped calling as frequently. After I hadn't heard from him in several days, I called him, pissed off, and confronted him. Mistake. That's the last I ever heard from him. I emailed him a couple of times and tried to chat with him when I saw him online, but all I got was silence. It sure hurt like hell. It still hurts. I still see him online sometimes.

If you're reading this Jeff, I hope you're doing great. I'm OK too.  I don't understand why you couldn't have just simply told me, "I'm sorry it didn't work out. I wish you all the best." 

I'm sorry it didn't work out. I wish you all the best.

As Bob Hope says, thanks for the memories.

---

Update

A very tiny miracle occurred this Christmas. I was fiddling with my iPhone, and turned on my chat program. Jeff was online. I debated whether or not to send a simple "Merry Christmas." I expected it would be unwelcome, but, then again, in the spirit of the holidays, I wanted to send him good wishes. By the time I made up my mind, he had signed out, but I sent the greeting anyway.

The next morning, I was amazed to see an email in my inbox from Jeff. Yes, he was annoyed that I contacted him. But he also said some beautifully kind things, about how he respected me, offering condolences about the recent loss of my Dad, and wishing me happy new year. Evidently, Jeff had read this blog. The internet is impressive.

I wrote him back, with profound thanks. It was beyond wonderful to get some closure. It was all I ever wanted; I was not looking to restart a romance. There was far too much water under the bridge for that.

It's been a couple of days now, and Jeff, not surprisingly, did not respond, and that's fine. I get it. Jeff is more of a don't-look-back kind of guy when it comes to things like this. I am different in that I generally, though not always, maintain ties with the guys I have dated. Some people like vanilla ice cream, some people like chocolate.

If this were a movie, it reminds me of the final scene of the "The Way We Were," a movie which is a known cause of hypoglycemia. The character played by Barbra Streisand runs into an old flame, played by Robert Redford. The scene is almost wordless, the scene purposely played awkwardly, filled with sadness for what used to be. Streisand reaches up and touches Redford's cheek, with a tear in her eye, clearly knowing that they can't go back. 

Of course I won't contact Jeff again, but there is a permanent soft spot in my heart that he created. My hand in friendship will always be extended to him.

Jeff, live long and prosper. You deserve it.

Mel will be so happy

I was visiting my Dad at his condo in Enfield, Connecticut one summer. After my Mother died in 1987, he moved into the condo from the home I grew up in Wilbraham, Massachusetts. Very soon after she passed, he took a long trip to Australia and New Zealand. He had always wanted to go there, having been denied leave at the last minute while he was serving in the Navy in the south pacific during WWII.

Well, he came back with a wonderful Australian lady named Mel. They had a glorious 15 years together before she passed away. When it was winter in North America, they would stay at Mel's beach house north of Sydney. When it was winter in Australia, they would stay at my Dad's condominimum in Connecticut. Such a tough life.

At one point during this visit, my Dad and I ended up alone.

"Chris, I'm so excited. Mel is going to be so happy."

"What about, Dad?"

"Well, I saw my doctor, and he said I was healthy enough. So he prescribed some Viagra. Mel is going to be so happy."

"Too much information, Dad!"

As best I can tell, evolution has selected human children to be disgusted at the thought of their parents having sex.

The next day, Mel and I were alone. She was angry.

"Chris, do you know what your father did?!?"

"No, what did he do?"

"He got Viagra. That's the last thing I need!"

Candlelight Salad

When I came out to my Mother, it wasn't pretty.

A synopsis of the opera: My nosy Mother forced me out by opening a personal letter sent to my parents' house instead of directly to me. After her tears stopped, she said that it was worse than when my brother died of cancer at age 14. She said that it was worse than if I had died. She begged me to go to a prostitute, since I had never been with a woman. My mother the pimp generously added, "I'll pay."

I'll pay. Indeed.

Thanks, but no thanks, Mother (she was always "Mother", never "Mom"). Lots of support there for me dealing with coming out in the early 1980's, staying healthy during the AIDS epidemic (and I'm still healthy).

