Grace And Albert

Despite Gap being 99.9% white when I was growing up, I don’t believe Gap set out to be White Town, USA.  I don’t think Gap was consciously or purposefully or actively set out to be segregated.  By the same token, comparing the 1950s and today is even more nonsensical than comparing apples and oranges.

          The black people of the day lived on Zion Hill, the rise between Christiana and Atglen.  It was settled, I remember being told, by people who came north by the underground railroad.  Not all that far from Zion Hill was the site of the Christiana riot.

“On September 11, 1851, Christiana was the site of the Battle of Christiana (also called the Christiana riot), in which the local residents defended with firearms a fugitive slave, killing the slave owner. Southerners demanded the hanging of those responsible, who were accused of treason and making war on the United States, but after the first defendant was acquitted, the government dropped the case.” (Wikipedia)

I understand that Zion Hill is the perfect argument for White Town and the Black Ghetto.  So how can I argue that it wasn’t segregation?  I think that historically people settled in homogenous communities.  In that respect, because there were white settlers, white communities started by default.  African Americans came here under different circumstances and settled in their own communities.

The first two African Americans I had any contact with were Grace and Albert Wilson, my grandparents Walker’s of “the help.”  They were around when I was very young, probably pre-school young.  Honey was a good cook, but a wife and mother in her position, Gap’s upper class, would not have been expected to cook a lot or clean the mansion.  She would also have been expected to dine with company and not interrupt conversation by going to and coming from the kitchen; she’d step on a buzzer the floor to summon the next course.  Enter Grace.

          Albert, whom I remember as being tall and old, had two jobs.  One was working at the mill.  The other, to which he was second to none, was as Five Corners’ groundskeeper.  He had three yards, a rock garden, an eternally long hedge, and an untold number of trees and bushes to tend to, and tend to them he did.  The yard under the trees proper shouldn’t have had grass, owing to the tree shadow.  It was elegant.  A yard surrounded the house.  The two were separated by a rock garden with ivy and flowers.  I remember being with Honey when she and Albert were planting flowers.  Honey would dig a hole, plant the plant, and pack it in, but under Albert’s watchful eye.  The other yard was west of the barn…I imagine an exercise area for the horses.  The hedge started at the steps of the main entrance, ran up the hill to the mill, then bordered the entire length of the property and fenced in the exercise area.  It was always trimmed, as was the grass, as was the rock garden, as were the many bushes around the property.  My arms and back ache thinking of how much work Albert did and how beautifully he did it.

          Keeping the house spotless was no picnic, either.  I didn’t know Grace as well as I now wish I had.  I remember her fondly, though.  A large woman of average height, she was always in a black dress and, I think, maybe frequently a white apron.  Maybe a hat, but I couldn’t swear to it.  My mother would tell me to stay out of Grace’s way when she was busy.  Sadly, “busy” was most of the time.  And when she sat at the kitchen table, she was taking her coffee break and resting and I shouldn’t bother her.  I remember sitting at the table – she had her coffee and she’d give me a Coke or ice tea.  I don’t know what we talked about, but sometimes the conversations or stories extended into cleaning time and she’d invite me to join her.  Honey, Grace, and I would also sit at the kitchen table for lunch.

          I’ve never had great endurance.  I suspect I was more hindrance than help when I was with Albert.  I remember him as a man with lots of talent and skill…and patience.  She baked good stuff and had a laugh that warmed my cockles.  I do remember asking her why the color of her skin and the color of mine were different.  She told me, “Because God wants it that way.”  It made sense to me then; it still makes sense to me some 60 years later.

          Speaking of God, the most wonderful culinary treats happened when Grace and Albert invited my family to their church suppers at Mt. Zion AME.  There was the slight feeling of being an outsider, but what did that matter when food was concerned?  Besides, I could see Grace in the kitchen and Albert being sociable.  I wouldn’t be surprised if I didn’t like the food the first time.  I mean, there was nothing even remotely Pennsylvania Dutch about it.  Then I figured that was the point, that it was extremely rare that I experienced such different and surprising tastes in my mouth.  I anticipated those dinners.

