birthday memories

My most memorable birthday ever was the year I turned six. When my brother and I were little kids, we got a party every year. But we had to switch off between a party with family and a party with our friends. Six was supposed to a year where I got a party with my friends.

That was the year I got the chicken pox.

We had my party, but it was filled with grandparents, great-grandmothers, aunts, and uncles. I remember very clearly tearing the wrapping paper off a copy of Michael Jackon’s Thriller. A shiny new record to play on my Fisher Price record player. It was the best gift ever for me. That year anyway.

My family got a kick out of the fact that I was too sick to enjoy my birthday cake. In that, “awww, poor kid. Such a mess she can’t even enjoy cake,” sort of way. The party took place on the deck at the back of our house. If I close my eyes and breathe I can see the trees far beyond the swing set. The horses grazing in our neighbors pasture.  I can hear our pet geese honking away.

I’m sure that I sulked and was miserable.

Mom and Dad must have felt sorry for me. A few weeks later, after the pox had passed, I got my birthday party with friends. Mom took me and four of my friends to a nearby town. To a university production of Sleeping Beauty. The stage turned. It’s the only thing I remember about that show. Mostly I remember the smug satisfaction of listening to my older brother whine about the fact that I got two birthday parties that year and he didn’t.

daddy’s girl

Really I think my father was my first love. I’ve been a daddy’s girl all of my life. He was the first to give me flowers. The first to take me to a dance. One of my favorite pictures of the two of us is from that dance. A father/daughter valentine dance put on by my blue bird troop.

My father is a tall man, 6′4″. He was an Eagle Scout. He was a three sport letterman in high school, track, basketball, and football. He ran track in college, setting state records. He was blonde and lanky back then. He spent his youth working on the family ranch. He spent summers at the lake, boating and skiing. He once owned a chair mounted to a set of skis. He was a lifeguard. He had a pilots license and a plane.

He went to a baptist college. He spent more time than anyone in the dean’s office, in trouble for playing cards. He snuck in to the bell tower on campus and replaced the recording that would play the appropriate chimes with a recording of Boomer Sooner, so that it blared across campus at midnight. He bricked over someone’s doorway. He filled someone’s tub with jello. He was a frat boy.

He married my mom when he was still in school. Somewhat against the wishes of my grandparents. She was in a mini-skirt and his hair was long and shaggy. They went to six flags on their honeymoon.

After graduation, he took his bride to his hometown and set up house. He worked in my grandfather’s business before opening his own. He dabbled in politics. He was a volunteer fireman. There are years of his life that my brother and I have never quite figured out what he was up to. He’ll only hint around about work he did for the government. Mom won’t tell and there are definite gaps in the time line of what is known. I’d love to find out one day, but at the same time, I sort of love the mystery.

I’m like him in a lot of ways. I have his nose, for sure. He’s the other musician in the family. He has perfect pitch. We practiced for our piano lessons on the same piano, just decades apart. He’s a social butterfly. He loves all the same random entertainment gossip that I do. Mom’s radio is always set to NPR and jazz. Dad and I listen to the same top 40 stations. We’re equally laid back. Equally sensitive. My dad’s stories are larger than life. I definitely got that from him. I inherited my love of tequila from him. He and I are the ones in the family that order our steak rare. Who like to stay up until the wee hours and who sleep like the dead.

We dressed like punk rockers one year for Halloween. A can of pink hair spray coloring our matching blonde locks. That’s another photo of the two of us that I love. He was so big and I was so little. I love looking at old pictures of us. He was like this rock and I was this little white blonde sprite always climbing on him or hanging on him or being carried by him.

He’s a jeans and boots kind of guy. When I was younger, I used to sneak into my parents closet and steal his button down shirts. Even though they were huge on me. I loved wearing his shirts. When I was in high school, he took a position at a bank and closed the business he owned. He started wearing suits to work. He let me go shopping with him and pick out his ties. I loved that. Getting to be the one to dress him. I’ve swiped more than one sweater out of his closet as well. For a time he would tease me, whenever I gave him a new sweater or shirt, “is this for me or for you to borrow from me?” Always with a grin and a gleam in his eye.

Twice he has helped me pack or unpack from a move and gone home with piles of stuff that belonged to him that he didn’t know I’d appropriated.

