............

We drove down to Yellow Springs to go camping.  I’d never camped there, at John Bryan State
Park, and I’d never camped with her. 
We’d been friends for quite some time now, and I’d wanted her the entire
time.   Her beauty was stunning to me,
dark curly hair, piercing blue eyes and skin that turned the most delicious
bronze as we worked long hours together loading, hauling and laying stone.

.. ......

The sky began to darken as we neared our destination.  By the time we’d checked in at the park
office, the clouds were dark and ominous. 
Setting up the tent, we raced against the boiling thunderheads rolling
across the sky.  Hurry, hurry, get those
poles up, the nylon stretched across them before the storm breaks.

.. ......

Fat drops splatter our faces as we rush to get inside.  No campfire tonight, we’ll have to make do
with whatever food we’ve tossed into the tent in our haste to make
shelter.  Thunder claps, sheets of rain
slam against the thin walls of the tent. 
It’s dark, we’re damp, and our only option is to be in the
tent—together. 

.. ......

What now?  I don’t
dare speak; my heart is about to burst from my chest.  She looks at me, and grants my silent wish.  Our first kiss, in the tiny tent as the sky
opens around us.  Somehow, our clothes
are off, we’re tangled together on the hastily unfurled sleeping bags.

.. ......

Lightening strikes just outside the tent as the perfect
orgasmic moment, the crack so loud and the flash blazing so brightly that I’m
not sure I’ve survived—and in that same moment, I don’t really care.

............

 ......

I call them Mormonisms—the ridiculously polite expressions
of surprise, frustration, and if we’re really being bold here—anger.  “Fetch!” “Flip!” “Oh my heck!” –As if the
use of these words instead of their vulgar cousins somehow proves the speaker’s
moral purity.  What a crock of—you know.

.. ......

I curse.  Hell, I
love cursing.  As far as I’m concerned,
these words add power to whatever sentiment I’m trying to express.  Let’s face it—the words themselves aren’t
the offensive part, it’s the intent behind them that can do damage.  I mean, if I wanted to hurt your feelings, I
could call you “sofa” and you’d feel offended. 
As long as I’m not directing a curse word at a target, it’s just
added color.  I can say, “aw, fuck!”,
and no one gets hurt.  I’m just using an
abbreviated method to express frustration, disbelief, or resignation, and my
meaning is clear.

.. ......

So, I’m all for the use of colorful language as a means of
personal expression.  When people
apologize for swearing in front of my son, I’m quick to assure them that Jack
knows all the good cusses.  He’s even
got a few special ones of his own.  I’ve
actually considered programming them into his communication device so he can
access them, as long as he doesn’t use them to try to hurt someone’s feelings.  Curse away, son, but not at anyone else’s
expense.

.. ......

See, I’d much rather he, and everyone else for that matter,
be direct about their feelings.  Let me
know that you’re human, that you’re feeling strongly about something, that
you’re passionate and raw.  I can handle
that.

.. ......

In fact, I prefer strong language to polite, pious
substitutes intended to impress us with their moral superiority.  We all know what you’re not saying,
so why don’t you just fuckin’ say it? 
How about being authentic, not worrying so much about appearing good or
wholesome?  How about having the guts to
show your true colors, the ones that will stab me in the back at the first
opportunity, just to prove you’re better than me?

.. ......

See, I’ve learned that those who try to cover up their shit with
pretty words are a lot more dangerous than those who let their truth fly from
their mouths without trying to cover it with insincere glitter and roses. 

............

I remember when my grandparents got the couch
reupholstered.  I loved the new fabric,
a striped cream and celery green that was so much softer than the rough
original.  I spent a lot of time on that
couch; whenever I was sick and my mother had to work, my Nana would care for me
in her home.  The chickenpox, 2
pneumonias, and numerous episodes of tonsillitis and/or inner ear infections
were weathered on the couch in my grandparents’ living room. 

.. ......

