tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80728828706357956252024-03-05T18:57:23.223-05:00gay f(e)atherIntrospective | Rural | Chicken Fancier | Fatherbryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.comBlogger127125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-74191496361295640332020-04-01T20:33:00.002-04:002020-04-03T00:44:43.024-04:00A Gnat's Quest(ions)<div class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPkqFzMiZp_I4qzZQMW_5FiS5CzI3gIs7ewO-7QQ9QCvGGaDR-FAD2UjvQ3_OYaDfGmf3mCSi4qWZiuw7hJXT0I4ZXLKpHG_H5kPJnjMQjNFWJ9ZsTOYpsTrXOARIZ-XtWpOxGkMUZ9Tl-/s1600/question+mark+IMG_2226.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPkqFzMiZp_I4qzZQMW_5FiS5CzI3gIs7ewO-7QQ9QCvGGaDR-FAD2UjvQ3_OYaDfGmf3mCSi4qWZiuw7hJXT0I4ZXLKpHG_H5kPJnjMQjNFWJ9ZsTOYpsTrXOARIZ-XtWpOxGkMUZ9Tl-/s400/question+mark+IMG_2226.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
Ever since I learned the art of clowning, today has served as an important celebration for me—April Fool’s Day, a day long steeped in tradition, folderol, merriment and upending the status quo. What’s not to like about this? We can all use a little levity.</div>
<div class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
And for me, where I am now in this journey through life, levity is especially welcome. Why then this mix of sadness? </div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
Well, there is the obvious, I suppose.</div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
“Surgery is not an option for you,” the region’s top surgeon in pancreatic surgery told me on Christmas Eve Day. Pressed, he forecast a life expectancy of three months if I chose not to pursue chemotherapy.</div>
<div class="p2" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
After one go-‘round with chemotherapy I decided to pursue it no further. That was three months ago. By rights, perhaps I should be dead by now. Instead, I sit here at my kitchen table and watch myself make question marks of blueberries. Questions swirl in my head.</div>
<div class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">How much time do I have left? Given the current Covid-19/Coronavirus pandemic, how much time does any of us have left? Does it matter? How much? </span></div>
<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><br />Says Emily Dickinson,</span></div>
<div class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><i>A Toad can die of Light</i></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><i>Death is the Common Right</i></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><i>of Toads and Men—</i></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><i>of Earl and Midge</i></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><i>The privilege—Why swagger then?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></i></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><i>The Gnat's supremacy's the same as Thine.</i></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">In the big picture, it matters a hill of beans; makes as much difference for landed gentry as it does to the gnat.</span></div>
bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-48176908810155405952020-03-16T08:30:00.000-04:002020-04-03T00:41:13.595-04:00Hoppy Saint Urho's Day with an Added Kick<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTy-DV_dZmIjpSCkG14MwW8CKY8VsbbyeMsmB1qBXpTLqkqHT1XQJdpRVTKbyHCBksnaNxS24QKCB7L5MUl6UKj-J7ywiaBjjqI7HC7ZqtRmhXGtUvcwrBszerBM_YqBaFpM9d6Fa_axLK/s1600/++++20200316+urho2+Urhu-and-trees.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="375" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTy-DV_dZmIjpSCkG14MwW8CKY8VsbbyeMsmB1qBXpTLqkqHT1XQJdpRVTKbyHCBksnaNxS24QKCB7L5MUl6UKj-J7ywiaBjjqI7HC7ZqtRmhXGtUvcwrBszerBM_YqBaFpM9d6Fa_axLK/s400/++++20200316+urho2+Urhu-and-trees.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>St. Urho statue, Menahga, Minnesota</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
This the statue of Saint Urho before which Bryn and Dave prostrate themselves three times whenever they pass through Menahga, Minnesota en route to the Rufus & Maggie Marlow Family Reunion</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibd_hHgQP71myfwQPXk_WqPI1kJBMm-56JY_mwMM6b1SqoxOrF5stsDZ6SDY3aNYq3x_aqMfr0nnGyuyG0x40c3uFMCzVEer3LZd3d05_VMFTcUTtAALdWqn1YllSzPkTyuhhLonwqmhM9/s1600/++++20200316+urho21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="227" data-original-width="352" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibd_hHgQP71myfwQPXk_WqPI1kJBMm-56JY_mwMM6b1SqoxOrF5stsDZ6SDY3aNYq3x_aqMfr0nnGyuyG0x40c3uFMCzVEer3LZd3d05_VMFTcUTtAALdWqn1YllSzPkTyuhhLonwqmhM9/s200/++++20200316+urho21.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px;">
<b>HAPPY SAINT URHO’S DAY!</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px;">
Lest we be remiss and skip the opportunity to celebrate the holiday with you, happy Saint Urho’s! Bryn’s grandfather (coincidentally named Urho) died today in 1963. Bryn had wondered if he, too, would die today. So far so good.Hope your day was hoppy.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjidzIaQIGbBxjNwgoyBkpP8IUaiThJa46eCaqv3es6bkn6gSUnUtEYo93_XQqgD9mO0Pb8DMg8bC-wfXHXeDpaqYthadbIkiogN9K_CPhhZJ631rdIVPlRhYhiRyFfRuhGGf45P2gGtDb/s1600/++++health+update+200312+24th+0_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="333" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjidzIaQIGbBxjNwgoyBkpP8IUaiThJa46eCaqv3es6bkn6gSUnUtEYo93_XQqgD9mO0Pb8DMg8bC-wfXHXeDpaqYthadbIkiogN9K_CPhhZJ631rdIVPlRhYhiRyFfRuhGGf45P2gGtDb/s200/++++health+update+200312+24th+0_.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px;">
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px;">
<b>24, AND COUNTING . . .</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px;">
March 12 marked our 24th anniversary, Dave’s and mine. Not 24 years since we married, as that option was long unavailable to us, but 24 years as a couple. And 15 years to the day we married in Windsor, Canada.</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px;">