Dad was the one that would wait up to make sure I met curfew. Dad was the one that met one of my dates at the door with a nine millimeter strapped into a shoulder holster. (There’s a longer story to that with nothing to do with my date, but it was memorable for us both.) Dad was the one who drove me everywhere. Dad was the one I would call whenever the car broke down, even before a tow truck. Dad was the one I hated to disappoint. Dad was the one I could never look in the face when I got in trouble.

When I was 6, my brother was 8, we were camping, in the rockies. My mother had a down sleeping bag. We discovered on that trip that my brother was allergic to it. It got tossed outside of our tent. Sleeping bags got shifted around and my dad and I ended up sharing. My dad and I both generate massive amounts of body heat. Put us together in a sleeping bag and it’s like lighting a fire. I spent the whole night waking him up. Dad, I’m hot, and he would unzip the bag and let me breathe. Dad, I’m cold, and he would tuck me back in. Dad, I’m hot. Dad, I’m cold.

He started driving me to auditions and rehearsals when I was 14. When mom started working in the costume shop at the opera, since dad was our chauffeur, they put him to work as well. Carrying heavy costumes up and down stairs. There was an audition where I found out they were having trouble filling out the chorus with men. I told Dad he should go sing for them. We only did one show together. But I love that we had the one, La Traviata. He gave me a copy of the score, a beautiful inscription inked in to the inside. In his perfect handwriting. I left the opera company to move on to college and other things. He continued on, working as a chorister and supernumerary.

My junior high friends would always ask him to say stuff like “white truck” because they wanted to giggle over his accent. He’s been out of Oklahoma now for more than 20 years, but he has never lost his accent. I generally call him dad, but when I want something it’s always a long, drawn out, Daaaaaddy.

Dad is golf and James Bond movies. Dad is cherry tobacco. He is homemade vanilla ice cream and buckets of steamer clams. He’s the one who taught me how to ride a horse. Who taught me how to pick out the melody to MacArthur Park on a piano, long before I started taking lessons. He took me on my first ride in a sports car. On the most turbulent flight of my life, Dad was there to hold my hand.

Dad is a teacher now. He works with at risk kids. He coaches football. He is loving being a grandfather. He is loving building a house at the ocean. I think he is happier now than I’ve ever seen him.

I was having lunch with my dad on the afternoon I was offered the job in Rochester. My first, post-divorce. That was such a huge move for me. Dad knew. I think Dad understood on levels that other people didn’t. I remember so clearly a day, just before I moved, we were at home. I’d come out of my bedroom and met Dad in the hallway. He asked if I was ready. If I was all packed. I just looked at him and said, “Dad, I’m moving to New York. Can you believe it?”

And as the tears welled up in my eyes, tears of happiness and relief and raw emotion, he just wrapped his arms around me and pulled me in for a big hug. And he just stood there and held me. When he broke our hug he looked me in the eyes. He didn’t have to say anything for me to know how proud he was of me.

I drove to Rochester on my own. When I left and came back to WA, Dad drove with me. We took our time through the badlands. We stopped in Deadwood and had calf fries and beer. He humored me and drove past the corn palace, just so I could see it. On our last night we shared pizza and beer and talked of football. He invited me to play in his fantasy football league. Not only was I the only girl, but I was pitting myself against all of his fellow coaches. It was fun to share that with him.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve grown to understand him more. Not just what he likes and who he is. But I see now how many sacrifices he made for us over the years. I see how even now, he would go to the ends of the earth for my brother and I. Occasionally the subject of LH will come up and the look in his eyes breaks my heart every single time. I know that he would have moved heaven and earth to spare me that. That if he ever meets LH in a dark alley, it would be an ugly thing. I see that half of his stories are complete BS, but I don’t care. I understand the complexities of the dynamic between he and my mother. I know that he too, was unfaithful in his marriage.

But he’s my dad. And in some ways he broke the mold for me. One of my grandmother’s favorite stories about me was that when I was little I said once that I wanted to marry my dad, but since he was already married, I would settle for my brother. I have been my daddy’s girl my entire life. I don’t really see that changing any time soon.

Easter Sunday

Holidays always make me homesick. More and more with each year that I get older. The truth is I’m quite content to live in a city far away from my family. There are some pretty big chunks of my life that would be hard to explain and/or filter if they were around. And the stuff that is above board, just makes my life radically different from anyone in my family. I don’t always fit in.