          I understood The Help right away.  Grace and Albert were the first adult non-relatives I felt close to.  Especially Grace.  Trying to keep up with Albert was hard.  It was easier to tag along after Grace.  It was entirely appropriate that she was the one who taught me we’re all pretty much the same.  And I’m so fortunate that she shared the music of her laughter.

I Wrote This?

From late 1996 to late 1997 I wrote two novels.  One was a fictional account of my experiences during my one summer of summer stock...doing Amish musicals.  The title of that became the title of this blog.  The other was a completely fictional novel, my fantasy on the deaths of two high school boys.  It came from the actual deaths of two best friend high school athletes who died in a one-car crash.  Matt and Seth was gay fiction.  The father of one of them was a fundamentalist preacher with ambitions to become one of the Big Boys of Televangelism.

I'd re-read The Oh, Pshaw! Follies a couple of times.  I like it, it works, it's long, it got lots of rejections.  And that's fine.  I think it would make a fun gay movie, but I doubt that'll happen.  I hadn't read Matt and Seth since I proofread the manuscript in 1997, 17 years ago.  I mentioned to my therapist that I recently re-read The Follies.  He suggested I find the other manuscript and read it.  After 17 years of hardly even thinking about it, I rummaged through my stacks and found it.  I started reading it and soon it was difficult to put down.  I was surprised.

Follies is mostly for fun.  M&S is drama.  I was surprised by how well I had drawn the characters, how much sense the plot made, but also how well I represented Matt's father, the Rev. Tony Reynolds.  I was 50 when I wrote it and casually knew two young men, and I drew the boys from them.  By that point, I had pretty much decided that hate-mongering, power-hungry fundamentalist preachers deserved no respect.  I'd been the recipient of "Christian love" and knew how they operated.  I had gone beyond having suspicions about them.  The Rev. Tony Reynolds was a conglomeration of every such preacher I knew of.

Follies was written straight through, beginning to end.  M&S was written the way movies are shot...this chapter and then a later chapter and then an earlier chapter and so on.  One of the things that surprised me when reading it 17 years later was how well it worked from a continuity standpoint.  I would not have guessed that it was not written top to bottom.  And aside from some quibbles about language, the one thing I think no one would believe now is that I waited until their senior year for them to have sex.  I mean, they met in 8th grade and became best friends in 9th and started questioning their feelings in 10th and 11th.  Then again, it wasn't written today, so in its own world, it worked.

In the 1980s, I was obsessed with piano rags.  I played them well and wrote a few.  I'm currently trying to put my arrangements and compositions into my PrintMusic computer program.  I wrote one called "'Rope' Rag," music for a production of the play, Rope.  When I played it back on the computer, I was stunned by how well written it was.  I put it in the computer shortly after I finished M&S.  And after listening to it, I couldn't help thinking, Who wrote this for you?

Obviously, my opinion of myself has not been all that great.  My partner is the writer in the relationship.  He liked rags but dismissed them, too.  Although I read a horror novel he wrote, he never read my novels.  I think he pigeonholed me as a copywriter and that was that.  I mean, can you really count copy writing as writing?  I frequently go to his readings.  He never listened to me when I was a radio guy and heard my TV announcing in passing while he waited for a show to start.  I never got an opinion from him on anything I wrote, music or prose.  That's a disappointment, of course, but that's the way it's worked out.

My writing abilities surprised me.  I was so convinced that I was just playing around with writing that, after reading the novels and listening to the rag, I wrote in my journal, "Who wrote this?  Who wrote this for you?"  Well, I did.  Maybe I was good for proofing and editing; maybe I was a creative person who could have done more.

Follies was rejected by agents both respectable and sleazy.  Matt and Seth never got beyond my partner's agent.  She felt it was too long for a young adult novel.  What I should do, she insisted, was to split the book into two novels...and the boys shouldn't die in the end.

At some point, I'd hope, we all get to realize that what we like to create is good.  It may or may not be salable, but maybe it shouldn't be created with that in mind.  I'd hope that all of us who like to create something enjoy the act of creation, discovery, the fact that we're happy with what we've done; it's as good as I can do, and that's pretty damned good.

In answer to my journal question, "I wrote this.  Get over it.  Better yet, enjoy it."

Gay Old Farts

Recently I attended my first meeting with other gay old farts at the region's LGBT Community Center and I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get there.  I knew some of the men and met other gay men my age.  The representative from the Community Center put in a plug for The History Project, recording older gay people talking about their lives.