These years have been rich and full of experiences and growing in love. We are grateful and blessed.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYDMBvaTFBBSPPXsDRfv0qfgQlG1NozU6V0rzVIixB7KcTiHwrm_tWjBH3KKHSeZadOeJHl2y0unJ1u5ujPiMa6SIfOaJRD80pSEhjUG3aeYDQNoMiQGZ-qZhmCUeuS7v7_0aEm-dpC6gT/s1600/+++200312+health+update+EGLM.banner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="1600" height="76" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYDMBvaTFBBSPPXsDRfv0qfgQlG1NozU6V0rzVIixB7KcTiHwrm_tWjBH3KKHSeZadOeJHl2y0unJ1u5ujPiMa6SIfOaJRD80pSEhjUG3aeYDQNoMiQGZ-qZhmCUeuS7v7_0aEm-dpC6gT/s200/+++200312+health+update+EGLM.banner.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Adding my own twist to local history</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px;">
<b>EVERYDAY LIFE IN MIDDLETOWN</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 18px;">
For a few years now Dave and Bryn have participated in a volunteer diary effort titled “Everyday Life In Middletown,” a Ball State University project documenting the experiences of area residents. This has proved a rewarding experiment in paying attention. Thinking about what to do with collected diaries from the period of his coming out, Bryn contacted University Archives and the Everyday Life in Middletown Project to see if they have interest in receiving these.<span> (Yes.) </span>The recorded information has been too emotionally trying for Bryn to go back and put it in memoir format. Perhaps elements of it will see the light of day through this project. A number of people are involved in helping move the information from written files to searchable digitized files, and in organizing various related documents. In the future researchers may request access to this one man’s take on the coming out process in middle America.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCl5ij1KZq677QZm_wGHS-E2m5fxiB46MIEw0DxPj66Pw1HCUCh0MOAEymX4ax31vuW5enyIFeyGR0avhZJ5NTEZH899dUf6aiA-ia68ozEV5cf0n1RYSFxqVByRiBOEo7zjL0SXr6ZEON/s1600/++++20200316+healthupdate+reuinity.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="341" data-original-width="512" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCl5ij1KZq677QZm_wGHS-E2m5fxiB46MIEw0DxPj66Pw1HCUCh0MOAEymX4ax31vuW5enyIFeyGR0avhZJ5NTEZH899dUf6aiA-ia68ozEV5cf0n1RYSFxqVByRiBOEo7zjL0SXr6ZEON/s320/++++20200316+healthupdate+reuinity.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px;">
<b>[<span> <span> </span></span>KNOCK<span> <span> </span></span>KNOCK<span> <span> </span></span>]</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 18px;">
This past Saturday brought a surprise phone call from Bryn’s brother Steve, long estranged from him over Bryn’s having come out gay. Steve suggested a get-together that evening with him and his adult daughter Alyssa. We four shared a meal. At Alyssa’s request the brothers spent some private time talking together. Civil discourse. Polite. Some heartfelt exchange. Steve came close to making what might pass as an apology—”I want you to know I’ve always acted on what I thought to be right. Maybe I erred on the side of being too harsh.” Bryn, on the other hand, did not float the word ‘apology.’<span> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 18px;">
The next day friends Kelly, Tish, and Sister Joetta, dropped by for a visit. Bryn said the day was tinged with gold for him:<span> <span> </span></span>his energy was up. the day was gorgeous. It was good to share time with friends and to feel that warmth in the household.</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 18px;">
Dave and son Jeremy are working on building Bryn’s casket. Late into the project, Dave neglected to read the fine print that making it out of hardwood (red oak wood rather than lightweight pine) adds about 200 pounds to the weight of the finished product. (“Good thing I'm losing weight hand over fist,” Bryn says, “so that the final weight will be doable by my virtual pallbearers.” [Since we're planning on cremation, Bryn’s pallbearers will not have to shoulder any actual physical weight.]</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 18px;">
<span> </span>Recently Bryn’s pain has been managed well to the point he is able to be present to people and to what’s going on around him. He looks rail thin. His skin is yellowed with jaundice. Energy levels come and go, varying with the day. So, too, nausea and vomiting.<span> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; min-height: 14px; text-indent: 18px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 18px;">
<b>VOMIT WITH AN ATTITUDE</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 18px;">
Oh, there have been harrowing moments. Dave flying from one country stop sign to the next. Both of us hoping beyond hope that we'll make it home before it comes out one end or the other. This in the days before having emesis bags at the ready. This time (and another) when we made it home beforehand, if just barely. Last night it was vomit with an attitude, a very polite attitude that waited until we got home—after a modern dance theater presentation, no less—and having gone out with friends to a restaurant afterwards. This time the vomit came up patiently, having waited its time.</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; min-height: 14px; text-indent: 18px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 18px;">
<b>VOLUNTEERS WITH GRACE</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 18px;">
Last week our visiting hospice nurse was Janice, a long-time former colleague of Dave’s when he served as hospice chaplain. Trading on their long-term friendship, Janice read Dave the riot act regarding his marshaling volunteers to help cook, clean and do other tasks so as to free him up for quality relationship time with Bryn.<span> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 18px;">
Dave took her words to heart. We now have a cadre of volunteers who have signed on, signed up and showed up to do household chores. We're so grateful to feel this extra-special level of support from family and friends.</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; min-height: 14px; text-indent: 18px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 18px;">
<b>HOW NOT TO DO IT</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 18px;">
