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.