When I was 12 and had my tonsils and had my tonsils removed,
it was a given that I’d recover on Nana’s couch, even though my family had
moved 40 miles away by then.  She’d
cover the cushions with a sheet, bring down a couple of pillows from upstairs,
and tuck me in with blankets.  I still
have the plaid Hudson Bay Traders blanket with its distinctive woolly smell and
scratch.  I never liked that smell, but
the blanket was an integral part of the whole get-better-on-the-couch
package.  I don’t use it today, but it
serves as a fond reminder of my grandmother’s nurturing and love.

.. ......

There were fun, non-sick times on the couch, too.  Eating dinner in the living room on a TV
tray, watching the evening news with my grandparents.  Playing solitaire or working on one of my many art projects on
the same TV tray in the sunny afternoon quiet of the house.  Late nights, after Papa went to bed, Nana
and I would eat black walnut ice cream topped with Grapenuts cereal.  We snuggled up together on the couch,
watching Mary Tyler Moore reruns after the 11 o’clock news.  I cherish the memories of those times, when
it was just the two of us sharing a secret treat.

.. ......

I took the couch after my grandparents died; moved it into
the new apartment I had to take after my girlfriend dumped me.  It was the first time I lived alone, and it
was a scary, lonely prospect.  Once
again, the couch served its purpose. It held me when I couldn’t face the
reality of going to bed alone, helping my heart to heal in the dark nights as I
lay crying into its soft, cream and celery green striped fabric.

.. ......

When one door closes, another one opens.  Isn't that the old saying?  At this moment, I'm wondering if I even want to risk the idea of one more door.  I vacillate between wanting to run and find another door that will welcome me with light and love and warmth and acceptance, and turning in my keys for good.

It doesn't help that I don't even understand why I'm in this place; hearing the slam of that particular door echoing through my mind.  When did it slam, exactly?  Was it ever fully open to me in the first place?  It was (well, is) such a beautiful door.  Strong and solid and beckoning with its charm and dark sultry sheen.  Is it any wonder I hastened to trip through it, perhaps before examining it carefully for a warning placard?

And once in, or seemingly in, did I again ignore the sights and sounds that would have prepared me for this space in which I now find myself?  Looking back, I see glimmers of evidence that all was not as the door had advertised.  In my headlong rush toward new adventures, I failed to read the signs.  Not the door's fault, entirely.  I should have paid better attention to where I was going.

So here I now stand, on the outside looking in. Once again, I thought I had it all figured out, only to realize how easy it is to get lost.  What will I do now?  Return to my safe shelter, or resolve to keep trying new doors, new connections, but with a more carefully crafted blueprint to guide me on my way?

............

I wish I could remember what year it was…’88 maybe?  It was the year of the Harmonic Convergence—and I wish I could remember what that was, too.  All of my metaphysical/spiritual granola lezzie friends knew how important this event was, and I did, too.  I just can’t seem to remember at this moment.  Anyway, my girlfriend Marty and I were at the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival with a tent I had borrowed from my parents at the last minute.  It wasn’t even their tent; I think it was left over from one of their church camping trips.  We didn’t have time to check it out in our haste to make it to the lesbian Promised Land.   We made it through orientation, signed up for our work shifts, and were just starting to set up camp when it began to rain.

.. ......

We hustled to get the tent put up, having to improvise a bit when we realized that we were missing a pole or two.  Not to worry, we were a couple of capable Virgo dykes and we weren’t going to let anything like a little rain or missing tent poles get us down!  Hey, we were at the fest with 10,000 other women—how bad could it be?  We forced the tent to stand, and tossed our gear inside.  Had we brought rain gear?  I can’t remember that, either, but it’s not likely.  Our optimism and youthful exuberance would’ve taken precedence over practicality at that time in our lives. What’s a little rain in the midst of the majesty of the trees, the glorious landscape of women?  As long as our sleeping bags and extra clothes to remained dry while we explored the fest, we’d be fine.

.. ......

We headed out into the rain, not wanting to waste a precious moment of womyn-created glory.  We’d waited all year for this, scrimped and saved to come up with the cash to gain entrance into our version of heaven.  The trees, the ferns, the multi-colored banners, the colorful, exotic outfits most women would only feel comfortable wearing in the midst of a community of other women.  Time to mix, to soak it all in—to listen to womyn’s music, to explore all of the amazing works of art and crafts, to eat really healthy food for a few days.  Mostly, we were ready to relax, let down our guards in a way that is a bit hard to imagine until you’re there.  For just a few days, we wouldn’t have to face the conflicts of the real world.