This is a<span> </span><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue%3D194%26v%3DZIPiMfHK708%26feature%3Demb_logo&source=gmail&ust=1585964782347000&usg=AFQjCNGBnHC6Czle_YREBuMEBHS4cV7JHA" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=194&v=ZIPiMfHK708&feature=emb_logo" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">link to a video</a><span> </span>of a presentation Bryn made at a Ball State class. It was titled, "How Not to Come Out Gay in Delaware County".<span> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 18px;">
<span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 18px;">
<span></span><b>NOT DEAD YET</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px;">
In phone conversation the other day, someone (here to remain nameless) in effect said to Bryn, “So, you're not dead yet.” No, to quote Mark Twain, rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. Bryn is not dead yet. Still hanging in there. Happy for good days. Happy for good energies. Happy for you. Happy for what it means to be in touch with you and walking through these days together.<span> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px;">
<span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmRv3jYJFTD1t0ZrfZ_d6W-mPUeVNgo3lhVZbis5Wp1ZPrvGdm-mcCFtWk9GOg5wo2lc1pdK7TkJcz9V3dLHdd_qwwCzM-lUJY6Ea6MTjwIQrif0wfAI3VnRLW8b7q4_D3u2SlL-FFxPde/s1600/David+Yosef+small+DSC_0163+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="383" data-original-width="576" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmRv3jYJFTD1t0ZrfZ_d6W-mPUeVNgo3lhVZbis5Wp1ZPrvGdm-mcCFtWk9GOg5wo2lc1pdK7TkJcz9V3dLHdd_qwwCzM-lUJY6Ea6MTjwIQrif0wfAI3VnRLW8b7q4_D3u2SlL-FFxPde/s320/David+Yosef+small+DSC_0163+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Yosef, Bryn, Dave, Dave</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 18px;">
<b>HEARTS ON PARADE</b></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 18px;">
One of the gifts of extended life review is the opportunity for people to visit—sometimes in person, sometimes through cards, email notes, letters, greeting cards. Friends from 25 years ago who were instrumental in helping me navigate the new and icy waters of coming out. In rolls the car with Pennsylvania plates and two men near and dear to our hearts. These and others, heart friends who, fast bound chord-to-chord, provided a trail marker, a clothesline in the dark, a snow fence to follow through the blizzard to find my way home. Yet others, friends of whom I have second doubts.<span> </span><i>(What are you doing here? We've not connected for years. Why now? What's in this for you? What's in this for me?)<span> </span></i></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 18px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSsbAazVLCNU5lytxY5HKTvc5TZnIncjEJzTif569F_IsZa-io2DM5lsFZFQXUjgQNiJAhT2YRcUYqrOo5WgfeF04kMEn5OwYZxTosHOk9-dKA4yLgemof_VM5SZsastzhn-UWjf58KnE3/s1600/++++pres+hearts-symbol-forever-love-clipart-20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="626" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSsbAazVLCNU5lytxY5HKTvc5TZnIncjEJzTif569F_IsZa-io2DM5lsFZFQXUjgQNiJAhT2YRcUYqrOo5WgfeF04kMEn5OwYZxTosHOk9-dKA4yLgemof_VM5SZsastzhn-UWjf58KnE3/s320/++++pres+hearts-symbol-forever-love-clipart-20.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 18px;">
<i><span> </span></i>Come one, come all, as long as I have energy. I keep learning what’s important here at the end of life is connection, reviewing the depth, breadth, nurturance, attitudes, feelings in all this. A visit with an estranged brother: curious and welcome all the same. Such a mix of feelings. Such gratitude underlying it all. Love.</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 18px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 18px;">
Love,</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 18px;">
Dave and Bryn</div>
</div>
bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-77606534063765824352020-02-29T08:30:00.000-05:002020-04-02T23:36:36.126-04:00Been a Big Coupla Wheeks<br />
<br />
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
Been a big couple of weeks here at Old Winters. Bryn’s sister Elayne and husband Jim spent a week with us, helped out as needed. They smoothed our path and shouldered responsibilities so we each could pursue individual goals, offered listening ears, understanding hearts.</div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
</div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfQRWOynjqFFqVe1I3yaSv_YE4oni4o1f8aUNIHw3626j85AmcPvyQRe26mzrwjsygvVm92dW0VK1IbdTyFQt2DUh7PD7w45tqVqwF5tD4nFDS5dkWZPRw-biaV0ssk1j0AuNGZ5EgBrVP/s1600/health+update+2_Heikes+DSC_0147.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="722" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfQRWOynjqFFqVe1I3yaSv_YE4oni4o1f8aUNIHw3626j85AmcPvyQRe26mzrwjsygvVm92dW0VK1IbdTyFQt2DUh7PD7w45tqVqwF5tD4nFDS5dkWZPRw-biaV0ssk1j0AuNGZ5EgBrVP/s320/health+update+2_Heikes+DSC_0147.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>sister Elayne, niece Rachel, nephew Gabe, Dave. Bryn, nice Cammie </i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
Dave’s former wife Naomi, kids Jeremy, Jennifer, Martha & Brian, and grandkids Noah, Brennan, Charlie, Anna, Autumn (ages 12-6) spent Saturday, 15 February, with us. Houseful of fun, food, folks—Elayne’s & Jim’s youngest Gabe and wife Cammie visited, as well. </div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
Bryn was alert and aware, thankful for being present to the activities and individuals involved. He saw a personal wish fulfilled in his clown character Mumblecrust making a brief appearance, presentation and program for the gathering. For 40 years, the clown as served Bryn as teacher, mentor, instructor and guide. Especially poignant for him was the moment when Mumblecrust waved goodbye.</div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy_NL3PdaRsuZewD_IB8N_U3IocHRPLxAb-Y0P28rRXu4Ten67TPBfxAkm6b7_ivVlph5dsKyjmEx6a_4np0yH3Di-C8r1nEOBhh9_m0kVnFAvuR62bI5s_l8NwRxYxivTNhPVM-v64N9N/s1600/health+update+2_clown+DSC_0124.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="722" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy_NL3PdaRsuZewD_IB8N_U3IocHRPLxAb-Y0P28rRXu4Ten67TPBfxAkm6b7_ivVlph5dsKyjmEx6a_4np0yH3Di-C8r1nEOBhh9_m0kVnFAvuR62bI5s_l8NwRxYxivTNhPVM-v64N9N/s400/health+update+2_clown+DSC_0124.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Mumblecrust</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
