I did not go to my high school class reunions: not the picnic at five years, the bash at ten, nor any subsequent ones. Like many who avoided high school reunions, I argued that back then I was not truly me, not yet, so I had little interest in revisiting that insecure kid and hearing stories about how he overcompensated.

“Oh god, remember the time you…”

Thanks, but I’ll pass.

But after re-friending high school classmates on Facebook and getting to know them all over again, I discovered that they actually do know me damn well, better than I remembered. And I *was* fully me in high school – that was my most of my true personality shining through back then. But I had not found my inner glow or maybe just lacked confidence in that flicker of who I would eventually become.

Crap. I wish I would have realized this before my ten year reunion. I probably would have gone.

Maybe I have another chance.

Ever since publishing King Perry, my life has changed in a significant and wonderful way. I now have writer friends. I email them and complain about lack of time for writing. They email back. We end up having long email discussions on publishing, marketing, how we develop characters, comment on specific details in our book, share amazon.com news, and more.

I love it.

For many years my only writing friend has been the very awesome Jenna, and she’s been super busy with her burgeoning career. We do talk once in a while and have great conversations when we do catch up. Our last three-hour Skype session included me threatening her with a giant, silver, kitchen knife and her pretending to be choked by hands off-screen.

She gets me.

With new friends, I guest blog on their site, which is high school equivalent of catching up at a friend’s locker between classes. Through emails we chat about common friends we mutually admire, sharing each delicious stories of what we like about that person. On Facebook I’ve met dozens of these new friends, and each time we start commenting on each others’ posts, it’s the high school equivalent of lingering and chatting at your locker, walking away thinking, “I could really see myself being friends with this person.”

I met Jo first (clever, British writer), and then L.C. whose sparse prairie descriptions perfectly matched her cowboy leads. I loved critiquing Lou’s vampire story. Kari answers every business question I throw her, freely giving of her time as if chatting with me is her top priority. Anne and I have a million stories to share; we learn from each other.

I’ve met “upper classmen” in this high school of writers, folks who I emailed and said, “May I ask your advice?” They have said, “Sure. What’s up.” And though we do not automatically become best buds, I am grateful for this exchange and feel respected. We shake hands and pass through the hallway, and I end up thinking, ‘I could really see myself being friends with this person.’

Lance and his partner showed up at my book release party. Alix is a writer who I enjoy running into on Facebook. I have threatened to move into a shed in his backyard so we can hang out and he can make me mac & cheese.  Joyfully Jay is someone whose website I liked and wanted to meet. We did! She loved King Perry and we got to chatting. Again, if this were high school, at cafeteria lunch I would sit at her table or invite her to mine.

Last week, I met Fen and AJ and after one or two emails, I said to AJ: “Let’s be friends. Or friendly. I’m not asking for a commitment.” and now we’re friendly. He and Fen came over Sunday afternoon to talk shop (and drink sangria). Before my book was published I contacted a near-stranger, Lloyd, and said, “Will you talk to me about marketing.” He arranged a Skype session for the next day.

This October I’m going to my first writers’ conference:  GayRomLit.

Already, I feel like I’m attending a ten-year reunion where I will meet all my old/new friends. Like an actual high school reunion, we may not recognize each other as first (having only exchanged emails), but we’ll take a moment to be pleasantly surprised.

I will say, “Oh god, is that you, L.C?”

She will laugh and say something funny, and we will hug this big, excited hug. Or, I should say, I will try to hug her.She has the option to put out her hand and say, “Boundaries, mister.” But honestly, L.C., you should probably just give in and let me hug you. I don’t like to brag, but I’m pretty good at it.

I can’t wait to catch up with these old friends.

But it could be challenging, too. I get nervous around big crowds.

My new friend Dawn and I have confessed our mutual fear of not knowing what to do and where to go.  We have agreed to hang out in the corner holding hands, which will make this awkwardness bearable. We may or may not hide behind a large, potted fern. There will be snarky giggling behind the fern, I know. I suspect we will attract the other people who don’t know what to do with themselves either, until we are a mighty force, laughing hard in the general vicinity of the hotel bar.

I find I’m even looking forward to the awkward parts.

It’s odd that I think of this conference as a reunion, but I do.

These are the people from high school who discovered weird kinks about themselves and learned they saw the world differently: women who spend time wondering what gay men think and do. Men, who as boys thought, ‘Oh shit, I’m gay. What should I think and do?’

And these people now dare to write their answers to those questions in fiction. These are probably high schoolers who never quite fit in. But we celebrate that now. That weird kink is now power and that not-fitting-in creates a vision for storytelling.

We now love that queer sparking light, wherever its sturdy glow comes from.

So thanks, new writer friends, for welcoming me, a freshman. That was cool.

I’ll see you guys in October for the GayRomLit reunion.

Until then, stop by my locker after class and say ‘hey.’

This is odd. I’ve never written a thank you note to 150 people at once. I’m not sure how to begin.

Dear Friends, Beloved Coworkers,Cool Authors I Had Not Yet Met, Assorted Family Members, Canadians,  Book Clubians, Iowa Bear Guys and, well, Everybody.

How are you? I’m good thank you, I had a very nice Easter.

Listen, I wanted to drop you a note thanking you for coming to my book release party two weeks ago. Thank you. It meant a lot to me that you came.

Normally at this point in any thank you note, things get awkward because its decision time: how sloppy am I willing to get? Is this a polite thanks for dropping off blueberry pie or is this wow, I’ve been really wanting a Cuisinart, so thank you.

Or is this the type of thank you note where you explode everywhere, gushing  superlatives and as you mail it you wonder if you conveyed heartfelt thanks or did it come across as a veiled threat to stalk you if you’re any nicer to me.

Me, I always err on the side of stalking, so I am going to gush a little bit. But I won’t come to your house and look through binoculars into your living room. Don’t think about that. Don’t even bother to turn around right now, looking out your dark windows. For pete’s sake, there’s way too many of you and I’m too lazy.

But it’s important to let you know what you did for my heart.

I’ve been writing for over 20 years mostly in secret, or if not exactly secret, behind closed doors. I’ve never published anything. I didn’t think I could write very well, not the kind of writing other folks would want to read. Honestly, I don’t think it was a low self esteem problem.

I believe my problem is that I’ve read too much writing I love. I grew up snarfing down Charles Dickens, Victor Hugo, and literature my father loved. My mom read to us at night. Naturally, I became an English major in college. To this day, I read for pleasure as much as time permits. My friend Chris writes for the Pioneer Press and the amount of beautiful sentences and wistfulness he imbues into movie reviews astonishes me. I’ve read poetry by friends that made my heart leap. After I finished The Known World by Edward P. Jones, I thought, “Well, screw writing as a hobby. This guy already nailed it.”

So, I know good writing.

For much of my closeted writing career, I simply wasn’t ready; I wasn’t there.