.. ......

The rain continued throughout that day, but we were undaunted.  It rained through the night, but we enjoyed the sound of the drops tapping out their music on the roof overhead. Our borrowed tent must not have had its seams sealed.  We rearranged in order to keep the soaking of our clothing to a minimum.    It rained the next day, and the next.   The rain continued its journey through the tent and seeped into our sleeping bags.  Just about every article of clothing we’d brought began to show signs of dampness. By the 3^rd day of this (we were hearty dykes, remember?), signs of grumpiness began to set in.  We held out, though, even while friends began packing up their soggy belongings and prepared to leave early.  We were just a bit smug as we watched them head out.  We would never give up early; we weren’t the quitting types—even when we were cold and damp.

.. ......

By the time the tent collapsed on top of us, though, it was hard to tell which of us would erupt first.  As we scrambled to salvage our camp, one of the tent poles snapped.  Shit!  Marty looked at me, and I braced myself for her full-blown tantrum.  No one could blame her; this was too much.  To my utter surprise, she didn’t yell or curse.  Instead, she got a maniacal look in her eye and stripped off all her clothes.  Her laughter tinged with hysteria, Marty danced around me.  “C’mon Am—take off your clothes!  Dance with me!  Dance naked in the rain!”

.. ......

It took me a moment to adjust my perspective, but with my girlfriend’s insistence and infectious glee, it didn’t take long.  Soon we were both dancing naked in the sheets of August rain that poured down upon us.  We stowed our gear in someone else’s dryish tent, and spent the rest of our days at the fest celebrating the land, the women, the rain and our resilience.  We threw that darned tent in the dumpster.

.. ......

On the last day, as we waited to in the long lines to have our gear and our selves carted out to the front gate, the clouds cleared and the sun graced us with its presence.  It was warm, and pretty, but we weren’t all that impressed.  Somehow, we’d gotten beyond the need for sunshine and dry clothes.  We were leaving the festival that year with a new perspective, a new sense of who we were.  We’d been given a powerful lesson, one that neither of us has forgotten to this day.  We’d learned that when all else fails, we could dance naked in the rain.

.. ......

.. ......

My grandmother used to bake the most amazing pies.  Everyone would exclaim over the flakiness of her crusts.  Try as she might, my mother could never replicate the success of Nana's pies, even though she followed the recipe exactly.  No other pie in my lifetime has been able to compare to the pies my grandmother made, and I think I know why.

I often lived with my grandparents while my mother was off having her dysfunctional life.  Some of my best memories took place in my grandmother's kitchen.  I was tiny, and prone to violent coughing spells.  I refused to be anywhere but right next to my Nana while she baked, so she tied dishtowels around my waist to fasten me to a kitchen chair.  That way, she wouldn't have to worry about me coughing myself off the chair and toppling to the floor.

Nana was very particular about her pie crusts.  The butter had to be quite cold before she cut it into the flour, and the few drops of water she used to moisten the dough had been chilled in the freezer.  Careful not to overwork the dough, she rolled it out with precision, and then placed it lovingly into her fluted pie pans.  I loved those pie pans; they were Art, with their perfect ripply edges.

There was always just a little bit of dough left over, just enough to cut into inch-wide strips which Nana would bake in leftover aluminum pot-pie tins.  These were for me, and she dusted them with brown sugar and cinnamon before popping them into the oven for a few minutes.  They were so delicious when they came out all golden brown, crisp and warm, and I knew I was special.

It's not easy to make a flaky crust with whole-grain spelt flour, but I do my best.  The most important part of the process that I learned from my grandmother was adding the ingredients of love and mindfulness--making it all Special.  As I bake now, with my son, I hope that I am passing on this important lesson.  We bake with love- the most important ingredient.

So, I voted for Barack Obama early yesterday morning.  I also voted against Prop 8.  I felt pretty good about our prospects, even though I got a robo-call from the Prop 8 supporters that took some of the shiny off of the day.  I don't know why I listened to the message, but I did. 