In retrospect, it would have been best for me to have made a clean break, but I never did. A good son doesn't abandon his mother. She died of lung cancer 6 years later. Chain smoking has a cost.

Until she died, for Thanksgiving and Christmas, I would still go home, smiling, talking about the weather, my studies at school, my new job. Anything other than what was really important to me. Heaven forfend.

Mostly it was all fodder so that she could brag about me to her friends. PhD at Cornell! In less than 4 years! Now assistant professor at Wharton! Being gay was just, oh, one tiny little chink in her perfect son.

On most of these holidays, for the big meal, in addition to my Dad and Mother, we usually invited my parents' sweet friend May, recently widowed, and my almost-certainly-gay-but-closeted uncle Bill. At one of those Thanksgivings or Christmases, in either 1983 or 1984, my mother prepared a special appetizer that I have never seen before or since.

Candlelight Salad (1 serving)

1. On a small plate, place a large lettuce leaf.
2. On the lettuce, place a ring of canned pineapple.
   
3. Peel one banana and cut it in half.
4. Place the blunt end of the cut banana in the center of the pineapple ring, forming a candlestick.
5. Use a toothpick to attach a maraschino cherry to the tip of the banana, forming the flame.
6. For candle wax, dribble some mayonnaise or white salad dressing down the side of the banana.
7. Serve chilled.
   

What was my homophobic mother thinking? Yes, just the thing for your holiday table, ladies, banana phalluses with mayonnaise ejaculate oozing from the tip! Perfect for your gay sons and brothers this Thanksgiving!

Seriously, what was she thinking? At the time, I thought she was sending an olive branch in the form of a banana, trying to make light of her way over-the-top reaction to my sexuality. Candlelight salad definitely is spit-up-your-milk funny. What a "cool" Mother!

Now I believe, though, that the gesture was basically hostile, but with a smiling face, sort of like the church lady from Saturday Night Live. Maybe it was an attempt to use humor to laugh me out of "the gay"? See? Liking male parts is so silly. It's just a shaft with mayonnaise.

Even if candlelight salad was an olive branch, it did not bring about real peace. Before she died, she told me how much she loved me and I told her I loved her. Then she told me how much she hated my being gay. And she repeated what she said when I was dumped by my first real boyfriend, "you need professional help."

If she was willing to literally try anything to "save" her son (would you like a blond or brunette hooker, sweetie?), candlelight salad was just another attempt, albeit ridiculous, to flank the enemy. I think my mother viewed herself as a lioness protecting her cub, but her roars had the opposite effect. Instead of helping, they hurt. In essence, I was the enemy.

Yes, I'm still bitter, but, so to speak, "it is better to light one candle than to curse the darkness."

Rest in peace, Mother.

Perhaps some of you reading this story might believe that I "cooked" it all up (sorry, bad joke). You require proof. So be it. After my Dad recently died, our family friend May, now nearly blind, as sweet as always, sent me a picture of my Dad. That's May seated in front of him. On the table is one serving of candlelight salad.



Here's a picture of my Mother and Dad together. My sister says this picture always creeped her out.

For Thanksgiving this year, to exorcise the ghost of my Mother, I made Candlelight Salad for my friends. Here's a video of the ceremony.

The Card

It finally arrived.

What, you ask?

The Card.

Those bastards.

My AARP card arrived in the mail, uninvited, today. I turn 50 at the end of this month. I thought they sent the card at age 55 and had 5 years to live. Nooooooo...you become officially old at 50, apparently.

I'll take comfort in all the senior discounts I now qualify for.

May the jokes begin.

Whistler

It was January 1989 when Stewart passed away. He had been sick for a long time. We had just gotten back from a Caribbean cruise. He worked for a cruise line and managed the bookings for one of the ships in the fleet. He had never actually seen his ship before, but he got to cruise on it 2 weeks before he passed.

He only had one KS lesion on his face, thank God, but the rest of his body was pretty well covered. The radiation reduced the lesion on his feet that had caused him so much pain. At least, that allowed him to walk onto the ship under his own power. Since this was 1989, the ultimate outcome was pretty clear.