And hey, whether I am or am not there is quite debatable. But I’m ready to show the world what I’ve been doing on my back deck all those summer nights with low-burning candles and a glass of milk and another glass of wine. (Don’t judge me.)

So anyway, last week you guys ripped me apart.

Saturday night, during the nonstop madness of signing books for two and a half hours, I looked up and found myself surrounded by favorites: cold beer, joyful laughter, fat-frosted cake, balloons, onion rings, and the radiant smiles of dozens of great friends beaming at me, expressing, “You did it. Proud of you.” I cried a few times when I thought nobody was looking because it’s not possible to be loved this much, to survive staggering under the weight of such kindness as if each of you thugs were carrying a brick of solid love and you had no problem wrapping it in a pillow case and showing up at a bar called Grumpy’s.

Wow. That’s a little more violent than I had intended, but you get the message: I was dazed, dazzled, lambasted, shocked, disoriented, and then flabber and ghasted both at the same time. I had five dozens intense conversations over the evening, which was both heaven and hell, heaven to be delighted by every next person in line and then hell to end a new conversation scant minutes later.

I’m not sure, but I think I saw:

An ex-boyfriend with a shy, winning smile. He brought me a book on our first date.

An apartment building friend I knew 13 years ago when our paths crossed daily on dirty hallway carpeting.

My book club pals, whom I guess I should simply call ‘beloved friends’ because after 10 years of loving these people, I think we’ve moved beyond book club. Allison showed up despite an exhausting flight from Hawaii earlier that day. People the next day texted me to say, “Your book club friends are cool.”

My family, Mary and Heather, hugged me hard. With a smirk, Heather said, “Next time, your goddaughters would like you to write a children’s book so they can attend the party.”

We laughed together and then I told Heather, “Seriously, they can never read King Perry. Not even at 30.”

Too often the conversation ended with my brain pleading, Wait, don’t go! More to say! Don’t go — oh, hello, oh hello! How amazing to see you standing there, I didn’t know you were right there — thank you for coming!

When it was his turn, my quiet friend Erik raised his eyebrows at me to say, ‘way to go,’ and then followed it up by saying, “Way to go.”

I was touched that he decided to make a speech.

Especially since the night prior as he and his amazing girlfriend and I ended an evening of giggling together, I proposed a three-way. They were not shy in their rejection, which only spurred my greater advances. I promised to “do things” and I used air quotes, prompting all three of us to groan and turn away in disgust. In my final seduction, I unbelted, unzipped, and dropped my camo pants to the sidewalk saying, “This is what you’d be missing.” They remained firm in their resolve.

Actually, considering my behavior, Erik and Rosa, thank you for coming. Seriously.

My younger brother who lives in Chicago appeared at my side at one point in the evening, unannounced. He sipped beer from a frosty mug and nodded at me, saying, “Hey.”

I really should introduce him to Erik.

Zipping through the crowd, my friend Stephen held the night together. When more than eight people showed up at the party’s beginning and I started getting wide-eyed by the prospect of talking to more than eight people, Stephen took charge. With no prior notion that he might have to help out, he made everything happen. Stephen sold every book, demanded $5 bills from the Grumpy’s bartender as needed, flirted outrageously with our server to keep drinks and appetizers flowing, and at one point he briefly appeared at my side with the giant cake and commanded me to “Smile.”

After a dizzying array of photo flashes, he darted through the crowd to cut and serve.

I don’t know what I would do without him, without his love. I didn’t even chat with him until the night was over and he was exhausted.

I spent four minutes with one of my best buddies from high school. I miss him.

I spent three minutes with a man who I see twice a year for chicken pad thai and cranberry cream cheese wontons. It’s never enough time. I love his big heart.

My friend Tony flew down from Canada. Shortly after he read an early copy of King Perry, he told me his king name. He had always known his true name but never thought he’d get the chance to say it aloud. My king, my king.

When I came out of the closet a few decades ago, there was no party, no joy. Relief, and yes, a new chapter of life. But no balloons, no cake. Maybe I should have rented a bar and thrown a bash. Because the night I came out as a writer, so many people showed up to love me, and through their joyful party chatter and beaming faces, they loved each other. All these amazing people.

I would like to thank you in advance.

When the day comes that I must close my eyes for the last time, if I get a few seconds to let life pass before my eyes, I am going to replay this night, this golden, sparkling night that you showered me with an insane amount of love, so much that I think you possibly broke me. In those final moments of life, you’ll be right there with me, but this time, we’ll have a lot more available time to hang out.

I hope that doesn’t sound too stalkery.

I get a little gushy in thank you notes.

Last week, certain authors who I will not name (Jenna Blum) wrote a column in which certain other unnamed persons (me) were accused of being found in bed with a blow up doll aptly named Plastiqua. As if her wretched observations aren’t enough of a medium rare steak for a mouth watering law suit, she offered photographic evidence.

Me.

In bed.

Naked.

With the blow-up doll.

Like many Republican presidential candidates who suffer a slight shadow on their otherwise sterling reputations, I would like to clear my name and set the record straight. Like those same Republican presidential candidates, I’m not going to do so because the events are mostly true, even if a few details are off. Also like those esteemed men and women running for office, I’m going to get all huffy and act indignant, as if you have a lot of nerve looking right at the truth.

Finally, I’m going to try to distract you from the real issues (why does a grown man have so many stories about a blow up doll) by focusing on my version of the truth, a story that need be told.

Plastiqua.

Yes, Senators. I knew her.

Yes, yes, that other part is true, we were naked in bed together, but I can explain. Hear me out, Senators.

(I enjoy picturing my life explained before a Senate sub-committee.)

When I moved into my first Minneapolis apartment on Emerson Avenue, Jenna lived upstairs and clomped around the hardwood floors in her equestrian boots, causing me to wonder if some days she had forgotten to leave the horse at the stables. Clompity, clomp, clomp.

She will deny it and even swears she wasn’t out riding horses, but this is my senate hearing, so let’s just say she also wore one of those funny, black riding hats and a blood red jacket, with bouncy, blond hair curling down her back.

We bonded over our mutual love of deviled eggs and we became friends, then drinking buddies, then better friends. She introduced me to Plastiqua, the blow-up doll in question. Plastiqua never said much given that her mouth was drawn on. She didn’t have any…lady parts, let’s just get that out in the open. No, she was a bachelor party prop and nothing more.

Jenna, her husband, and I initiated friendships with the other apartment building dwellers, mostly as insurance in case any of us went missing, presumably at the hands of the creepy on-site manager who got high in the locked taxidermy room in the basement. We friended the idealistic lawyer across the hall and the sweet, young eco-political couple, confident that either one of them was destined for a seat in your Senate, Sirs and Madams. Occasionally the mysterious music girl down the hall joined us, but she attended a lot of concerts, so we didn’t see her as often.

