Ford Street

Wherefore Walla Wallas?

My friend Dan wants to go and live with the Walla Walla tribe.

I should point out that this is a fictitious tribe, contrived out of thin air on Montague Street Saturday night. The Walla Wallas were used as an example of another way of life. They spend considerably less time working and considerably more time with their friends and their families. Of course, there are other trade-offs. The Walla Wallas don't have televisions, or Tivos, or computers or, you know, Mallomars. But they are a content people, because they get to spend more time with people they love. Whereas, the group on Montague Street on Saturday night doesn't spend nearly enough time together.

Life goes along, as it does, and we all do the best we can to meet the demands of work, and relationships, and laundry, and friends. Sometimes friends get shoved aside, only because work is work, right, and relationships are relationships, right, and you gotta do the laundry. So you see your friends when you can, and it's never as much as you want. And then there's the problem of friends that live far away. If you can't see someone who lives nearby as often as you'd like, how do you make sure that you keep up with people who live 3,000 miles away?

I have often spoken of "the commune" to my friends – it's a joke now, after all these years. My commune, if you will, is simply a neighborhood where all of the people near to my heart live. Somehow there is this plot of land, and we all build our homes on it, and live together and take care of each other and work for each other, as well as the common good. (I guess my commune involves somehow winning the lottery.) As I get older, the idea of the commune becomes more cherished to me, because my friends become more cherished. I originally conceived of the commune as a place for me, and all of my single friends, to live when we got older. Proximity would enable us to take care of each other. Now I have Rebecca, of course, so now the commune is not just for singles any more. I want all of my good friends there, and I want my family there too. What a gift, to be able to be surrounded by the people you love all of the time.

Which brings me back to the Walla Wallas. The group on Montague Street kind of goofed on Dan a good bit when he waxed philosophically about the Walla Wallas, mostly because we think that Dan's head would explode without his computer. The truth is, though, it wouldn't happen. Dan is a softie at heart and wants to see his wife, and soon, his baby, more often than he does. He wants to see his friends more often. We all do. Maybe it's an offshoot of living in such a hectic city. It's a blessing to live/work in New York but it's also a curse. It makes me sad to look out of my apartment window at all of the other apartment windows, and the people inside of them. Are they looking out, toward me, dreaming of keeping friends and loved ones safe and nearby?

Are we all dreaming of the Walla Wallas?

How Quickly a Day Can go to Hell...

I know just how this kid feels. 

(Thanks to Marla and Scott for the pictures of cute baby Harry!)

The Lusty Month of May

No, it's not what you think.  It's from a movie, silly. 

Every year, on 30 April or 1 May, I send my good friend Kate an email with the lyrics to "The Lusty Month of May" from the movie "Camelot" -- her grandfather, Joshua Logan, directed the movie, you see, and she has a bit part in it, smooching a boy on a hillside.  She was in high school and it was a fun way for a teenager to spend her summer.  So, this year, on a whim, I thought I'd check and see if there was a way that I could liven up the annual email, and lo! not to mention behold, here it is:  (Kate is at :54)

Kate, forever mortified, on YouTube.  God, I love the internets. 

I'm dogless now

 

My dear little Clancy has gone to wherever doggies go.  I fed him a royal breakfast of chicken cutlet, chocolate milk and Raisinets.  He had no idea why I was being so kind to him, but he was no fool, he asked no questions and enjoyed his last meal immensely.  Then I took him to the vet’s and Rebecca and I stood, weepy, while he went to sleep.  Very, very quickly. 