Except that I do. I have a fantastic relationship with my parents and with my brother and his brood. Nobody asks me to baby sit when I’m home, but my nieces and nephew come running whenever I walk through the door. Mom and I still function like a well oiled machine in the kitchen. I’ll always be my daddy’s little girl.

And on holidays I miss them. And I wish that I was there. And I’m flooded with memories of holidays past.

The Easter memories are all from my childhood. In Oklahoma. Mom and Dad would always sneak out before dawn and hide our Easter baskets in a hole they’d dug at one corner of the garden. My brother and I would step off the back deck and into the grass, still wet with dew, and we’d run in our bare feet. Happy laughter as we collected our treasures.

And then we’d retreat to our bedrooms to paw through the loot. Jelly beans, always, even though I never cared for them. Mom did. She bought them more for her than for either of us. Some sort of chocolate bunny. Books and stickers and who knows what else. Mostly I remember the jelly beans.

And then church. Always. We were a church going family on a weekly basis. Twice on Sundays and on Wednesday for bible study and choir practice. Easter Sunday meant a new dress and white shoes. In a small town Baptist church, every Sunday is a fashion show. Easter was our Bryant Park.

After church was lunch at my great grandmother’s house. Again, not something that out of the ordinary, but the fact that it was a holiday made it special. When I was really little, it meant that my aunt and uncle from Tulsa had driven in. They didn’t have children of their own until I was 7. My brother and I were like their kids until then. I still think of them as second parents.

I loved those Sundays. When our family would take up an entire pew. Grandpa would even move from his regular place on the back row with the other old men who liked to rest their eyes during the service. I would sit straight backed with pride between my aunt and uncle. We were a society family but it never felt like it except for those times. When the whole clan was together. My family is very grounded. But on those days I knew we were special somehow.

We used the good china for any Sunday lunch at Grandma’s, but holidays were special. Deviled eggs. Relish trays full of pickles and peppers and olives. Easter always meant a ham. Some sort of jello concoction that passed as a salad. And a casserole that I can not go a holiday without to this very day. Something Mom doesn’t even like to make any more, but when I roll in from out of town no one questions that I’ll be making it.

She made it today. She went to the pantry and found that she was missing cream of mushroom soup. So she substituted cream of chicken. She said it went OK. That no one but her could tell the difference and that in a pinch she would do it again. But we both agreed that it was a little weird. It’s sort of a sacred recipe.

These are the days when I question my choices in life. Or not question so much, but wish that the picket fence lifestyle suited me a little better. Because I want my brother’s kids to have family traditions passed on. To have these kinds of memories. For a half a second I want it for a child of my own.

Instead I content myself with a phone call. And stories of how there was so much rain that they had to forgo an Easter egg hunt. How mom saved the work of doing the dishes for after my brother and his family had left because she wanted to enjoy the time while they were there. How the dog was currently standing with two paws on the open door to the dishwasher, trying vainly to reach a dirty plate to lick clean. How they’d talked of me at lunch and had wished I was there.

all the way out

I’d never identified as bisexual until just before the divorce. I guess if I’d been paying attention to my own actions and desires I would have noticed. But I just figured I was into what I was into and never really thought about it. After the divorce I began exploring things a little.

I came out to my mom before I left for NY. It was important to me. Because I’d lived with so many secrets for so long. I didn’t want any more. It was also important to me to be 100% honest to who I was. But I also felt like I was getting weird hints from her. Threads of conversation that seemed like they were perfect openers into the topic.

At any rate. One day I told her. And she didn’t really blink an eye. I asked her how and when I should tell my brother and my dad. She said why not wait till you have a girlfriend. I could deal with that.

I never exactly told my brother. I had a myspace page. There’s a little check box for orientation. I was honest. Then one day he added me as a friend. I couldn’t exactly ignore the friend request. I thought about changing the little check box. But then I decided, no, that’s who I am. Maybe he won’t notice.

He never said anything about it. But there was a day when he and I were out having a beer. Somehow myspace came up. By this point my sister-in-law and my 16 year old niece had also friended me on myspace. I made some comment about how I tried to filter what I said there, because of them. My brother, the baptist preacher, set down his beer and looked me dead in the eye and said, “there’s nothing you could say that would make me love you any less.”

Yeah, so he’d noticed the little box.