I mentioned that from time to time critics bemoan that so many non-porn gay films deal with coming out.  Pity.  As each of us is a different human, as each of us lived in different parts of the world, our coming out stories are different and important and, as our lunch proved, sometimes still pretty emotional.  Admittedly, the current young generation is never particularly interested in their elders' stories, yet what we have to say could be pretty helpful.

The gathering was just fun, sitting at a table and everyone chiming in.  The connection among us was almost immediate.  Usually a wallflower, I was surprised and happy with how comfortable I felt and was pleased I could contribute.

The day's downer came when I talked to the Community Center's interns afterward and asked how they learned of, or if they'd ever been exposed to, gay history.  I knew the answer before I finished the question:  There is no organized way to hear gay history.  The young woman said she knew virtually nothing until she started her internship.  The young man said that what they know, what young gays know, they pick up along the way.  He said he felt fortunate because he has a gay uncle and they talk a lot.

I can understand not pursuing it on one's own.  I appreciate that.  When one is young, gay is friendship and sex.  How much history does one need to enjoy sex?  They have a lot they can take for granted, and that's a good thing.  But if you don't know where you came from, how can you appreciate what you have now?

What does it matter?.

It came to mind when I mentioned Armisted Maupin's The Days of Anna Madrigal and how well it rounded out the Tales of the City series.  The other old farts knew what I was talking about.  The Community Center's host said she remembered it as a TV series.  The interns looked blank.  And it just kind of hurt that they will probably never read any of the Tales and that so much of our literature vanishes.  The interns would never read anything on their own because they have so much they have to read for their courses.

What goes around comes around.  I didn't particularly like listening to my elders' stories, and god knows I didn't know any older gay people to hear their stories.  I remember reading a phrase in a newspaper column about "the great homosexual Thornton Wilder."  Somehow I heard about Charles Laughton and that Elsa Lanchester married him to protect him.  And then Barbara Gittings appeared on  The David Suskind Show and I was amazed to hear her stand up for herself and us.  Because I don't believe in coincidence, I think that important information I needed to know that I wasn't the only one was pointed out to me.

The current young have access to information unimaginable in my youth.  There are histories for them to read if they want to.  It is my fervent wish that they would read Tales of the City and other books about us or with us in them.  I wish that GSAs could serve as the occasional history class.  As important as peer gatherings are simply to get to know other young gay people, I wish the odd bit of history, of what went before, could be part of it.  Or watch non-porn gay/lesbian movies.

All of us gay old farts have stories to share.  I wish we could do that.

Garbage In/Garbage Out

His name may have been Bill or William or maybe neither, but he was Mr. Shirk and at least once a week he’d park his red Ford panel truck in front of the house, hit a bell with a metal object, get out of the truck, open the rear doors, and set up shop…a traveling butcher shop.  The dogs recognized the truck and were impossible to contain once they saw it.  Usually his first order of business was to hack off some bones, which cleverly got rid of the dogs, so they wouldn’t sniff around during his visit.

This is barely the era of air conditioning.  It would be a few years before air conditioning appeared in cars.  Refrigerated trucks?  Unheard of.  And more to the point, why?  Winter wasn’t a problem.  And somehow we didn’t catch horrible sicknesses from the mobile butcher shop’s meat in the summer.  He was our source for fresh ham, chicken, beef, Lebanon bologna, and other meaty delights.  He’d whip out a white cloth and swat the butcher’s block with it, pulled out the meat and the appropriate cutting device, and hack off however much carcass you wanted.  I loved it when Mother ordered hamburger.  Yes, I loved hamburgers, but I also loved to watch Mr. Shirk dive his (bare) hand into the hamburger container, squeeze his hand around some meat, and plop it on the hanging scale.  It looked so wonderfully squishy.

So, yes.  Mr. Shirk would drive to the house, hit the bell, get out, open the door, whack off some bone, wipe his hands on the white cloth that he used to clear crumbs off the block, touch and squeeze and cut the meat, plop it on the scales (which he also cleaned with the white towel), and wrap the meat in butcher paper, all with his bare hands, cleaned by his all-purpose towel.  He stopped at the house toward noon, so the temperature would be in the 70s in the summer.  However warm it was, the smell when he opened those doors is a fragrance I think of fondly and probably won’t ever inhale again.