Life-long (if life begins at 20) friend Serge flew in from Toulouse, France on Thursday night to spend the weekend. Serge was the first person with whom Bryn ever fell in love; the two have remained warm friends ever since. In recent years he, Dave and Bryn have vacationed together. Dave and Bryn used Serge’s and husband Bladimir’s home as a honeymoon destination. This weekend we reminisced, reconnected and relived significant moments. Saying goodbye epitomized sweet sweet sorrow.</div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAUoQNG31J3E-CAmNR6ZtpMqcF5de5H6LXrJb7w5YSuIT6Znimj486-suMop0YLR25nv60Sfih9gtUyWOh81suQmodCj1JI8MNaqPP2O8bHN1awK8QSUWG7Fl_ATr5ZJPfB6H6CNv0Kjag/s1600/health+update+2_Serge-Bryn+DSC-0151.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="458" data-original-width="506" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAUoQNG31J3E-CAmNR6ZtpMqcF5de5H6LXrJb7w5YSuIT6Znimj486-suMop0YLR25nv60Sfih9gtUyWOh81suQmodCj1JI8MNaqPP2O8bHN1awK8QSUWG7Fl_ATr5ZJPfB6H6CNv0Kjag/s320/health+update+2_Serge-Bryn+DSC-0151.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Bryn, Serge</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
</div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
</div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
</div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
</div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit-2kk4GfDZXuZvqnZw3h1iWXu197aZ52pg9QyFlIf3C95_tXTlj9rLPYPd70rL2AHPEKg26FnSxn2XGkahGaMnNqnCI3Rxd0lFTh_Jz-AO4V4MkibVSY-oiXlEVocPSXgEMZ22toIOVuw/s1600/health+update+2_us+angels+DSC-0159.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="447" data-original-width="425" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit-2kk4GfDZXuZvqnZw3h1iWXu197aZ52pg9QyFlIf3C95_tXTlj9rLPYPd70rL2AHPEKg26FnSxn2XGkahGaMnNqnCI3Rxd0lFTh_Jz-AO4V4MkibVSY-oiXlEVocPSXgEMZ22toIOVuw/s320/health+update+2_us+angels+DSC-0159.jpg" width="304" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Serge, Bryn, Dave</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
</div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
</div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
These last few weeks nausea and vomiting have been familiar visitors who arrive unannounced and don’t always stay long before ducking out, only to reappear in eight to ten hours later. But there’s no predicting their pattern. Bryn and his eldest sister Elayne reminisced and visited as energy levels allowed. At one point Bryn was seated opposite Elayne when nausea Adams calling. He grabbed the porcelain pail just in time. In a flash, Elayne was sitting beside him, cradling his forehead, patting his lower-middle back, crooning, “Let it come, it will be alright.”</div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
This brought Bryn to tears. (This, or maybe the bitter acid taste in his mouth, or the fact that his sister had run toward him rather than away when he was at his weakest, most vulnerable, least prettiest.) “Elayne, you are the embodiment of our father’s love,” Bryn told her. “You and I both have strong memories of our dad taking care of us in such a way at such times. Thank you.”</div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc1Kv2RZiv62zDhv-92PyN5TYBHW8fKsPDC8YWsmT_5QC-_u86H2qbX9_wo-tNcaiVEVnc2gPq4qc8-qQiastDVg2S1nxnzMPKBCpV-Wvq-xYht3KbCXVKiRuaRT7VSGyvllDTu5cAH49u/s1600/IMG-2194.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1104" data-original-width="1600" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc1Kv2RZiv62zDhv-92PyN5TYBHW8fKsPDC8YWsmT_5QC-_u86H2qbX9_wo-tNcaiVEVnc2gPq4qc8-qQiastDVg2S1nxnzMPKBCpV-Wvq-xYht3KbCXVKiRuaRT7VSGyvllDTu5cAH49u/s320/IMG-2194.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Iso Papa and three of the grandkids, photo included in a Valentine's Day card from the kids</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
Each of the grandkids put together special Valentine’s Day greetings for their Iso-Papa, as they call Bryn . . . Among the memories they highlight: playtimes together, laughter, energy, games, caring for chickens and geese, woodland hikes, reading books. Photos were included, as well.</div>
<br />
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
The weekend spent saying hello/goodbye to Serge gave me a lens through which to view my passing in and out of life. Three days with my first love, a lifelong friend. Three days to say thank you, to say I love you, I let you go. Three days and no say, really, over whether I would be present to the moment or racked with pain.</div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
I wondered how I would handle this final farewell, saw it as a rehearsal for letting go all whom I love. My tendency: freight such moments with more gravity than they already carry. All my life I’ve tried to pile on too much. ’Had energy for accompanying Serge and Dave to the airport in Indianapolis, but not enough left over for an effusive display of grief and farewell at the gate where we parted. ‘Let Serge’s tears speak for him and me. Waved until he was out of sight.</div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiK8YRD08OGOrJWeJbQa-6ElekZEpaBX116qN7rFDX4SSjXjX3AHVkzPL2e6y2CCO6cQ905YLzD0vAlHFeqhs15S-gl2xAjWhFOY5tOS92afR7tijmQmpSuQKbzND_EU5vslpEHA6roblH/s1600/health+update+2_beds+IMG-2192.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiK8YRD08OGOrJWeJbQa-6ElekZEpaBX116qN7rFDX4SSjXjX3AHVkzPL2e6y2CCO6cQ905YLzD0vAlHFeqhs15S-gl2xAjWhFOY5tOS92afR7tijmQmpSuQKbzND_EU5vslpEHA6roblH/s320/health+update+2_beds+IMG-2192.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>For now, daybeds</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