During group dinners,  Plastiqua sat at the table. We dragged her to the couch for movie nights. Often, one of us would dry hump her to make the others laugh, and then Jenna would play the jealous girlfriend and beat Plastiqua fiercely for stealing her man. Unless Jenna was the one dry humping Plastiqua.

Esteemed Senators, Plastiqua had earned her place as a comrade.

One night, the apartment friends in question were supposed to go sledding. It got cold. Crazy cold. Of course, at 15 degrees below zero we weren’t sledding, so I didn’t bother going back to my place to check in; I just hit a downtown bar to warm up and hang out out.

While I chatted up a tall dark-haired stranger, Jenna and the apartment friends didn’t care much for my absence, so they let themselves into my home and drank all my beer. They unscrewed light bulbs, froze my toothbrushes, and moved furniture. For my entertainment, they taped a corn-cob-shaped candle into Plastiqua’s hand, wedged it between her squeaky legs, and laid her on top of my bed.

It was like a mafia calling card but less sinister, more likely suggesting, when you blow us off for sledding, this is what happens.

When I arrived home very, very late with the dark-haired stranger who was destined to be my true love, I ushered my new friend into the dark bedroom, flipped on the lights (the one light fixture they didn’t mess with), and found a very naked Plastiqua masterbating furiously.

After the initial shock, I howled with laughter.

I couldn’t stop.

I laughed and then laughed harder, because when I stopped laughing, I would have to explain – to my future true love – why there was a lady blow up doll in my bed, naked in the aforementioned position.

When it hurt my sides to laugh any further, I wheezed into a stop and managed to squeak out, “That’s not mine.”

Understandably, he looked surprised.

He looked at Plastiqua, then me, then the doll. He said, “I thought you said you lived alone.”

I started chuckling again, laughter rising up, and said, “I do.”

Then I laughed for a long time again.

He and I dated for six month. He eventually got used to Plastiqua at the dinner table, and may have dry humped her once or twice during movie night.

Jenna brought Plastiqua to my 30th surprise birthday party wearing a long T-shirt, the kind sexy coeds wear in a horror movie right before they’re horribly butchered. Smirking, Jenna whipped out a thick black marker and suggested everyone write birthday messages all over Plastiqua’s best (and only) outfit. Later that evening, a friend sidled up to me and whispered, “I have one photo left in the camera. Do you want a picture of your softball team or your dad signing the blow up doll.”

No brainer.

How many times does your father sign your blow up doll?

Probably only three or four times in this lifetime, but how often do you have a camera at the ready?

I’d like to say these were the only mishaps with Plastiqua, Esteemed Senators, but they were not. Pffffft, not even close. If these were Rush Limbaugh scandals, we’d only be current to the early 90′s, so buckle up.

I borrowed Ann’s camera when I visited Italy (keep in mind not everyone had a digital camera in those Amish-like days), so when I replenished the film, I thought it might be nice to stage a few photos for Ann to find. Jenna eagerly agreed and we conspired to take four photos of me “getting caught” in bed with Plastiqua. Wouldn’t Ann blush with confusion when the photo place worker flashed her a knowing smile? And wouldn’t Ann be horrified when she realized what that knowing smile actually meant?

Yes, Senators, it backfired.

After three months of silence and not a word about the Plastiqua photos, I finally blew up. “What about your goddam photos? Haven’t you developed the film in your camera?”

“The camera?” Ann said casually, “No. Were there still some Italy photos on there? I’ll tell my mom. I loaned it to her.”

You know what, Senators? Just forget it.

This setting the record straight isn’t working out very well. I mean, there are more stories, more public humiliations with Plastiqua. It’s really a marvel that I’m not agoraphobic, but honestly, being around my house isn’t any safer from these ongoing indignities.

Case in point.

After Jenna moved away, she returned to the twin cities for a short visit. I intended to bring Plastiqua for Jenna’s and my reunion dinner, but somehow our friend had gotten punctured in a storage box in my basement, so I blew her up and drowned her in the bathtub (Plastiqua not Jenna) to let air bubbles guide me where to apply the Band-aid.

I forgot this mid-morning drowning by the time I met a first date for lunch in a neighborhood restaurant. During this great lunch with my future true love, I offered to loan him a book, a clear cut signal that I liked him and wanted to see him again. He came back to my place as a clear cut sign he liked me and wanted to see me again. Predictably enough, he asked to use the bathroom.

“Sure, sure,” I said.

After the toilet flushed and a curiously long time passed while he washed his hands, he emerged, visibly shaken. “There’s a naked lady floating in your bath tub.”

“Oh, right,” I said.

At some point, you just become inured to your own scandals; they hardly sound terrible to your own ears. See, Republican presidential candidates, I get you. I really do.

Without apology, I said, “Yeah, that’s Plastiqua. She’s family.”

Sunday evening at a Thai restaurant with my buddy Stephen, our waiter announced that one of the ladies at table 31 wanted to buy “one of us” a drink.

This struck us as odd for two reasons: first, we had just sat down and no one had the chance to be seriously ogle us. Secondly, the waiter couldn’t remember whether the free drink was for me or Stephen.

“Probably me. I’m more handsome,” I said.

“You wish. I’m more handsome and better dressed.”

“I got a haircut on Friday,” I said with just a smidge of superiority.

He smirked and said, “I showered today.”

Okay, that was a dig.

To our waiter, I said in a particularly icy tone, “We think you should find out who that drink is for.”

He scuttled away.

When he returned with the victorious news that the drink was intended for me, I jabbed a finger at Stephen and snarled, “In your face, Space Coyote.”

The waiter disguised his alarm admirably.

He then informed us that the lady said, “While I would have purchased him a drink anyway, his pants made me want to thank him for his service to this country.”

My camouflage pants.

Crap.

Stephen curled a smile and said, “Service to his country? Huh.”

He grinned hard at me and my seconds-ago triumph tasted like sour beer.

This is the third time someone has mistaken me as former military, and while I have served our government in my contracting work, I don’t think these public expressions of gratitude intended to convey, “Thanks for the scenario-based e-learning.”

Both previous times I felt shitty when this mistake happened and the first time, I corrected the individual. But the second time it happened, an older woman expressed heartfelt gratitude in her strong eyes and it felt wrong to contradict her, like my saying, “I bought these from a surplus store” would disrespect the genuine emotion she had summoned.

“Thank you for your service,” she said and squeezed my arm.

I dipped my head while returning her firm gaze and she turned away abruptly. I wondered if her husband had served.

I passed her beautiful gratitude to six legitimate service men/women before feeling her debt was satisfied.

The pants are the problem. But what can I say? I love them.

I wear them everywhere, I admit it.

They’re incredibly durable, provide more flexibility than jeans, and best of all: two massive pockets on either side for my cell phone, bottle of water, my Kindle, an apple, etc. These pockets are my man purse. I have carried open bottles of beer in those pockets. A half-eaten sandwich. Mint ChapStick.