If Mr. Shirk’s traveling butcher shop’s cleanliness might be considered iffy by today’s standards, Gap’s garbage collection would leave everyone aghast.  This pre-dates plastic trash bags and closed-in refuse trucks by a few decades.  The trash went from the garbage can to the dump (landfill? you jest, right?) via a truck with an open, hydraulic bed, what we commonly called “a dump truck.”  That is to say, open.  Utterly open.  Not even a tarp.  That was so the guy could toss the contents of the garbage cans over the side and into the rest of the haul.

Unlike Mr. Shirk, who would announce his arrival with a couple of clangs, the trash guys said goodbye by leaving the most ungodly smell.  Especially if some garbage juice spilled out of the back when the truck took off.  Especially in the summer.  Odiferous could well be the name of the Greek god of garbage.  His white robe would be spattered with indescribable stains and his body odor would be ferocious.  On the other hand, he’d be kind of swarthy with a farmer’s build and a stubble beard.  One should not use the term “Greek god” lightly.

Driving behind the garbage truck had its protocol…even say, perils.  Except for the very coldest days, it was not unlikely that garbage juice would leak from under the tailgate.  You learned very early on to keep your distance and get around the truck as soon as possible.  Being splashed by the toxic brew was a given if the truck started in an uphill position or pulled out from a stop sign.  The combination of pulling out from a stop sign that was on a grade made men dizzy, women weep inconsolably, and children of all ages barf their brains out. 

Naturally, driving behind the track was a zillion times worse in the summer.  Since this was pre-air conditioning, one drove around with windows down.  Rolling up the windows when the garbage truck came into view was futile.  The stench came in through the air vents, so the windows might as well stay down.  And Odiferous forbid garbage juice spilled onto the car.  The odor wafted in and out of the car until Thanksgiving.

The big clue the garbage truck was around, pre-scent, was a fairly pronounced trickle of dark gunk on the right side of the right lane.  Horse pee was down the center of the right lane.  Right side, garbage.  Forewarned is time to grab a clothespin. 

Dream Center 2.25.14

The theater is in a little town in the mountains, on a hill beside a railroad…one set of tracks.  Maybe it’s a siding through the week, but on weekends it’s one way we put butts into the theater’s seats – playgoers can ride the scenic trip through a spectacular gorge and be delivered right to the foot of the short rise to the theater.  I work at the theater, but not on any of the productions.  Presently, there are two productions:  One is a professional touring company presenting a comedy; the other is a local amateur theatrical troupe.  The comedy played last night and will be today’s matinee.  The amateur production will take place in the early evening.

It’s well before call.  I like this time in the theater (and, in reality, I do).  All the elements are there, waiting for actors, crew and the audience to create that special magic.  Just now, it’s the potential and me.  I feel engulfed by something quietly mystical.  I could surrender myself to this temple.

In the last scene of the comedy, a man is in bed reading aloud from a book whose cover is flown in on a canvas drop.  During the scene, the drop unravels onto the man.  I think it’s odd that the canvas is still on the bed.  Even if they’re doing the same show again, it’s the usual practice to clean up after the performance.  Besides, if the canvas is still on the bed, might it not get wrinkled?

I hear a noise.  It’s a young woman from the amateur troupe working on costumes.  She’s obviously having a theater fantasy which I don’t want to interrupt, but wind up doing.  She’s embarrassed and I try to apologize by telling her I do the same thing.  That’s what the place is for, right?  Fantasies and make believe.  She gets it and she says we’ll probably bump into each other through the day.  She gathers some costumes, turns, and exits.

I’m back on the stage.  I look around and again wonder why the stage wasn't cleared last night.  I pull up a corner of the canvas.  The actor is still in bed.  I put the canvas carefully back in place, hoping he’s merely passed out.

People are encouraged to bring a picnic basket and some wine with them to enjoy at a little park not far from the theater and almost hiding in the foot of the mountain.  The train remains parked in front of the theater because there’s no train traffic on weekends.