A hospital bed now graces our living room. I’ll use it as a day bed/daytime headquarters, can still sleep in the bedroom next to Dave. He plans to sleep on the couch when I move to the hospital bed full time. Jaundice is showing in the yellow cast to my skin. Maybe because the bile duct is getting obstructed by the tumor. Made it to Ball State university theatre two times(!) last week—here’s a snapshot of Tish, Kelly, Serge, Dave and Bryn afterward.</div>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirUxODo9rrLLBljgFe9q3bVLOdwmqZ9i_-sbMG5hy746oKi_JcrwQYOfOTC_YynZQAbQP6fESIP9tmw2mkWTlNUE12ZzWtZs2Vss96YPhOKEzFPCXXnNnjXc8hHIoFu1R_j6mvkEB1GHs-/s1600/health+update+2_theatre+crew+IMG-3582.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="521" data-original-width="432" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirUxODo9rrLLBljgFe9q3bVLOdwmqZ9i_-sbMG5hy746oKi_JcrwQYOfOTC_YynZQAbQP6fESIP9tmw2mkWTlNUE12ZzWtZs2Vss96YPhOKEzFPCXXnNnjXc8hHIoFu1R_j6mvkEB1GHs-/s320/health+update+2_theatre+crew+IMG-3582.png" width="264" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Tish, Serge, Kelly, Dave, Bryn</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
</div>
bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-20025364793624548122020-02-14T08:30:00.000-05:002020-04-02T23:06:46.987-04:00Sobering News<br />
<br />
Dear ones,<div class="" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="ii gt" id=":3yg" style="direction: ltr; font-size: 0.875rem; margin: 8px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;">
<div class="a3s aXjCH " id=":3yh" style="font: small / 1.5 Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; overflow: hidden;">
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
We’re feeling our way into the mixed blessing of modern technology. Assuming you have expressed an interest in getting this information, thank you. Your thoughts, prayers and warm well wishes are both welcome and felt. Bryn says he sometimes can sense an unseen safety net around him, buoying him up. We like to think that’s the web of connection making itself known. </div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
No promises as to how often we’ll post these<span> </span><span class="il">updates</span>: life is in flux and things are a whirl at the moment—we’re slow getting this first installment posted. That said, know that we appreciate your loving support.</div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
Sincerely,</div>
<div dir="auto">
Dave and Bryn</div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcgsKhoZw8RRZ_3hDHnLfJU30f5WURWcMN4BkZLnhQKs_D2wOTg0VkcxFabCsv86k3Vt6dy4g3PdPLCrq-YC8IwwyMFluad8WnsRb4LsBSYuTy6UvYVjnabACOTYZiiUE4BXmY41jd6GrT/s1600/Bryn+small+IMG_0484.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1214" data-original-width="809" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcgsKhoZw8RRZ_3hDHnLfJU30f5WURWcMN4BkZLnhQKs_D2wOTg0VkcxFabCsv86k3Vt6dy4g3PdPLCrq-YC8IwwyMFluad8WnsRb4LsBSYuTy6UvYVjnabACOTYZiiUE4BXmY41jd6GrT/s400/Bryn+small+IMG_0484.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bryn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
+ + +</div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
At a glance:</div>
<div dir="auto">
October 2019. Bryn feels unwell, can’t see any reason why. Throughout the month and the next one he sees the doctor several times and test after test comes back “all clear.” Except that is is not all clear and the pain continues. It started with the sensation of a knife stabbing into the base of the rib cage and being drug laterally across. Next the pain focuses on lower back, then middle-lower back, then gut, then lower back again. It ricochets off off these three points, sometimes lighting up two or three areas at the same time. Since his doctor is finding nothing, Bryn seeks chiropractic treatments, hoping this will help. The pain continues to ramp up, as do the medical bills for (some expensive) tests that all say nothing is wrong. </div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
Over a given weekend the pain is especially severe. The doctor has no openings that Monday, so Bryn agrees to drive 45 minutes to a satellite office where he can see a nurse practitioner. She encourages him to get an ultrasound of the chest area. He refuses to throw more money down the rathole of tests that keep coming back clear. She bargains with him, “If I can find you a CT scan for under $400, will you have it done?” He agrees and she’s as good as her word. It’s a low-cost, low-res scan that will ultimately have to be repeated at high-res (and higher cost), but this is the test that comes back showing a suspicious growth on the pancreas. Thank heavens for nurse practitioners who listen to and are willing to work with their patients.</div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
A high-res CT scan indicates the need for an endoscopic biopsy of the pancreatic tumor, Bryn’s first-ever surgery. He makes it through fine. That night the pain ramps out of control. “Take him to the emergency room,” Dave is told. Bryn refuses to go. He wants medicine for the pain, not a huge bill for a visit to the ER. Nothing doing. The surgeon’s fear is something may have gone dreadfully wrong and Bryn may die. Bryn counters that as pancreatic cancer carries a very similar prognosis it won’t make that much of a difference. He just wants something for the pain. Ain’t gonna happen.</div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
Bryn survives the night. Dave calls Bryn’s regular doctor the next day. No, they won’t give out anything for pain since they didn’t do the surgery. Call the surgeon. Nope, surgeon insists Bryn go to ER. He’s just a once-and-done surgeon; pain management is the responsibility of the regular doctor. We call the regular doctor back. No, he didn’t make the referral to the surgeon. Contact the nurse practitioner. Meanwhile, the pain continues. Back to the surgeon who says, “Go to ER for a CT scan.” Sheesh.</div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
In the end Bryn asks the surgeon to order the durn CT scan so as to avoid the ER charges. Bryn has the CT scan which shows the surgery went fine; he’s just in need of something for the pain. Even now the surgeon refuses. Pain management is not his responsibility.</div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
Bryn can count on being up three or more hours each night with pain. Bed to couch, back to bed, back to couch, then soaking in a scalding hot bath, sleeping with a heating pad, making it through one moment to the next. Tylenol and Exederin within reason, pain a constant companion.</div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