I was asleep when he died. He lived in NY; I lived in Philadelphia. His father called me at 5:00 AM with the news. I was not awake even though I answered the phone, and I had to be told twice that he had died.

We started dating three years before. That first November, Stewart came down with a cold that turned into pneumonia and then was diagnosed with AIDS. The same week as his diagnosis, the doctors told my mother there was no hope for her lung cancer. That week also happened to be Thanksgiving week. And it turns out that I am a Thanksgiving baby. I didn't celebrate my birthday for several years thereafter.

After he had recovered from pneumocystis, Stewart and I went on a trip to Whistler, 2 hours north of Vancouver. In 2010, the Winter Olympics will be coming to Whistler. Then it was much less well known, but still an incredible ski resort.

What shall I say? We were noticed. Me, the shy, white geek and Stewart the gregarious, black man. Stewart spoke with a perfect British accent, better than the Queen's, even though he grew up in Queens. Working for British Airways for a time, Stewart affected a British accent and never let it go. He never let someone by without making them laugh, one way or another. By the end of our trip, all the lifties at Whistler were calling out "Hey Stewart" as we got on the chairlifts.

In the picture below, Stewart is upside down on the right; I'm holding his legs.



After he died in January, his parents had a memorial service. Prayers were said over the metal urn containing his ashes. At the end of the service, his parents amazed me by asking if I would scatter his ashes for them. Stewart loved to ski; no one else in his family knew how to ski, and they wanted his ashes scattered at the ski resort in upstate New York where he learned how to ski.

Soon after, on a cold winter weekend, his parents and I drove to the mountain. How do you scatter ashes unnoticed on a crowded ski hill that is covered with white snow? I had bought a red backpack to carry his ashes up the chairlift. Since I had never skied there before, I did not quite know where to scatter the ashes, but I managed to ski to a beautiful spot with a view under a cliff. Waiting for a moment when no one was around was excruciating, and at best I would have just a few moments. Finally the time was at hand. As rapidly as possible, I scattered his ashes beneath the cliff.

Unfortunately, there sure were more ashes than I expected. In my haste, I am embarassed to say, some ashes were "left over" both in the tin and in the red backpack. By then, however, the crowds had returned, and I had no ability to do anything but ski down, with my face wet, and not from falling snow.

What to do with Stewart's remaining ashes? In time, a solution came to mind. I was going to be in Vancouver for a conference the first week in May. I could take the two-hour bus ride to Whistler and scatter his remaining ashes there, on our favorite trail. I could think of no more fitting place.

The road up to Whistler, the Sea-to-Sky highway is engraved into the side of steep mountains rising up from shore of a fjord extending to the town of Squamish. Squamish is a former mining and logging town. These days it is becoming a bedroom community for Whistler, which has the priciest real estate in all of Canada. At that time, Squamish was a dingy town nestled in spectacular scenery. From Squamish, the highway rises over 2000 vertical feet to Whistler. The views from the road can be both breathtaking and vertigo inducing, but my thoughts were only about Stewart on the ride up.

It was the last weekend of skiing that year at Whistler. The weather was clear and warm. The snow had melted from the lower slopes, but luckily our favorite slope, starting at 8000' still had plenty of snow. I had the red backpack, and the tin of his few remaining ashes. Since it was the end of the season, there were very few skiers. The ride up was long, first the gondola then the peak chair to the very top of the mountain, then a quick traverse to the start of our trail. Dammit if there wasn't someone sunbathing right there, given the warm weather, but I was able to move behind a rock, say my piece, and quietly scatter all the rest of his ashes. My face was again wet, despite the sun.

I don't know how I skied down, but I managed, and got back on the bus for the ride back to Vancouver.

Then, on the bus, I swear, I heard Stewart's voice.

He was laughing.

Uproariously.

"Christopher, how could you?", he scolded, in his best British accent.

I didn't understand. What did I do?

"Christopher, how could you?", laughing louder, he repeated.

And then it hit me. From deep inside, laughter erupted and would have splattered all over the bus if it had physical form. I had planned this trip for months. It was meant to be a tribute to his memory. But even with all that careful planning, I hadn't realized.