Then it was just my dad that didn’t know. There were a hundred times I wanted to tell him. But it’s not like there was ever a girl I dated that was worth writing home about. Until Aaron I wasn’t telling them about anyone I was dating. And really, I was doing more sowing of wild oats than “dating”.

But it started to feel like a lie. And the longer it went, the more I imagined it would hurt Dad when he found out and then found out that he was the last to know. But I was afraid to tell him. Not because I thought he’d be upset or anything. My folks are very gay friendly. But there’s something different about knowing gay people and having your daughter turn up queer. Somehow I couldn’t help feel like I was going to disappoint him. And if there’s one thing that would kill me, it would be knowing I’d disappointed my father.

But, I’m open about my life. On the internet and elsewhere. And the circle of people who knew was starting to close in. I didn’t want him to hear about this from someone else. So I made a decision when I went home for Christmas. I was going to come out to my dad.

I snagged Mom one day when we were alone. Quizzing her as to whether or not she’d ever said anything. She, of course, wanted to know if I’d actually been with a woman yet or if I just thought I liked women. I just looked at her. “Mom. I know, OK? Let’s dispense with the details of how I know.”

So then she tells me that she thinks my dad thinks I’m a lesbian.

Record scratch.

“Wait. What?”

And she explained that since the divorce had been so bad. And seeing as how I never talked about dating anyone. So when I’d told them about Aaron, evidently they were relieved. I had to stop and get more clarification. To confirm that yes, they had an actual conversation about how they thought I’d crossed all the way over to the other side of the fence.

I do live in San Francisco and talk about going to Pride and stuff like that. But good lord, they know that all my friends are gay men. They always have been. That means nothing.

The next person I quizzed was my sister-in-law. She affirmed that as far as she knew Dad had no idea. And she backed up the story about the relief concerning my choice of a boy as a dating partner. How mom had said, over a family dinner, “Well, she’s dating again. And it’s a boy.”

Sheesh.

It happened a few nights later. We were at the ocean. Dad, my brother, and I were sitting on the porch smoking cigars. My brother started chuckling. Made some comment about how this was a situation he never thought he’d be in. Smoking cigars with his sister. I made some comment about how I wasn’t like other girls.

Several minutes later my dad was telling some story about how he’d been out with some of the other coaches after a practice. How he was the oldest in the group and yet he was the one the cute young waitress was hitting on. I asked if she was cute. He said yes. And then there was a pause. So I took a deep breath.

“You know Dad. About that. There’s something you should know.”

“OK.”

“Sometimes I date women.”

“OK.”

And that was pretty much it. We went back to talking about tequila and football and home repair.

A few days later, back at home, Dad had gone through the house turning off lights and locking doors. He came into the office where I was checking email. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “I never told you the other day. You’re my little girl. I love you. And there’s nothing you could ever tell me that would change that.”

Even now as I type this, several months later, that brings tears to my eyes.

from the journal-at the ocean

These are the moments I love. Sitting on a cot, wrapped in a cozy fleece, looking out at the ocean. It’s chilly today. The sky is gray and almost dark. It’s been raining, or trying to, all day long. But the clouds and the mist are not so heavy that you can’t see the water. Wave after wave of dark water, topped with white foam, crashing onto the dunes.

I’ve always loved this ocean town. Of course it’s beautiful in the summers. We would ride horses down the length of the beah. Their hooves splashing when the waves crawled up the beach. But even in the summer we’d be clad in jeans and sweatshirts. Every store in town advertising that they sell cold drinks and sweatshirts. Shacks selling taffy and hot dogs. Kite rentals. Dune buggy rentals. The shore littered with tourists.

I do love it here in the summer. But I think I prefer it in the winter. Long after the tourists have left. When only the locals remain. When the days are short. When they are always gray. It suits the melancholy that seems to permeate my soul.

I could sit and watch the ocean forever. It is the best meditation for me. In the vacant lot next door there are five deer. They’ve been playing in the evergreens and sea grass. The last traces of snow have melted from the front yard. Later we’ll all sit in this tower roo. The light will be left off. A candle will flicker from the table in the center of the room. Red wine will fill glasses and keep us warm. Conversation will be lovely.

This house will be my inheritance someday. Owned jointly with my brother. This place, this ocean, will be a part of me forever. The walls of the home are as yet unfinished. Into the stud by the window I have scratched my favorite quote…

“Life is a shipwreck. We must not forget to sing in the lifeboats.” ~ Voltaire