Ability to work is compromised. He misses more hours than he makes it in for. On Christmas Eve he meets with the top pancreatic surgeon in Indianapolis who delivers the news: it is inoperable pancreatic cancer. Chemo is suggested.</div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
Bryn meets with an oncologist. She promises pain relief. And comes through for Bryn on the weekend the kids and grandkids and grandparents get together to celebrate Christmas. Bryn has a couple of days where he is able to be present to something and someone other than the pain. By Christmas Day the pain ramp way up again. Days continue like this...unremitting pain. A flurry of medical appointments. Surgery to have a port put in so Bryn can get started on chemotherapy. And still pain.</div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
Then chemo. Not only pain, but nausea, diarrhea and other side effects as well. </div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
Bryn and Dave have some long talks about quality of life, the disease prognosis, goals for the time remaining. Bryn leans toward stopping chemo, asking for a focus on pain management, clarity enough to write a funeral oration, have some moments of being present to the grandkids, be able to put some of his affairs in order. He meets with the palliative care doctor, makes a cogent case for why he’s considering bowing out of chemo.</div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
Says the doctor, “I don’t usually counsel any of my patients to stop chemo, but I’ve never met anyone quite like you.” The doc says he’s reviewed the chart, seen that no one’s promising chemo as a cure, says getting an additional month of life would be considered a good outcome. </div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
Bryn says he doesn’t care for an additional month if he’s going to be feeling as good as he has been. “This is not the quality of life that’s going to help me achieve my goals.” The doctor ups the dosage of pain medicine.</div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
After further consideration, Bryn stops chemo after having had one round of it, signs on for hospice care. Has higher energy—four good days in a row, feels better in those four days than he has for three months. Makes progress on his funeral oration, other goals. Can finally summon energy for writing a little, talking on the phone, visiting in person.</div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
Learns the hard way that energy is going to fluctuate. A hard day may follow a good one or not. No rhyme or reason. As word gets out, people email, telephone and schedule visits.</div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
We schedule a photo shoot with a photographer who makes house calls. Have a lot of fun having our pictures taken.</div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3T7gO3erVfS2tKxcZCwHATdlVSJaRmoxXnUOiq_IetQliKlAF4t4hbp6Q7HpRNLnLEriOyV89LHqgK_df0knLQjicCJt8uBYF-LE6EgF2i_pb-PJKGwQNMkK8DqfjpaYbUP78BYYSRc0J/s1600/Bryn+Dave+snow+globe+small+IMG_0599.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="576" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3T7gO3erVfS2tKxcZCwHATdlVSJaRmoxXnUOiq_IetQliKlAF4t4hbp6Q7HpRNLnLEriOyV89LHqgK_df0knLQjicCJt8uBYF-LE6EgF2i_pb-PJKGwQNMkK8DqfjpaYbUP78BYYSRc0J/s400/Bryn+Dave+snow+globe+small+IMG_0599.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bryn and Dave caught in a snow globe</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
Bryn contacts Ball State University officials about their interest in accepting donation of his diaries and papers—a personal record of one man coming out gay at a unique time in the nation’s history. Yes, they’re interested in expanding the diversity of their holdings. And would you be interested in making a class presentation, review the story of your life? “Why, yes I would.” That presentation was on Wednesday of this week. It went well and Bryn enjoyed and appreciated the opportunity to share his story in this forum. As he was speaking one woman leaned over to Dave and whispered, “It looks like he’s in his element.” She was spot on. </div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
If we get a promised link to the video we’ll send it your way. Meanwhile, attached are a couple of proofs from the photo shoot. </div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
All this comes to you with gratitude for your support and caring and staying in touch. There is something to this unseen web, the cords of love that bind heart to heart to heart. I’m glad to be in it with you.</div>
<div dir="auto">
<br /></div>
<div dir="auto">
Thank you,</div>
<div dir="auto">
Bryn</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-67151854922100297462020-02-08T08:01:00.000-05:002020-04-01T19:15:21.801-04:00Dear Boone Grove High School Librarian,<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDDFotodxQfZ6hRGkmFaItCNyeVrDk6SRkT5_94z60Aeis62t7GqizoCDd3M4PA2XBj7kd1QhXGyk0jMAxachAcvpThcBnXTUqa4vYpw_bvf9fu5sNytCuXukC9gxDLxKANLPhfO8AI_c1/s1600/wolf-brother-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1089" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDDFotodxQfZ6hRGkmFaItCNyeVrDk6SRkT5_94z60Aeis62t7GqizoCDd3M4PA2XBj7kd1QhXGyk0jMAxachAcvpThcBnXTUqa4vYpw_bvf9fu5sNytCuXukC9gxDLxKANLPhfO8AI_c1/s640/wolf-brother-4.jpg" width="435" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV1KV44BBgAGA_rwKzMILuk05-FC3A1n4KHo_6__xdDtp_4d1KEbHNyHvkpmjp9A_shODtjNVBczceAT4jo_JOHElshBWej4hdkyEfqp1fKf3Qg8XXRdkITj4TplKYLrS0QTbkbUN0CyT-/s1600/Wolf+Brother+date+due+IMG_2227.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV1KV44BBgAGA_rwKzMILuk05-FC3A1n4KHo_6__xdDtp_4d1KEbHNyHvkpmjp9A_shODtjNVBczceAT4jo_JOHElshBWej4hdkyEfqp1fKf3Qg8XXRdkITj4TplKYLrS0QTbkbUN0CyT-/s320/Wolf+Brother+date+due+IMG_2227.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<blockquote style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" type="cite">
<div dir="ltr">
<div dir="ltr">
<div dir="ltr">
<div dir="ltr">
<span class="im" style="color: #500050;"></span><br />
<div dir="auto">
<span class="im" style="color: #500050;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Dear Boone Grove High School librarian,</span></span></div>