I love the idea of your dog(s) – pets, I should say – waiting for you when you get to Heaven, if Heaven is what you believe in.  But would Clancy’s idea of Heaven really jive with mine?  I think I’d like him to be in his own Heaven…let’s see…

Everything smells slightly rotten

There are many squirrels and they run slightly slower in Heaven than they did on earth

There is no dry dog food

The garbage cans have no lids

Bacon grows like grass

All car windows are rolled down, the better to stick out one’s head and surf

There are many trees, all of which require being peed on several times a day

None of the furniture is off limits, especially the beds

There is a never-ending supply of sweat socks that need laundering

Clancy was a very good dog.  He was not a pushover – he was not one of those fellows that enjoyed obeying, for example.  He’d do what you asked him to do, promptly, and then bare his teeth at you.  This caused no end of mirth in doggie training school, when the teacher would use him as an example whenever she taught a new trick.  He’d do it immediately, and she would offer young Clancy as proof that her teaching skills were superior.  All of the attendees would giggle and she never knew why.  She couldn’t see Clancy, at her side, softly snapping at her…he was no fan of behaving.  I think he resented the fact that he was not a person, sometimes.  Not always – he had a pretty good self-image.  But he wanted to drive the car, not sit in the back seat like a sissy.  He wanted thumbs, so he could sneak into the kitchen and open little cans of cat food and eat them, one by one, while staring at the helpless thumbless cat. 

He wanted money to buy steaks. 

I’m going to add that to the list above.  Money to buy steaks.  That’s Clancy’s Heaven, and I like to think that I’d be part of it, too. 

Garryowen and Glory

This is a pretty tame St. Patrick’s Day for me.  I’m a little wistful for a Paddy’s Day from the past; a day spent alternating between the parade on 5^th and the bars on 1^st.  I will certainly go and see a bit of the parade today, and I’ll certainly stop in somewhere and hear a bit of music, just to stir the Irish in me and keep it warm. 

I am reminded of many, many things today.  But for some reason one fellow in particular stands out; his name was Vic Olney.  Today is the first Paddy’s Day without him over at the National Guard armory on 26^th Street – the home of the Fighting 69^th.  The 69^th will lead off the parade today, as they do, even though many of their unit are deployed right now. 

Vic was the keeper of the 69^th.  He was their spirit, their soul, their smile and their song.  He tended the bar and he tended to the history of the unit.  He had a million stories about old New York, but the story he was asked most to tell was the story of what happened after September 11, 2001.  The armory became the place where people went to list the missing, you see, so the building and the steps in front and the streets around it became a vortex of misery, even as the city itself became a vortex of misery.  Ground Zero was the epicenter that the world came to know.  The armory was the epicenter that the Families came to know.  Hour after hour they came, to put up photographs on the outside of the building, to stand there and question passersby – “have you seen this person?”  The pictures stayed up for weeks, until the weather and the days took their toll on them.  Many of them were brought inside of the armory, and those stayed there for months.  No one wanted to take them down.  The home of the 69^th became the home of the Families.  So Vic told his stories, from behind the bar in the Officer’s Club, over and over.  He told them for people that had heard them a million times, and wanted to hear them again.  He honored the traditions of the 69^th and told their warrior’s tales. 

He kept up military traditions that made us laugh, as well.  He waited patiently for an officer to carelessly put a uniform hat on in the bar – he’d dive for the bell over the bar and the embarrassed offender would owe the house a round.  (One doesn’t wear a cover indoors.)  Vic caught me, if I recall, twice over a 14-year period. I can’t believe I let him catch me twice, after the mortification I suffered the first time.  He sold challenge coins for $5, to benefit the unit, and God help you (cause Vic wouldn’t) if you were caught without one when a Challenge was presented to those assembled.  Again, you’d owe the house a round.  Vic made me feel like the O Club was home, even though I wasn’t a member of the 69^th – we of the Air Force Auxiliary were just as welcome in his bar as his own comrades. 

Here is a review of the movie “Gangs of New York” that Vic wrote for a Web site.  I remember him ranting about that movie, and how inaccurate it was, and I remember wishing that I’d written down some of the things he said about it at the time.  That’s a picture of him up there, though it’s not a very good one. 