I recently discovered holes in both front pockets, which seems fair after roughly 2.5 years of borderline daily use. Now that I’ve repaired the pocket holes, you can add “easy to staple” to the pant’s many advantages.

These pants are more famous than I realize.

In late December, while logged into a dating website, a pictureless profile hit on me with a cheesy come-on: We should talk. I have had a crush on you for a long time.

Oh, please. Like I would fall for that.

Given the lack of photo and the ‘big crush’ approach, I assumed it was some programmed adbot. Using a snarky tone, I typed my reply: Oh really? And where have you nurtured this big crush? How do you think you know me?

I received his reply: I work at the pharmacy on 43rd and Chicago. You shop there all the time.

Crap.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

I shop there all the time!

Thing is, I consider going to that particular pharmacy like toddling down into my basement. I mean, it’s only a few blocks away. I’ll drop by if I need milk, photos, or toothpaste. Last minute birthday cards. Black jelly beans at 11pm at night.

And why would you shower to go to your basement? You wouldn’t. How silly. Why comb your hair or brush your teeth? It’s barely even leaving the house. By extension, before entering said pharmacy, why change out of a yellow shirt that has salsa stains on it?

And yes, I well remember the summer night where the friendly glow of the enormous pharmacy sign revealed burgundy salsa drooling down my shirt front. I flicked off a small chunk. (I like the chunky salsa.) Sadly, my only reaction in that moment was to think, “I wonder if I need laundry detergent?”

On the plus side, whoever “Mr. Crush” was from the dating site, he had already seen me at my worst. He knew I was a total slob and inexplicably, he still liked me. And while I have several times made the vow to dress better before leaving the house, I always retract this vow before the words have a chance to dry.

I shower. I really do. I floss; I brush my teeth.

But as the person in charge of laundry for my household of one, I make sure my around-the-house clothes get well used before earning R & R in the clothes hamper.

On this website, Mr. Crush further explained that he would run to the front of the store to make sure he was the cashier who rang me up. He would try to start conversations with me, but I was taciturn. Maybe even growly some nights. He couldn’t figure if I were gay or straight and he would wonder about me as I shuffled out into the parking lot with my black jellybeans.

Maybe you’re thinking of some other customer, I typed. 

He replied with two words:  camo pants.

Crap.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

I often wish I were a classier person.

I sometimes dream of tuxedos and caviar. A few special nights in my life, I have sported a crisp, black tux with shiny lapels and waltzed to live music. It was fun to sparkle that way. But most days, I am a rung or two below business casual and I find I like it down here, the faded t-shirt plane of life.

I decided not to be humiliated about total strangers noticing I wear the same clothes over and over, and decided to keep talking to Mr. Crush.

Really, I bet we all have a pair of camo pants, metaphorically at least, a way that we say to the world, ‘Here I am. Take me as is because I know who I am now. And I like being me.’

Perhaps most people express this self-acceptance in a way other than pants, but if you’re older than 35 and generally like who you are today, that means you’ve recognized a few humbling truths: you aren’t destined to be a United States president. You are capable of hurting people you love. You fucked up your life in some ways big or small. You may not win a Nobel prize for Chemistry. (Though there’s always still hope…).

These hard-won truths are not failures in my eyes; they are milestones of acceptance.

I have zero interest in becoming President of the United States, and while there wasn’t much chance of that happening (lucky for you), having that scratched off the list of crazy possibilities is to accept the world of diminishing possibilities, to age with wisdom that is both comforting and disconcerting. As dreams of fame, fortune, and Nobel prizes slip beyond my grasp, can I accept who I am destined to be in this life?

That’s not to say I’m done improving myself. I see lots of areas where I could grow my compassion, my ability to trust, to love, to risk. And I still dream big: I envision more tuxedo nights in my future (possibly wearing a camo cummerbund and matching bow tie).

It was late December when Mr. Crush contacted me.

We’re dating now.

I swear, it’s the pants.

.

After breakfast with a friend, I stopped at the closest Kowalski’s to me to pick up some salsa. I intended to do a lot of fiction editing this afternoon and really, editing goes best with chips and salsa. It just does.

As I approached the front of the store, I saw two parents gently arguing with their kid, maybe four or five years old. He was holding on (both hands) to a fairly unremarkable walking stick, something he had clearly picked up on their stroll to the store.

I should note that it’s a balmy 40 degrees today in Minneapolis, and with the sun grinning hard on everything in December, well, to Minnesotans, this practically counts as a summer day. Driving to the store, I passed hordes of joggers, parents pushing strollers, and hell, I think I saw a woman doing yard work. I do love that Minnesotans see the December sun minus accumulated snow and think, ‘Fuck it: I’m going rollerblading.’

Based on how they were bundled, this family had clearly walked to the store.

Dad tried to coax the stick out of his son’s hands, *promising* that the stick would still standing against the wall brick wall by the bike rack when they came out.

While his son said nothing, the pout and mistrust on his face revealed his faith in Dad’s words.

The stick! This stick is everything!

You’d think I spent 10 minutes watching this drama unfold, but all this occurred during the twenty seconds it took me to approach and pass this family, entering the store. I had the fleeting thought ‘Oh, just let him carry his stick inside’ but when I saw the carefully piled apples, jars precariously arranged, and piled stacks of Christmas candy, I realized the parents’ wisdom.

Stick disaster lurked in every aisle.

As I searched for my salsa, I reflected about the time in my life when a treasure like a good stick was everything.

I once owned a small cedar chest, a cheap souvenir from when we visited Mt. Rushmore on vacation. It contained a feather, two unique pennies, the back of a cub scout pin which had broken off of something meaningful. I think I remember a piece of string that I intended to use for some future invention. Yes, I once owned treasures.

In the grove across from our childhood home, I would find amazing sticks from time to time and always relished my good fortune. Holding it in my young hands, I would marvel at how the stick was so straight, so powerful! Not a single knot or irregularity! Only the luckiest boy in the world could find a stick like that. I could use it for ninja fighting or when I played pirates with some of the other neighborhood kids.

“Where did you get it?” I imagined other kids would say with ill-concealed jealousy.

“Oh this?” I would reply casually, twirling the stick over my head and catching it with ease. “I found it.”

When I left Kowalski’s short moments later, I saw the stick propped against the brick building. Mom and Dad had won. At that moment inside the store, their son was fretting, worried that someone might steal the one treasure he owned in the world, the one possession he could say was truly his.

I got in my car, strapped myself in. Thought of my writing day ahead and reflected how much I love salsa. Wondered if I should have gotten cheese to melt over the chips.

I also thought about how lucky I am to not be shopping for Christmas presents today. I’m remaining in Minnesota for Christmas, the first time ever, and while I will very much miss my Huntley family, I need this break from traveling and gift-buying. My best friend is visiting. We will stay up late gossiping. We will reveal sad stories. Eat amazing food.

My many Minnesota friends are eager to celebrate with Ann, so with these friends we will make fires in my fireplace, laugh until we can’t breathe, and become friends all over again. I will try to force everyone to drink egg nog, though most people I know hate it.