<span class="im" style="color: #500050;">
<div dir="auto">
<br style="color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I feel rather sheepish coming to you this late in my life with an overdue book. OK, not overdue, stolen. A book I stole from the library 47 years ago when I was in eighth grade. My husband and I are cleaning house, setting my affairs in order. Today we started going through my books—I have a ton of them—and the race is on. Doctors tell me I have maybe two months left to live with pancreatic cancer.</span></div>
<div dir="auto">
<br style="color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">One of the books I pulled from the shelf today was <i>Wolf Brother</i> by Jim Kjelgaard. I smiled when I found it, set it aside. I want to return it to you with my apologies.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Kjelgaard’s novel spoke to me back when I was a gay boy who did not then know he was gay. A goody two shoes, good church boy who worked in the library’s AV section, helping set up audio visual equipment for various classrooms. A bookish lad, shy, withdrawn, introverted, teased. Teased for what? For being gay, awkward, naive, stupid, foolish. For being a prick, a prig. A boy who identified with the main character in <i>Wolf Brother</i>.</span></div>
<div dir="auto">
<br style="color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">It’s the story of an Apache youth who returns to his people after years in a white man’s boarding school. He gets caught up with a band of his people who refuse to remain confined to the reservation, choose to pursue freedom against overwhelming odds. The Apache are branded as cutthroat savages, hunted mercilessly. The boy earns the name Wolf Brother when he befriends a lonesome wolf cub and vice versa. This unlikely pair play an important role in the novel, come to each other’s rescue, are able to escape, eventually help carry hope back to the tribe. Wolf Brother serves as an example of how to make it through.</span></div>
<div dir="auto">
<br style="color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">What spoke to me in this tale? Perhaps it was echoes of a boy who is on the outside, whose world is falling apart, who must find his way through tribulation and trial, anger and prejudice, make a way for himself and a life for those he loves.</span></div>
<div dir="auto">
<br style="color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Throughout my life is not Wolf who has been my totem, my spirit animal guide, but Bear. Bear came to me in a recurring dream throughout childhood. Time and time again he chased me around and around and around the garage at our house on Highway Two. It was always the same dream: me, running pell mell in terror, the bear hot on my heels. I would wake up sweating, panting, scared.</span></div>
<div dir="auto">
<br style="color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The dream came back to me after I'd come out as a gay man in mid life. Had left a wife and three small children, was living by myself in a ratty apartment in a building soon to be condemned by the city. Sleep was hard in those days. Eating was hard. Putting a life together was hard. Then Bear showed up to terrorize my night dreams.</span></div>
<div dir="auto">
<br style="color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I was angry, but had the wherewithal to say,<i> I cannot go on like this. I will not. The next time this dream happens, I'm going to turn and face the bear.</i> The dream came again with Bear chasing me around my parent's garage. As I ran through the pine trees I could feel its hot breath on my neck, slap of pine tree needles in my face.</span></div>
<div dir="auto">
<br style="color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I turned to face the bear, plunged my hands deep into its fur, yanked its face up towards mine. (My skin still gets goose pimples when I think of this.) I looked that animal straight in the eyes. It was me I was looking at. I was the bear. I was running from myself.</span></div>
<div dir="auto">
<br style="color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I realized I had always been running from myself.</span></div>
<div dir="auto">
<br style="color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I swore then to walk alongside Bear, rely on his power, strength, courage, wisdom. He has reappeared to me since. Never again in the dream chasing me. But whether in waking life or in the liminal world of sleep, I pay attention when Bear shows up.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">After coming out I met and married a man whose animal totem Wolf is different than mine. Yet he understood and embraced the concept of an animal spirit guide. We share many similarities. Dave grew up on a farm in rural northwest Ohio; I grew up on a hobby farm in rural northwest Indiana. We share core values: simplicity, integrity, compassion. Value the unseen as much as the seen. Live without TV, cell phone and until recently internet connection. He's retired now after a long stint as chaplain with hospice. (I signed up for hospice yesterday.)</span></div>
</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</blockquote>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3zKVE32e7YHzgO-wixqqvoZsz8SfNLWL-Mk8GbTZWG9OlfAhCJ314pMnhptbTj9bGZGwJUGDz1A87Z6kBVzGoveCflusNyyJanyszuDMc4SL1ULen3nCSpKMGSr1BZSRw1ZdjXLtLvAj3/s1600/Dave+and+Bryn+IMG-2143.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1202" data-original-width="1136" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3zKVE32e7YHzgO-wixqqvoZsz8SfNLWL-Mk8GbTZWG9OlfAhCJ314pMnhptbTj9bGZGwJUGDz1A87Z6kBVzGoveCflusNyyJanyszuDMc4SL1ULen3nCSpKMGSr1BZSRw1ZdjXLtLvAj3/s320/Dave+and+Bryn+IMG-2143.jpg" width="302" /></a></div>
<br />
<blockquote style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" type="cite">
<div dir="ltr">
<div dir="ltr">
<div dir="ltr">
<div dir="ltr">
<span class="im" style="color: #500050;"></span><br />
<div dir="auto">
<span class="im" style="color: #500050;"><br style="color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /></span>