I enjoy being Irish.  I love the music, I love the sense of humor, I love the innate survivor’s nature of every Irishman (and woman) that I meet.  I love that I can call my aunt today and holler “TO HELL WITH YOUR ENGLISH PERMIT” and she’ll holler right back “WE WANT YOUR MOTORCAR.”  The Irish are a world unto themselves.  Vic was an Irishman, through and through.  He gave me a cup, many years ago, that sits on my desk at work.  It has the symbol of the 69^th on it, and it says “Garryowen and Glory” and I think of Vic, and that O Club, and the good times I’ve had there, whenever I drink out of it.  I am drinking out of it today, toasting an old friend that I’m sure I’ll meet again. 

To fallen comrades – Garryowen and Glory. 

Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig oraibh!

St. Patrick’s Day blessings on you all…

 

 

Bagger Vance

There’s a movie called “The Legend of Bagger Vance.”  It hasn’t won a ton of awards and probably doesn’t represent the best work of any of the actors.  It went by, largely forgotten. 

I loved it though. 

It’s about golf.  I don’t know anything about golf. 

It’s also about reaching inside and finding yourself when you’re certain that your self is gone. 

Bagger Vance (Will Smith) is a caddy.  A whisper that blows through the life of a troubled son of the south named Rannulph Junuh who is invited to play in a tournament with two of the greatest golfers of his day, Bobby Jones and Walter Hagen.  (These are two real golfing legends.)  Bagger guides Junuh through the course, and through, shall we say, an emotional sand trap.  (OK, I know a little tiny bit about golf.) 

Bagger’s message is: you can win – you can do anything – if you find your authentic swing.  Your authentic self, as it were.  The way you find it is to get out of its way and let it choose you.  Because golf is a game that can’t be won, only played.  It’s about learning how to put down burdens and see the field.  How to get to the spot where everything that is becomes one.  He’s not really talking about golf, of course, but the game provides some wonderful metaphors.  Maybe it’s trite.  I don’t care.  I saw the movie again recently and it hit home, because the whisper in my life – my Bagger Vance – showed up and showed me my authentic self.  Now, I’m not implying that I ever really lost my way.  I guess I just never found it, and had begun to believe that I’d never find it.  Until I found my authentic swing, I couldn’t settle in.  I couldn’t see the field.   

I grew up an Irish Catholic girl in Brooklyn, New York.  As a rule, we are taught to obey God, obey our parents, eat our vegetables, mind our manners, marry a good man and have children. 

Well. 

Price Charming turned out to be a cute brunette wearing sensible shoes.  Her name is Rebecca. 

It took me a while to settle in with this.  It hasn’t been easy, but it certainly hasn’t been hard, compared to, I would guess, the same situation 50 or even 20 years ago.  People have been very accepting, perhaps because of my age (I am not a young woman) or perhaps because it’s 2008.  Either way, I’m grateful for not having to suffer prejudice or defend my choice.  I am blessed with

wonderful people in my life. 

Life feels different now, and not because I’m gay.  I’m still the same person.  I certainly have a new appreciation for minorities because now I am one.  But that’s not why life feels different. 

A moment ago I was taking care of my mother and trying to ease her final journey.  A moment from now, I don’t know where I’ll be or what I’ll be doing, but I know who I’ll be with.  Because in this moment, and from this moment on, I’m one of two.  Or maybe half of one. 

Close your eyes and hit the ball.  You might be surprised at what happens.  But whatever happens, let it happen. 

Me, I hit a hole in one. 

Happy New Year, indeed. 

Don't try this at home

There’s nothing like a little color to add some perspective. 

The day I came back from Chile in February, the ceiling in my guest room partially collapsed, leaving me with a broken pipe, a screwed-up ceiling and a huge mess.  The thing about that room was, it was supposed to be my mother’s bedroom; that was my original intent when I moved into the house.  When she passed away shortly thereafter, I never really did anything with the room except use it for storage for a lot of her things.  I didn’t think much about it, and my friends tactfully ignored the fact that the room was a wreck. 