I have treasures in my life.

I hopped out of my car and approached the stick.

I carefully positioned four quarters around the base of the stick, arranged in a pattern so that the boy would know some stranger didn’t accidentally drop these coins. No, the boy is right: the stick is truly blessed.

I remember a time in my life when a quarter meant riches.

And four quarters?

Well, that was like Christmas.

.

The last of the Trick-or-treaters have retreated, though we were still handing out Ron’s shitty sour patch candy not long ago, at 9:30. By 9:00, I had exhausted four giant bags of candy, so Ron dashed to his car for an over-sized bag of Sour Patch Kids. Gross. Who wants Sour Patch Kids? I gave him shit about it.

Ever since a monster and his princess sister showed up around 5:30, we’d been tossing candy into orange, plastic pumpkins, pillow cases, and flimsy, crinkled bags.

We cheered on their costumes, howled with fear when appropriate, and expressed deep shock and awe when two Incredible Hulks (possibly twin brothers) lumbered up the front steps. On the short breaks between ‘treaters, Ron and I lazed on my couch telling Halloween tales which morphed into stories of stupid things we did as kids.

Each doorbell buzz made us jump and grab a fistful of chocolate. Over the evening, we handed out hundreds and hundreds of candy bars.

Best moment: Ron would sometimes put on the gorilla claw and while I handed out candy, make clawing motions at the kids. A young Superman shouted, “YOU DON’T SCARE ME.” While I handed out candy to his brother and two sisters, Ron turned around and put on the gorilla mask and jumped back toward Superman, prompting the man of steel to scream like a 10-year-old girl. Then he composed himself and yelled at Ron, “I’M NOT SCARED.”

Some didn’t participate much, older kids who looked at us with a surly expression, demanding in a bored voice, “Trick or Treat.” But most kids were amazing, bashful and stumbling, terrified to say the catch phrase, but once the goal was accomplished, they looked back in awe that this worked, these magic words, and only then they shouted with glee, “HAPPY HALLOWEEN.”

I love the Spidermans with puffy chests, Batmans who struggle to see out their mask eyeholes, and shy vampires. We got several variations on the Scream movie ghoul, including one with blood that dripped down the face. I yelled, “Holy crap that is scary!” and our temporary guest giggled and squeezed the bulb that made the fake blood spill out. I yelped again and he giggled again, delighted to be able to scare someone bigger than him.

It was a good night.

Like most people, I love Halloween.

The orange and black, the chill in the air, the mysterious other worldliness, and simply being scared. I mean, a little scared, not cancer scared. Blair Witch scared.

There’s enough to seriously terrify me these days, politics and the economy alone, forgetting momentarily about environmental disaster, crazy-spreading diseases, and the fact that CSI can have two or three spinoffs. Can there really be that many serial killers out there? I sometimes lie in bed wondering, ‘What will the world be like in a year? Will I even survive it?’

The enormity of this future overwhelms me quite frankly, so it’s fun to be a little scared of ridiculous things like zombies and ghosts. They’re easier to take these days.

Last weekend, I baked Halloween gingerbread cookies and delivered them frosted and decorated to my Illinois family. They loved the giant leaves and ghost cookies, but my sister pointed at the star-shaped cookies and asked, “Why stars?” Rather than admit the simple truth that I don’t own many Halloween cookie cutters, I shrugged it off by saying, “They’re haunted stars.”

We spent a delightful October weekend together. I mean, delightful. Yes, we do not share the same values on many issues. But we genuinely love each other. The more of us family gathered in one room, the more love we feel.

It’s harder to generate that happy glow with one of our key founders missing. Some days, thinking about my dad is like stepping on a tack, which means I don’t burst into tears in Target and curl up in a shopping cart, but rather, I say, Ow, dammit, ow. Fucking hurts. And after a minute of feeling sorry for myself, I drift into some better memory of him, and it’s okay again.

Saturday afternoon, Mom, Eileen, and I changed the over-sized storm window, the big pain-in-the-ass window we have been changing every Spring and Fall my entire life. As a kid, I watched Dad stride across the steeply-pitched roof tiles with billy goat agility, carrying a damn heavy glass window, while simultaneously yelling at me to go meet him on the other side, reminding me to take a screw driver.

He impressed the hell out of me.

But he’s not around; we had to change that window. Ow, dammit, ow.

The three of us managed to launch me up to the steeply-pitched roof and with a Phillips I unscrewed the little wood blocks my dad invented to secure this ancient pane. From this vantage point, the rich afternoon sunlight hit the thick, yellow leaves everywhere, making me feel golden inside, loved and happy and free. The world is messed up, but we are creatures of love. We will figure this out.

While screwing in the storm, I couldn’t help but notice that all the roof gutters were crammed full of leaf sludge, black walnut water and cold, greasy mush.

Completely and utterly revolting.

I absently started pulling out a few clumps with my bare hands. Each handful felt like tearing eggshells, rotten green beans, and tangled wet hair from the kitchen drain. I don’t even have long hair.

After the storm window chore, I had planned to go for a perfect-October-Saturday-afternoon walk around my home town but the sun was already threatening to crash in an hour and these gutters weren’t going to clean themselves. I argued with myself, claiming it was ridiculous to clean them, as clearly they’d been packed with squirrel vomit for months without incident. Why not wait for another weekend?

But in the middle of each new argument, I would reach in and pull out more sludge. I kept thinking about how much damage these packed gutters could do to the roof. I feel like I could see the ghost of my dad standing on the lawn grinning up at me, yelling, “View’s not so much fun from up there, is it?”

I am my father’s son, so I spent the next hour cleaning out the gutters by hand, then swept/raked up the black goo with a wet broom. Filled up a giant garbage bag. From the ground, Mom and Eileen figured out an ingenious way for me drop the goop without the bag bursting like a balloon.

The gutters got cleaned.

But I missed my October sunset walk.

Some days, I do not care for adulthood. (The more adolescent me would have used the phrase ‘fucking adulthood’ but see, I’m more grown up than that.)

I don’t want to retake Algebra and endure pimples again, but I want to spend quality time focused on obtaining free candy and obsessing over my costume details to make sure I am super tough-looking, or the perfect sour and scary.

Later that Saturday night, I did take my walk through my hometown, down the dimly lit street lights in Huntley. Each time I visit, I love this town more, cherishing the charming, dark streets where I have so much history.

I walked to Bernice Heinemann’s house and marveled at the force she was in my childhood. I’ve never met anyone kinder, not ever, and she had no good reason to be filled with such grace. Bernice lived a hard life. Both of her sons died in the same plane crash. And yet when she spoke to us kids, her eyes sparkled with joy. We loved her so much that we made her an honorary grandmother and we loved explaining this to her, repeatedly. She seemed to like it. She made Rice Krispie treats layered with a perfect chocolate. They were exquisite.