Things are not going well at the theater.  It’s after call and not all the cast or crew have shown up.  I ask one of the crew about readying the stage.  He says no one’s said anything about it and no one knows what to do.  The audience train should be here by now.  Instead, I see a parade of trains whizzing by…an engine and a couple of freight cars, like locals, only locals don’t operate on weekends.  And why so many? 

I’m stopped on the inside stairs by the young woman from earlier.  She is panicked because she’s going to need help and no one’s there.  She gives me a number to call.  It’s not my problem, but I tell her I’ll try.  I’m stopped on the porch for my opinion on a debate over whether small theaters should pay royalties for already published plays or commission originals.  I tell them to consider their budget, the possibility of landing grants, or maybe going halvsies with a similar theater in another city.  I excuse myself.  I walk by a table with an AM radio blaring and mobile phone.  No one is there, so I take the phone and punch in the numbers the young woman gave me.  No answer, so I leave a message.  I head for the park.  I’m in need of a breather.

I return from it and see an engine stopped on the tracks in front of the theater.  I’m very happy to see that, and then take a few steps and see there are no passenger cars, just a couple of box cars.  I walk on and note three automobiles have crashed into the last box car.  One is near the top of the box car, one is smashed into the bottom right of the car, and another is smashed into the rear of that car.  I look down to the street and see lots of police cars, lights flashing dazzlingly, but no cops anywhere.  The young woman stands on the porch, taking it all in.  I give her a “what the fuck?” look, which she answers with an “I haven’t a clue” eye roll.  I want to ask the engineer or the cops when this train can move to make space for our train, but no one’s around.  The flashing lights, however, are impressive.

I go into the lobby and into a small storage room.  There’s a table in the center and I crawl up on it.  I get kind of fetal and then stretch my legs expecting to hit the wall.  I don’t know what my feet touch, but I know it isn't the wall.  I look.  I have pissed off a snake and it’s looking for a place to sink its fangs.  I yell.  I kick at it.  I wake up.  I look to see if I kicked the cat and she gives me her “Hey!  Sleeping here!” expression.

The Cricket Chirped And There He Was

I've been trying to write an essay on the four straight guys I had madly fallen in love with.  Well, not with, I guess, since they were straight and, for the most part, oddly indifferent.

It was easy writing about the boys in high school...one of them the tall, farmer's build handsome guy with a smile that could thaw Antarctica.  The other was a young guy who was about as lost as I was and was sympathetic up to a point.

The third I met during my college sophomore-junior summer.  We were counselors and he was the most fascinating man I'd ever met.  Smart, cute in an aw-shucks way, and as interested in what I thought about things as I was with him.  We wound up roommates in my senior year, but it was always on the understanding that he wasn't interested in gay sex.  He eventually married and moved to England and that was that.

Guy #4 was the most intense relationship I'd ever had.  I was ass-over-teacups in love with him and he was as interested in me, except for...  This was in the '70s.  Many of us were coming out and not about to go back where The Truly Religious wanted us to be.  He was younger than I and had red hair that fell just about to his ass.  He was expelled from school because he refused to cut his hair (his mother backed him up on that) and got his GED before his class graduated.  I had never met anyone so fascinating, so funny, so into me.  Except for when he wanted to date a girl, we were inseparable.  And he never seemed to be embarrassed or apologetic for being with me.  Then I met Jack, he met the woman who knocked him ass over teacups, and we fell out of touch for 30 years.

One of the things my therapist wants is for me to be more assertive, to take action.  I've wanted to get in touch with Guy #4 for a long time, just curious about how he is, what the decades have been like.  I found his phone number, punched in the digits, the cricket chirped and there he was.  He sounded the same.  I could picture him.  The phone in my hand was shaking.  We've agreed to get together sometime.

"Sometime" feels too specific.  I'm really scared about this.  What will I say?  How do you avoid what is and still be truthful?  Suicide and depression and stays at mental institutions aren't something I feel is "so what's been happening?" material.  I've had a good life...sometimes even amazing...yet I can't get over feeling that I've done the wrong thing, that maybe leaving such an ideal relationship dead may be the better course of action.

I see my shrink tomorrow and have no idea where that 50 minutes will turn out.  He'll be all happy that I did something I didn't think I could do.  My bus ride back home may not be as joyful.