Then a friend stayed over recently (who hasn’t known me for very long and certainly didn’t know that the room was supposed to be my mother’s bedroom) and she not-so-tactfully suggested that the room looked “a 22-year-old’s room.” 

Woof.

That sort of knocked me between the eyes, and I thought, OK, maybe it’s time to reclaim this sucker.  Then the ceiling fell in.  Really. 

So, over a period of a couple of weeks, the pipe was fixed and the ceiling repaired.  But water damage spread down to two walls, too, so the whole room had to be repainted.  This weekend, it was.  Two walls are a sort of dark colonial blue, and two walls are a light beige.  I’m into painting boxes on walls, as such: (this is my living room/dining room)

So I plan to put a set of large boxes on one beige wall, and a set of smaller boxes on one blue wall.  I do love the boxes. 

Anyway, a guy painted the room for me, and he did a fine job, except for the ceiling, which I thought sucked.  Since it’s been recently rebuilt, I didn’t complain too much, but thought it could look better. But I kept that in the back of my head yesterday.  He is a kind fellow, and is very fond of my various pets, especially young Finn.  Finn likes to watch him, and seemed reasonably able to behave, so I kept Finn out yesterday so that he could watch the painter (named Socrates) along with Clancy and Maggie.  Very cute, the little pet brigade watching Socrates work. 

Finn behaved very well all day and then, when Socrates had cleaned up and left, he decided to investigate the trash. 

Dark colonial blue paw prints all over the kitchen floor. 

That took a while to clean up. 

Then today, I bought more ceiling paint and decided to have a go at re-doing the job.  That wasn’t the cleverest idea in the world.  It is done, sort of, and I must admit that it looks a damn sight better than it did, but it looks generally awful.  Funny, really.  Plus, I forgot to keep Finn in his crate while I worked. 

White paw prints all over the upstairs hallway. 

That took a while to clean up. 

I am exhausted.  But the room looks smashing, and when the boxes are done, it will look even more smashing.  Out with the bed, in with a futon and some high-end audio equipment kindly being donated by a friend, and it’s a whole new world. 

At least it won’t look like a 22-year-old’s room any more. 

It was a very good year

Above is a morning-after picture of my favorite bar, which just happens to be located in my cousin Tria’s house in Eatontown, NJ.  It’s where I spent most of New Year’s Eve, with friends, family, and some people I’d never met before.  It was a great evening.  This morning wasn’t so pretty, but that’s more information than anyone needs. 

“Another year over, and a new one just begun.”  (John Lennon) 

2006 was a pretty good year for me, for many personal reasons.  Let’s just say that I hit some fairly important milestones, for me.  I started graduate school, for one.  I kind of bit off more than I could chew toward the end of the year and certainly won’t be a straight-A student, but that’s OK (and being able to write that down, and accept it, is a milestone as well). 

I lost a very good friend last year, someone I love dearly, to pride.  Both of us are at fault, but I suppose that what it boils down to is, both of us are strong-willed people and won’t compromise our beliefs.  I hope that he and I figure out a way to get past this in 2007.  I miss my friend. 

I also gained a very good friend last year.  A complete gift from the universe; one of those people you meet and instantly click with, one of those people who stay in your soul for as long as you’re on the planet.  The last time this happened to me was about 13 years ago, near as I can figure, and these two people are very dear to me.  They are requirements for my well-being, and I’m mindful of their presence in my life on a daily basis. 

I lost my Uncle Dave, but, in one of those almost-cruel twists of fate, gained a friendship with his wife, Virginia, and her family.  I can’t figure that out. 

2006 was the year I figured out that I still have a lot to figure out, and more importantly, I also figured out that I have the wherewithal to figure it out.  I hope that 2007 is the year I figure some things out.  That’s what I’m shooting for. 