She’s gone.

None of you will ever meet her. You may appreciate her story, but I’m telling you, she glowed with love. Glowed. Every time I seriously doubt the existence of God or the Sparkling Spirit or whatever, I think, ‘Well then how do you explain Bernice?’

Continuing around town, I ended up in front of Grandma Hemmer’s home and studied its contour, recalling a few dozen of our hundreds of visits. Grandma Hemmer’s cookies arrived weekly with her Monday’s laundry. We’d endure the pecan sandies week, love the frosted molasses raisin week, but lived for the far-too-infrequent chocolate chip week. The cookies, her stories, the treasures we found in her purse. Her scary attic with dolls whose eyes opened. She watched us whenever we were sick and listened to our moaning without complaint. That woman loved the shit out of us.

She’s gone.

It’s Halloween night and I sure hope the world is full of ghosts.

I wouldn’t mind if they drifted into my living room sometimes and let me see the worn, soft eyes I miss so much. I want to see my Dad’s irritated scowl and hear his easy laugh that made other people laugh. I want to hear Bernice’s high, crisp voice telling a pinochle story, how someone overbid their spades. I want the ghostly apparition of Grandma’s knuckles rapping on the kitchen table like they did when you were taking too long, in her opinion, to play a card.

So, you know, ghost me up, Pops.

Now that we’re both adults, Bernice, I’d really like to talk to you again. I’d really to understand how you radiated joy after all the hurts you lived through.

I should admit that I do fear these ghosts. I sometimes fear they might be disappointed in me, that I am not living up to the examples they established. In my defense, these people set the bar pretty damn high. Other days, I am confident they adore me still and instead I fear forgetting some small nuance of personality or gesture erased in me due to years of absence. I try to remember Grandma’s under-her-breath humming. Bernice’s crooked gait.

But I will do my best to face those fears. Like Superman himself, I will screech out, “I’M NOT AFRAID” even when I am. And perhaps in that moment, the costume becomes real, and I will not be quite so afraid.

Thank you, little Superman.

Happy Halloween.

.

As prophesized by others who knew more than I, once I joined Facebook a slew of high school friends emerged from the cyber-ether to ask a simple question: “Friend me?”

Although I knew great people in high school, high school was not great for me. I know my high school years were better than many; I do not seek sympathy for imagined teenage wrongs. I also know how easy it is to blame high school, when in fact it’s more about Teenage Me not having the courage to be fully me. I get that. But who was ever that authentically themselves? I forgive myself, blah blah blah…What’s done is done.

When I came out at 22, my parents, despite being awesome, were deeply ashamed and asked me not to tell anyone in our hometown. I had already told myself that high school years weren’t my ‘real life,’ so without much trouble I acquiesced and shrugged off my Huntilian roots.

(Many years ago when “Scoop” O’Brian ran The Huntley Farmside out of his ramshackle home across from the sewing machine factory, the newspaper referred to the townspeople as ‘Huntlians.’ I always liked being a Huntilian; I like believing that our town’s great secret is that we are all half-reptile.)

When I joined Facebook a few months ago, I made a conscious decision to end this decades-old shame agreement. I broke it. My life is here in Minnesota so perhaps I need Huntley even less now, but gosh, I don’t think anyone actually gives a rat’s ass that some graduate from the class of 1985 is a homo. Who fucking cares?

So, bring on the Huntilians! I will friend you, my half-reptile brothers and sisters.

The invitations came.

I found myself genuinely happy to see many of these names and remember a time in my life when I saw these faces so regularly that I would merely nod a bored hello as we passed in the hallway for the eighth time that day. Names appeared before me that I had almost forgotten. And by clicking a simple YES! I get to marvel at pictures of their children and read details of their lives. I love it.

One former classmate now living in Minneapolis suggested we actually break bread, so last Saturday night after almost 20 years of separation, I slurped down King Zombies and chomped Pad Thai with a former Huntilian thespian. (Wow, now I’m thinking half-reptile with a long forked tongue.)

As a junior, Holly played Dolly (of Hello Dolly) and beyond the rhyme, she fit the part perfectly. Energetic, effusive, and already skilled in both grace and polished conversation, Holly was always three-parts college sophistication and one-part high schooler, even while we stupidly chased each other in cars at night. Holly was a gifted singer but as this was pre-American Idol, we just nodded to each other and said, “Oh yeah. She’s really good.”

Holly now performs and teaches at the Guthrie theater. She has six CDs out there in the world. So, yeah, she’s really good.

We were always great pals throughout high school (as much as I let anyone in) but even more so after I played Horace Vandergelder to her Dolly Levi.

Well, I played Horace Vandergelder and Head Waiter.

Because the two boys competing for that lead role were both seniors and both had participated in the theater department for years, our high school principal waned to give us both the shot. One performance weekend I was Horace Vandergelder and the next weekend, he was. On the alternate weekend, we also shared the role of Head Waiter who has the important task of taking Dolly and Horace’s dinner order and presenting a refurbished baseball trophy after the dancing waiters’ number.

It’s hard to believe that Mr. Skomer would put up with so much hassle to give both of us a chance to shine, but he was that kind of man. Can you imagine putting up with two idiot high school boys sharing the same lead, both having hundreds of lines to memorize but mostly spending their non-stage time attempting to give each other the meanest possible titty twisters?

He had to walk us both through the staging twice, repeat every instruction twice, double the headaches…If I were in that situation, I’m sure my practical, adult response would be to say, “You, over there: you’re the lead and other guy? You’re not. Sorry, man.”

I forget the immense gift from my small town upbringing, that perhaps I got more opportunities to shine than I remember. Thank you, Mr. Skomer. If it’s not too dorky to admit this, I kinda miss you.

Anyway, the weekend I played Head Waiter, I remember tip-toeing through the over-stocked prop room looking for the Dance Trophy when I heard my cue to appear on stage boom through the sound system. My head snapped straight up as I realized I was faaaaaaar from the stage and already an ominous silence was settling on the faux diners who just discovered that ‘awkward improv’ was now on the dinner menu.

Poor Holly! Poor other Horace Vandergelder with his sore nipples!

I listened to the silence in horror, unsure if I should run full speed and appear on stage gasping for breath. But even at my best speed, navigating the crowded prop room and then backstage scaffolding could take another three minutes. While frozen in indecision, I heard Holly boom out in Dolly’s voice, “WE’LL HAVE THE CHICKEN!”

The audience roared with approving laughter and spontaneous applause.

They had been holding their breath as well.

Over our appetizer, I reminded Holly of that moment and she laughed her wonderful laugh but didn’t remember. I couldn’t believe it, because I had immortalized her in that moment, her gift of finding just the right solution that kept character and acknowledged to the audience, ‘Yeah, this is a fuck up. Moving on.’

She has always been a force-of-nature.