Here's my paraphrased version of what it said: "What does Barack Obama say about gay marriage?  Here's what he says..."  it goes on to play a recording of one of Obama's speeches-- the one where he said, "as a Christian, (huge eruption of applause)... as a Christian, I believe that marriage is a sacred covenent between a man and a woman...".  The robo-voice goes on, "even Barack Obama doesn't believe in gay marriage.  Vote yes on Proposition 8." 

I blew it off, tried not to let it ruin my hopeful good mood.  Last evening, I took my niece to the mall to spend the gift card we got her for her birthday.  I got a text from one of my friends in Ohio-- Ohio just went to Obama!  My heart filled with joy, and I got goosebumps, knowing that no president gets elected w/o winning Ohio.  By the time I reached home and turned on the tv, they were just announcing that Obama was the projected winner of the election. 

I shouted with great enthusiasm, then remained glued to the tv to watch the electoral vote count grow higher and higher.  I celebrated through McCain's concession speech, and cried when Obama took the stage in Chicago.  What a historic, beautiful event.  He's a great speaker, he's so inspiring.  I believed him when he said he'd be the president of those who didn't vote for him.  I believed his words of hope and change. Things were feeling good.

So, now all we needed were the results on Prop 8.  As they started trickling in, it didn't look good.  It was sad and sweet, the way the local newcasters kept trying to reassure us that it was early yet, and there was no way to know which way the vote would turn out.  I tried to remain hopeful, but... if they can project presidential winners with only a percentage of the vote counted, how is this any different?  We watched the news for a few more hours, with no change in the gap between the "yes" and "no" votes...roughly 52 to 48. By the time we went to bed, I was in tears.  "I want to stay married to you!", I wailed to my wife.

She was sweet, and reassuring.  As she held me last night, my tears ran over both of us.  Echoing in my head were the words from the phone call I'd received earlier in the day...Obama's words about my marriage, used to sway voters in my state to make the choice to take away my equality.  Today, his voice is still in my head.  Not the words of hope from his acceptance speech, but the words that sealed my fate.  "I believe that marriage is a sacred covenant between a man and a woman." 

So now, I'm wondering.  How is Mr. Hope and Change going to make this right?  I know he didn't sanction the use of his voice to take away my marriage, my equality, but... he did speak those words, and they did help the cause of discrimination.  How is this right?  How, in this historic moment, can this be okay?  I want to believe in Barack Obama, in the good of this nation.  But it's not going to be Obama who has to explain to my 10 year old son why his moms aren't legally recognized any longer as a married couple...that the beautiful ceremony we had at City Hall no longer means anything in the eyes of the law.

Will my president come explain how this could be true to my son, and to me?  I just can't seem to get my heart around it...

okay, so here's a new first for me.  we were leaving the house this morning to take jack to the emergency room (turns out he's got chicken pox, no big deal.).  as we walked down the stairs to the street, a group of sunday-dressed men walked toward us.  i notice another group across the street, this one contained women and kids as well.   they carried handmade "YES ON 8" signs, and chanted the slogan as they approached.

i'd reached the sidewalk by now, and for a moment considered just marching to the car in silence.  instead, i found myself saying, "you know what?  i'll be voting No on 8.  we're married, and proposition 8 will hurt our family."  the man in the lead's smile suddenly looked uncomfortable  i pointed to jack, slung over my shoulder for the walk to the car.  "you'll be hurting HIM with your proposition!"  at this point, i'm shouting, striding toward the car, and the timing was perfect.  the other group was right at my car. 