There are some other things I hope happen this year as well.  I hope that the Bush administration figures out a way to extract the United States from Iraq without killing too many more people.  I have a lot of political hopes; I would be satisfied with one or two of them happening.  I can’t call them resolutions because I have no control over them. 

Resolutions, then: 

I resolve to spend more time outdoors in 2007. 

I resolve to go flying more.

I resolve to start taking pictures again. 

I resolve to spend more time with my family and my friends. 

I resolve to start reading for fun again, instead of just for school.

I resolve to post to this blog on a regular basis again. 

Happy New Year, to any and everyone that reads these words.  John Lennon again; “Let’s hope it’s a good one, without any fear.” 

 

You can't always get what you want....

Wearing summer clothes today, and tornado warnings in effect for NYC.  High of 47 tomorrow.  I’m sorry, we’re just killing the environment, I don’t care what anybody says. 

Work has just been one of those black holes of late…I have no idea where the week went, or how to arrange things so that next week is any different.  I hate it when that happens.  I just feel like work is some crazy amusement park ride, and once I get on of a Monday morning, I can’t get off until Friday night.  Sometimes (like this coming weekend) the roller coaster ride extends into the weekend, and I find myself trudging into the office on a Saturday or a Sunday, and that’s just so depressing. 

I guess I just haven’t figured out how to not let it turn into a black hole. 

I’ve been sort of feeling a little sorry for myself, with the black-hole stuff at work this week (and, I’m sure, till the end of the year – the perils of working in PR for a consumer electronics company) until I thought about the plight of a friend, whose Dad is not doing very well at all.  She’s handling this with her usual great sense of humor and intelligence, but I know all too well where her head is at.  So I feel bad that I’ve been lost in my own garbage all week, when it’s just work, and I’ll surely find time to clean the house, do homework and run errands this weekend.  Martha is trying to find time (and energy) to deal with the fact that her father is likely dying.  It’s funny, when I look back at that stage (stages) of my own life, I can’t remember a lot.  I don’t remember how I got through the day-to-day stuff at all.  But I did.  And so what if I have to work this weekend? 

My thoughts are with Martha, and her family, near and far.

A little slice of Heaven

I spent today in Hudson, NY, with some friends.  Had a lovely day, in a lovely town.  One of those towns that’s so cute you could spit.  You don’t want to spit, though, ‘cause it’s so cute you don’t want to actually hit anything.

There were some amazing houses, as pictured.  Cute little shops and galleries and bookstores. 

I was talking with my friends about what kind of town it was, and they commented that it was fairly open-minded, with no overt hostilities toward, for example, minority groups, and no apparent Christian zealot element. 

About four seconds after this comment, we were stopped by four boys who said they were doing a project for school, and could they ask us a question.  I tend to be about 400 times more naïve than most of the population in these cases, so I stopped walking.  My friends stopped too, though they likely knew better and perhaps wanted to club me with a blunt object but felt they didn’t know me well enough.  (Note to friends: next time, just hit me.)  So the question was, do I believe in Heaven.  Being an analytical son of a bitch, I asked them to define Heaven for me, so I could answer the question.  They really couldn’t, so I offered one traditional view of Heaven, which was rejected by the lads.  I was in the middle of offering another when they cut to the chase and informed me that Heaven was where you go if you accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior. 

All disappointed now, because I was looking forward to a little bit of theological discussion right there on Warren Street in Hudson, NY, I allowed that, in that case, I guess I didn’t believe in Heaven.  The oldest of the lads then asked me where I was going to go when I die.  (Beats me!)  I suggested, to the movies? 

This didn’t sit well with the lads.  We kept walking, and they moved on to find other gullible tourist types. 

I don’t know what I think Heaven is.  I do have a fairly good feeling that Hell is reserved for those who judge, and try to foist their beliefs onto other people on a lovely Saturday afternoon.  (OK and maybe Republicans, but I’m in a good mood so they get off easy today.)