We didn’t reminisce much, not like I thought we might. Instead we spoke of surpises in life, some of them unhappy. We talked about disappointments and what has been hard. Life wasn’t as perfect as we imagined it would be when we were unstoppable teens. We have illness, death, and broken expectations, but here we are, and we can still laugh and share joy, so that’s something.

Holly got quiet and explained she wanted to tell me about one of her biggest regrets. I was amazed to find out that I was involved. After a quiet breath, she explained that she always deeply regretted she did not accept my invitation to prom. I tried to brush this off as beneath her notice but when I saw the grief in her eyes, I understood that this haunted her. The story of why she made this decision is not mine to repeat. But we felt her sadness together.

I suggested that perhaps deep regrets force us to open our hearts, to say ‘yes’ to the next important moment, because the inconsolable sorrow of reliving a deep regret is too high a price to pay. I’ve accumulated a few deep regrets and wondering if my heart is more open is the best solace I can wring from the experience. We talked softly about regrets and opening your heart to sorrow and joy.

While I nibbled on her green curry, she showed me a picture of her husband and two kids. I was amazed to discover that even in a Smart phone picture, all three of them radiate light. I could see the intense openness in their expressions, remarkable in a mere photo. She beamed as she discussed each of them and I know she pours her effervescent love into each one.

After a minute or two I said, “If it’s any consolation, prom night probably wouldn’t have gone anywhere.”

She chuckled and said, “Oh please, I knew that. I knew that back then.”

A thrill raced through me as she said this. She knew before I could barely admit it to myself! And she loved me anyway.

Perhaps it’s time for me to rewrite the script in my head about those high school years.

And really, how much has changed?

Didn’t we all run around the hallways saying, ‘Friend me! Friend me!’ acting in whatever way we thought would get us the right kind of attention? Friend me, jocks or smart kids! C’mon cool kids, friend me! Facebook is like a high school do-over where we can finally be ourselves, let all our weirdness just hang out there and yet still ask the most vulnerable phrase a person can ever say aloud:   Friend me?

And if that person says yes to our vulnerable question, we waste no time gushing, “Oh my gosh, guess what I had for lunch? Oh, and you are never going to believe what Carl and Tracy said, it is just crazy. Look at this link! And check out this picture of an apple from my back yard. Isn’t that gross?”

I have enough life regrets. So if asked this vulnerable question, I will open my heart and say ‘yes.’

After Holly and I had chatted non-stop for three hours and hadn’t even begun to exhaust the nearest topics, a giant ceiling tile, soaking wet, slammed down on the empty table next to us, completely splashing us with, uh, ceiling water, I guess. Broken air conditioner tube or something.

Instantly we both burst out laughing, howling, eyes wide at each other. At that second, we had been discussing why people leave organized religion. While neither of us believe that God punishes people that way, the timing was admittedly hilarious. All around us, shocked patrons gasped and said things like, “Oh my gosh…can you believe what just happened?”

We howled. Tears streamed down both of our cheeks.

I missed her laugh.

“That could have landed on you,” said an elderly diner not far from us. I could tell by his expression that I wasn’t taking this seriously enough. “On your head.”

“I know,” I could barely squeak out as I wiped my eyes.

Holly patted the ceiling water out of her hair with an unused napkin and surprisingly, made it seem graceful. Once again, she had to improv her way through dinner, and once again, in her loud and fruity laugh, she remained exactly fully in character. This time, of course, she was playing herself.

For the life of me, I can’t remember why we ever stopped being friends.

.

Another Gay Pride Sunday draws to a close and I find myself thinking, ‘Missed another one.’

When I first came out, I gleefully attended the big parades, wow’d by all the drag queens, leather guys and the entire spectrum between and beyond. I drank cheap beer (with pride) in some nasty parking lot tent and I danced my ass off with glowy things around my neck. Back when I lived in Chicago, one year I marched down Halsted Street with the Northern Illinois University’s Gay Lesbian Union celebrating rural farmland homos, passing out vegetables chanting, “CORN-FED BOYS! MILK STRONG GIRLS!”

So, you know, I prided.

But today I mowed the lawn with my crappy, sputtering lawnmower and bagged up my trimmings. I did some laundry. Bought much-needed sneakers. I half-thought I might go to the post-parade festivities, but I instead spent my afternoon at the Geek Squad working out my computer pride.

Over the course of the day, I realized that the concept of ‘pride’ doesn’t quite appeal to me anymore.

As I understand it, Gay Pride is pride in survival. I made it. Fuck you world, you tried to crush me and here I am, with a feather boa or my big macho boots or perhaps my, I dunno, cyber-goth piercings over womens’ lingerie. I do like the idea of celebrating survival, because despite progress made socially and legally, we’ve witnessed enough gay teenage deaths in the past few years to know that the world can be quite shitty at times.

But Pride seems arrogant to me these days, and that ‘fuck you world,’ doesn’t really help. It’s no longer ‘us’ against ‘them.’ It’s us against us. If all of us damn people don’t figure out how to love and accept each other, well, I think we all know how this turns out for humanity: we’ve all seen Planet of the Apes. Make no mistake, those chimps are just biding their time, chatting in yahoo groups about the imminent takeover.

Instead of pride, how about gratitude?

I am grateful to have survived and my lonely teenage years. When I think of the friends who loved me after I came out to them, my heart swells.   Over and over, I did not just survive, but thrived, and my experience of love in this world continues to expand. I have amazing friends! My family of choice loves the shit out of me! I can now love people who irritate me and even appreciate their giftedness.

But I never did it on my own, not once, so I’m not sure ‘pride’ is the word I would use.

Years ago, a member of my biological family cheerfully explained how some religious writers said it was okay to love me, because gays were a bruise in the flesh that is humanity. This cultural bruise was caused by America’s surplus of weak fathers and overbearing mothers, which meant it wasn’t my fault that I preferred reading Charles Dickens to playing football.

This person felt pure amazement that “I took it the wrong way,” because the entire point was that bruises can be healed, which meant God could heal my gayness and make me healthy again. Normal.

The conversation crushed me and this family member and I did not speak for over a year.

I was not healed by pride.

The powerful healing that allowed me to love this family member again and move beyond ‘the bruise conversation’ was facilitated by a straight man. During this session he facilitated, I wept in the arms of another man, also straight. Around me in a semi-circle stood men and women, gay and straight. These people didn’t have any special healing powers for gays, their only giftedness was that they loved me.

They loved me.

They opened their hearts and dared me to open mine, to let deep grief pour out of me. Even while I sobbed, I remember worrying that a new friend, a gorgeous Indian woman, would somehow judge my outburst with disgust. When I could finally see through my tears, I found her hand on mine and her soft brown eyes staring into my face. Without a word she communicated that bruise or not, she really, really loved me.

Leading up to that great healing event, how many nights did Ann comfort me over the phone? How many times did Heather tell me softly, “You’re part of our family now.”