The name of our favorite trail at Whistler was, and is, "Burnt Stew Basin".

Knowing Stewart, I can think of no better tribute.

The University of Michigan

"Chris! I want you to write a letter!"

Whenever my Dad got a bee in his bonnet, he started bellowing. This would not be simple.

"OK, Dad, who do you want to send a letter to?"

"To the University of Michigan!"

Huh?

"You may not know this, but when I was a sophomore, I took a Physics exam and got a 96, but the grade got recorded as a 69 and the professor REFUSED to change it! I want you to write a letter DEMANDING that the grade be changed!"

Since my Dad graduated from the university in 1943, I knew this was the Alzheimer's talking. My sister and I had recently moved him into assisted living because of it.

I tried to buy time. "OK, Dad, I'm busy with work right now, but I'll get to it." Given his Alzheimer's, I hoped he would forget all about it.

He didn't.

Every time I saw him, he would bellow, "Chris! I want you to write a letter!" He forgot that he had asked me to write the letter, but he didn't forget that he wanted that letter written.

This went on for weeks.

Finally, I drafted a letter. When I showed it to him, it was wonderful to see him so engaged. He toughened the language, added additional supporting arguments (he had been a debater in school).

Of course, I never sent the letter. But soon thereafter, it was Christmas, and thanks to my color printer, he received a letter from the University of Michigan changing his grade. I strove for the utmost authenticity. At the top was a big blue and gold M. It was "signed" by the actual chair of the Physics department, Professor Tim McKay.

In my 47 years, I don't believe I had ever given my father a better gift. His face melted. I was so happy for him.

Given his Alzheimer's, I left the letter with him, as he would likely forget he had received the letter.

Two weeks later,

"Chris! I want you to write another letter!"

Oh no.

"I want you thank this Tim McKay for changing my grade."

"Of course, Dad. I'd be happy to."

"But now that my grade is changed, I believe I'm entitled to more benefits. I think I now deserve to be on the Dean's list and also to become a member of Tau Beta Pi (the engineering honor society)".

Oh no.

"Dad, I'll get to it, but I'm busy at work."

That weekend I was on a date; my cell phone rang. It was Dad. At that point he was still able to use the telephone, barely, to call me. Thinking it might be an emergency, I took the call.

"Chris! I just got off the phone with Tim McKay, and he doesn't know anything about a letter changing my grade!"

"Dad, how did you get hold of Professor McKay?!"

"Well, I don't know. I first spoke with his wife."

Apparently, thanks to a helpful telephone operator, my Dad was able to contact Professor Tim McKay, the actual chair of the Physics Department at the University of Michigan, at home, on a weekend.

I ended the date immediately, headed over to my Dad's place, confiscated the letter, and calmed him down.

"Dad, professor McKay is a busy man. I'm sure his secretary wrote the letter, and he just signed it. I'll call him on Monday to verify."

I was utterly terrified that Professor McKay or the university would---I don't know---charge me with identity theft or forgery or worse. The next day, I wrote a very long email to Professor McKay explaining everything, and waited nervously for his response.

The mornging after, I saw that I had an email from Professor McKay waiting in my inbox. Since it was going to be a long day at work, I waited until that evening before reading the fateful email. How angry was he? Was he referring the matter only to his personal lawyer or to the entire legal department of the University of Michigan?

After thanking me for my email, Professor McKay said he had "sort of figured out what was going on" during the phone call with my Dad.

And then he amazed me. "I'm traveling right now, but when I get back to the university, I'm going to ask the university to provide some kind of recognition to your father."

I was utterly speechless. It was not at all what I expected. My dear, demented father had bothered this poor professor (and his wife!) at home, and all he wanted to do to us was help.

I wrote back thanking Professor McKay profusely. But I declined the offer. All we needed was his understanding.

When I told my father that I had spoken with Professor McKay and that Professor McKay had confirmed that the grade had been changed as indicated in the letter, my Dad replied, "Good! Because that should have been corrected a long time ago."

Here's a picture of my Dad in his last year of life.