Tomorrow is canceled

Tonight's snow storm reminds of my days in radio.  When I first started working at a radio station, I was assigned to the 6pm to 2am shift on Saturdays and Sundays.  One Saturday I came to work in a snow storm.  Back then, snow accumulation was pretty much predicted after the storm ended.  It snowed all during my shift and I started getting calls about canceled church services the next day.  It got to be pretty busy, taking messages and then setting aside time to read them.  I felt I was doing a good thing, even if I didn't really know what I was doing.

2 o'clock came and, try as I might, I couldn't get out of the building.  All doors opened out and so much snow had fallen that all the doors were blocked.  I didn't know what else to do, so I slept on the couch for a couple of hours until the phone started ringing and ringing and ringing.  I was not allowed to turn on the transmitter, but the Sunday morning guy couldn't get out of his driveway and the chief engineer was also stranded.  The chief talked me through turning on the transmitter.  And then the reading began.  I think I read the name of every church in eastern Lancaster County.

Sundays were sold to churches.  They paid for 15, 30, or 60 minutes and the time was theirs.  They did their own recordings and the quality of the recordings was amazingly awful.  Schools started calling with cancellations for Monday.  Fortunately, there were no commercials on Sundays.  To the church-going public, it seemed like a very altruistic thing to do.  From management's perspective, they were already raking in the dough from the church tapes.  I read as many cancellations as I could between sermons.

By noon, I was pretty much exhausted, starving, and hoarse.  Several of my co-workers called in to give me encouragement and good reviews.  I'd never had to do Sunday mornings before.  At noon was a scheduled newscast, so I spent part of the morning trying to put that together.  Naturally, most of the news was about the blizzard.  I did not fall asleep on the air, despite the sermons, and I felt like a one-person staff keeping the community up-to-date.  At some point, the police and highways folks called reports on roads that were open but with the request to please stay home unless travel was absolutely necessary.

Late in the afternoon I'd resigned myself to going until 2 Monday morning, because it seemed as if the world had stopped and no one was going anywhere.  The church tapes ended at 3, so I had to find "Sunday suitable" music to play to the AM station's sign-off.  I just finished an into to a song when the studio door burst open.  A snow-covered chief engineer stood in the doorway and told me to go home.  The program director was right behind him and he told me to go home, too.  And they thanked me for everything I did.  I reminded them that I was supposed to be on from 6 until 2.  The program director said that's why he was there.  The chief engineer cleaned out the parking lot and even cleaned off my car.  I felt very good about what I'd done...I felt that was what radio was all about, that I got thrown into it, and that I did it right.

So ever after for the next nearly 40 years when the forecast was for snow, I packed up a change of clothes, made sure I had food or money for vending machines, a blanket and I was set for doing public service.  At times it was just me, but after 1995, a newsman also came in, making things infinitely easier.  I would try to get some sleep until the regular evening announcer's shift ended and then took over, giving occasional cancellations each hour.  It became a given...my husband didn't particularly like it, but he understood why I felt I had to be there.

The last time I did it was in a blizzard of Weather Channel proportions.  By then, we were 24 hours and the overnight programming was on satellite and computer.  The huge satellite dishes were at the bottom of a steep hill, steep enough to make you tired on a nice day.  The de-icing mechanism on the dishes couldn't keep up with the snow, so I had to go down the hill, get the broom with the incredible long handle, scrape off the snow so we could receive the feed, and then I'd trek up the hill.  I did it because the news guy took the phone calls.  The first time I did it, I was breathing very heavily by the time I got to the top of the hill.  It was a powdery show, so you didn't walk on it so much as through it, and pushing all that snow uphill was a trial.

The signal disappeared a second time and I went down to do the honors.  As I reached the top of the hill, the snowplow finished clearing the parking lot.  I could not get over the piles of snow.  In fact, I collapsed and I don't know how long it took me to get back up on my feet and negotiate my way back onto the parking lot and back into the building.

I thought maybe when I left radio I'd get a twinge when it started snowing, a nagging feeling that I should go into the station and help out with the snow emergency.  It's never happened.  As much as I felt I was providing a service to the community during a snow emergency, I don't miss it.  Best wishes to all those who have to work tonight, who may get snowed in and have to work a couple of shifts, I'm on your side, but I'm also at home.