Tonight on my back porch, basking in the glow of my twinkling gazebo lights and inhaling the scent of freshly-cut grass, I will celebrate my own flavor of Gay Gratitude. I give thanks for those who loved me in spite of being gay, for those who loved me because I’m gay, and for those who don’t really give a shit that I’m gay, they just love me because, what the hell, they think that Edmond Manning is worth loving.

I am grateful for Stonewall queens, for my friend Ankha who led a radical gay group in the 70s, a group that was forced to hold secret meetings. I am grateful for AIDS activist in the 80s, and equality activists in the 90s who realized that we already had many, many straight allies. They recognized that the ‘we’ in Gay Pride needed to be more inclusive. And thank you Jebus, for those gay marriage advocates.

For my gay friends who believe in and love the big Gay Pride weekend, go for it. I hope you wore your shortest shorts to the parade, marched for Rainbow Families, and what the hell, made out with a hot stranger behind the port-a-potties by The Saloon. (Ahem…not that I ever did that.) I am grateful for the big gay parade for those years when it spoke to me, and reminded me I had survived.

And I’d like to tell my straight friends two things:   first, I love you. Secondly, you really are supposed to buy gay people a gift on Gay Pride weekend, like a lawnmower.

Preferably the Black and Decker MM1800 Electric Rear Bag Mulching Mower.

.

During Sweeps week on any given dramatic show, you can count on a main character’s parent showing up to announce, “I’m dying.”

It’s funny, because we never hear about that parent before the episode when the main character is suddenly jubilant that ‘my mom, my best friend,’ is showing up. And you can bet they’re coming either to die or announce a divorce. If it’s a death, then there’s an inordinate amount of time spent on that parent’s final blessing, the last words imparted to their beloved child: a final forgiveness, sage advice, look after your sister, and occasionally (like on Falcon Crest), where to find the secret stash of gold.

I probably watch too much TV, but I must admit that I wondered if my father would have a final blessing for me in his last days. Maybe some sage advice that put our entire relationship in perspective with just a few words. And hey, maybe he hid a pirate chest’s full of jewels and gold somewhere. It could happen.

Still, I thought a ‘dying-parent’s-final-blessing’ was one of those fake TV things. A tear-jerker for ratings. I didn’t realize that it was real and could change your life if you let yourself believe.

Three days before he drew his last breath, his words were sparse and conversations consisted of only a few sentences before he drifted to sleep. I walked into the den where we had set up his hospital bed.

“Who’s there?” he said.

“It’s me, Edmond.”

I took his hand in mind and stood over him. He faced the wall and I held his hand and watched him breathe.

He said, “Hi, honey.”

I got choked up and say, “Hey, Dad.”

Then he said, “It’s been a pleasure.”

He drifted away to sleep.

My heart broke.

A pleasure?

It’s been a pleasure?

I would describe our relationship with many adjectives, some of them flattering and some, well, not. We laughed together quite a bit. We shared books. A few years ago at the end of our phone conversations he started saying, “We love you from down here (Illinois),” and I would reply, “I love you from up here (Minnesota).”

We had beautiful moments, he and I.

But we also owned the matching set of father and son baggage, compounded by my being gay, his not loving that, my leaving the Catholic church, and you know, me being a loud mouth who felt it necessary to call him out on his shit. I’m not proud to admit this, but I’ve raged at him on the phone.

And yet, his final words to me were, “It’s been a pleasure.”

Even now, those words thrill me.

Weighing the disappointments I have been as a son, our conflicts over the years, the times (intentional and accidental) when I have hurt him or mom…and this is how he summed it up? Surely, he was disappointed that his big football-built player son never actually played football, the sport he worshiped. He coached football for many years. He played football for many years. He studied football every weekend. Surely he felt that disappointment?

But if he did, he never showed it. Never once said it to me.

I recall another final blessing, this one on a New Years’ Eve afternoon a year before I moved to Minnesota. I coerced him into helping me wallpaper a room. Since dad was skilled as a carpenter, painter, and all-around Mr. Fix It, I pleaded with him to teach me. Secretly, I had hoped the experience would go much like putting up storm windows when I was a kid, whereby I stood around with a screwdriver, sulking, and he did all the work.

Not so.

He expected me to measure, cut, hang, flatten, and essentially do everything. Despite this being completely unfair, nevertheless, I learned his tricks for lining up the pattern and how to seal the edges just so. I discovered a sincere pleasure in working side by side with this taciturn man until he announced he was leaving midway through the final wall, which included a tricky window.

“I should get home,” he said.

It was only 4:00 p.m.

I argued, “We’re almost done.”

But he was already scrubbing his hands in my bathroom sink, fixated on getting back to mom. After he left, I crumbled into a chair covered in canvas, literally watching glue dry. Inwardly, I cursed his laziness for quitting before he finished, holiday or no. All he and mom had planned was to watch Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year and watch the that damn ball drop in New York. Couldn’t he see how little there was left to do? Didn’t he realize I didn’t want to cut paper around that last window on my own?

Suddenly it was perfectly clear to me that he did know these things.

He wanted me to finish on my own.

I do believe pops attempted to teach his thick-headed son a lesson in self-reliance that day. I marveled at how sneakily he made his exit, how he explained nothing as we hugged goodbye.

With snarky defiance, I decided to prove how misguided his faith in me actually was. Yes, I would finish the job myself, but the disastrous fourth wall would so badly wreck that seamless harmony of the previous three walls that visitors to my home would gasp and attempt to mask their horror. I would show him what could happen by quitting early.

But somehow, I did it: I finished that fourth wall. Worked around the tricky window. Lined up every damn seam.

It looked great.

I felt great.

His final blessing that day was, ‘You can do this without me.’

Today is the last day of May, and truthfully, I feel panic that it ends in roughly 20 minutes. My dad died on May 1st, and in just a few minutes, it will no longer be ‘the month that he died.’ Too soon it will no longer be the season he died and then the year that he died.

I imagine a future in which someone will ask me, “When did your father pass away?”

My automatic response will be, “Gosh, was that nine years ago or eight?”

I hate it.

I’m not interested in mourning non-stop for the rest of my life, but I’m not quite ready to let him go. Once again, he ducked out before I was finished with him. And once again, on his way out the door, he gifted me an amazing blessing.

Well, I have a final blessing too, pops.

I can do this life without you. I don’t want to, but you prepared me well. Thanks to your excellent fathering and generosity of spirit, I can do this.

Dad, truly, it’s been a pleasure.

.

I know a quiet man who wonders where his passion is.

Did he lose it?

Did it somehow not ship with the original packaging?

He laughs like a ten-year-old and he listens like a man in his 80′s: head bent, silent, considering.

When he speaks he is often wise, not because he’s brilliant but because he speaks his whole truth.

(Though sometimes, he is brilliant.)

And unless it’s true for him, he remains silent. Watchful.

He often says things which must be spoken but no one else dares.

Where is my passion? he asked me last night.

He thinks,

when his passion comes,

it will shower down on him

like rain.

.