"NO on 8!!" i shouted,  "it's discriminatory and unfair!!"  this group kept right on chanting, not one of them would look at us.  "we're not voting to take away YOUR happiness!!", i screamed at their backs as i placed jack in the car.

jennifer and i got in the car and we drove toward the hospital.  "stupid fucks!", i tried to growl, but the end came out all teary.  "why do they want to hurt us?  how dare they teach their children to discriminate?" 

we moved all the way across the country so that we didn't have to deal with such meanness.  we were so happy when we were finally able to make our commitment legal...to enjoy the same status as our committed heterosexual peers.  when jennifer took my name--our name, it made me happier and prouder than i can even express.  having our straight friends stand up with us on that day was so precious to us.  they were happy and proud, too. 

today, having people who don't live in our neighborhood, but just attend church here, march down our street shouting their desire to take all that happiness away from me and my family... it just hurt.  it hurt so bad.  i can't imagine going to someone else's neighborhood, marching past their homes, proclaiming my desire to discriminate against them. 

jennifer asked, "don't they know how bad it hurts to be discriminated against?" i think they probably do, but perhaps their religion is the way they cope with that.  their faith tells them they're good, that they're better than me.  i just wish they'd think about that.  it's been a long time since i attended church, but i can't remember any quotation by their supposed leader that says one person is entitled to more joy than another.  really...i wish they'd ask themselves, what would jesus do?  how would someone who is known for his love and gentleness vote?  even more important, how would anyone who feels loving, and true, and whole vote on this issue? 

I'm not sure when or why we made the shift; from spending our time in the living room in the front of the house, to hanging out exclusively in the family room.  Now that we have, the living room is rarely used, except for the rare occasion when one of us wants to watch something on TV that conflicts with what everyone else wants to watch.  Mostly, we all pile into the family room to spend our evenings together.

It's funny--our family of 3 ballooned overnight to one of 8, but it doesn't feel crowded when we're all together in there.  Folks on the couch, kids stretched out on the floor, at my desk, wherever there's a spot to land.

We watch TV, sometimes some of us will play a board game, but what's really happening in that room is a coming-together.  My wife home from teaching, my sister in from her new job, the kids congregating after they've completed their school work and had some time at the skateboard park or a walk in the neighborhood.  We reconnect, and entertain one another with our silly stories, our on-going jokes.

In here now, but I know where each of them is at this moment.  They've finished the dinner I prepared for them before I left, and they're hanging out in the family room.  The TV's on, and Jack's either watching You-Tube videos with Momma Jennifer on her laptop, or wrestling with Chase on the floor.  I'm here, the place that my week revolves around, but soon I'll go home and hustle down the hall, calling out, "Where's my family?" on the way. 

We'll reconnect, check in, and then continue with our nighttime rituals.  The kids will straggle off to bed with a little prodding from the adults, and eventually we'll turn off the TV and the lights, knowing that we'll gather in the family room again tomorrow.

I remember the first time I saw her naked.  It was 1984, I was just-turned-20, and very new to the lesbian scene.  We played on the same semi-pro women's football team, and I was just finding my way around an entirely new culture--one very different and much more exciting than my prudish Mormon roots.

It was a slow seduction, at least it seemed so at the time.  It was all very innocent--at least on my naive, new-at-this, part.  She needed a place to stay, and I had a double bed in an all-women boarding house.  24 years later, I can't remember how we got to the naked part exactly--except that her lips were so very near mine that night as we lay talking in my bed.  Even now, my heart throbs a bit, recalling the thrill, the fear, the what-will-she-do-next of it all.  Eventually, somehow, our lips finally made their electric connection.

Upon receiving that green light, my hungry hands began to explore her form, and eventually started the process of disrobing her so that my eyes could first soak her in before we moved on to other fleshy delights.  I remember sitting up a bit in order to fully appreciate the view.  I must have gasped at the sight of my hand upon her perfectly curved belly.

"What?  You thought only my face was black?  That I'd be white like you under my clothes?"  I hastened to explain, "No, no!  I'm not surprised by the color of your skin, just overwhelmed at how pretty our tones look together!  I've never seen anything so beautiful before.  It's like we make a complete picture somehow...look!  Look at the landscape of our thighs intertwined!  Have you ever seen anything like this?!"

She laughed.  "Do you really want me to answer that, or would you like to see what else we can do together?"  It dawns on me... I'm such a baby here.  "Oh, okay...yeah.  Kiss me again, and let's see what happens."

She did, and...lots happened.  We didn't last forever, but that moment will last forever in my mind.  All these years later, the thought of her can still put this goofy smile on my face.  I like that.