<span class="im" style="color: #500050;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">In partnership with this Wolf Brother of mine, I learned to live outside the rules of society. We made our way as two gay men in rural Indiana against blatant opposition from the legal system, religious system, society at large. In 24 years together our lives, our love has served as an example for others. They’ve told us so. I am grateful.</span></span></div>
<span class="im" style="color: #500050;">
<div dir="auto">
<br style="color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Grateful, too, for a story that spoke to me those many years ago. Grateful for the way I embraced the story, lived it, made it my own. My thanks to you for the lifetime loan of this book are long overdue.</span></div>
<div dir="auto">
<br style="color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Sincerely,</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Bryn Marlow, Class of ’77</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Boone Grove School</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Home of the Wolves</span></div>
</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</blockquote>
bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-54399869113797157622018-02-07T16:08:00.000-05:002018-02-07T16:08:21.989-05:00on growing older, tigers, monsters and that thing called love
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px}
span.Apple-tab-span {white-space:pre}
</style>
<br />
<div class="p1">
Dear son,</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs-mnJAjyrK2P7xT3S7hrfnh8DsDQmfbL3gGC3Re4240_9ND0fyKCXCxl72j4bxBu3NNRHvxWbp14zm8EYbUReADurerqyTa9hXHAhyphenhyphenwwsy-Rouwy8B14w_eymcsCkt9WPzGdn6yJVCVBq/s1600/++07Feb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="664" data-original-width="432" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs-mnJAjyrK2P7xT3S7hrfnh8DsDQmfbL3gGC3Re4240_9ND0fyKCXCxl72j4bxBu3NNRHvxWbp14zm8EYbUReADurerqyTa9hXHAhyphenhyphenwwsy-Rouwy8B14w_eymcsCkt9WPzGdn6yJVCVBq/s320/++07Feb.jpg" width="208" /></a></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Today is your 30th birthday. Happy day! I’m celebrating with you.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Rather, celebrating without you.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Better yet, I’m celebrating you.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>My mind flashes to the day you turned three. Your mother and I had been egging you on, promoting the belief that to turn three is a grand accomplishment, telling you how big you were going to be. To cement the date in your head we used the tune “Mary had a little lamb” and taught you these lyrics:</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><i>My birthday is February seventh,</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>February seventh, February seventh;</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>My birthday is February seventh,</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<i><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>And I’ll be three years old.</i></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-converted-space"> <span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></span>You were a precocious child anyway, and armed with this information, you had a long-form response for anyone who asked how old you were.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>You woke up the morning of your third birthday and raced to the sitting room, stood before the mirrored door of Grandma Brown’s antique wardrobe. And began to cry.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>“What’s up?” I asked.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>“I don’t look any bigger,” you said.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<i><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>You dear child.</i></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>+ + +</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Do you feel bigger today for having rounded the corner into your thirties?</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>I remember wrassling with you in the bedroom. We’d play “Tiger” with me as the striped beast on hands and knees and you the feckless hunter who would launch himself from atop the bed onto the unsuspecting feline’s back.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>At 30, do you have the world by its tail?</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>I remember many post-divorce games of Monster at the playground beside the White River. I took the title role whilst you and your younger brothers sought refuge atop the slide, jungle gym, climbing structure. I gave chase. Somehow you were always able to elude me.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Do you still see me as a monster? Do you still live in a world where gay fathers are hell-bent on their sons' destruction and must be avoided at all costs?</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Been a long time since you turned ten, since you told me, “Dad, I don’t want to see or talk to you for a while.” Curious, the twists life takes. Curious, how long it takes us sometimes to learn the simplest lessons. Yet there are many opportunities to grow.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>We don’t always attain the heights we set for ourselves—or others set for us.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Why not take the world by tail? Launch yourself forth in exuberance, expectation, delight. And see what happens.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Keep your eyes peeled for danger, sure. And do your best to learn where true danger lies. All is not what it seems.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>You get to make a fair amount of choices in this world. Make them as wisely as you can. There’s an awful lot beyond your control. Accept this with all the grace you can muster.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>+ + +</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>These last 20 years have been a lesson for me in love, loss, what it is to love into loss. Love into the void. The red cords that tether heart to heart in spite of time, distance, emptiness. The power of memory, intention.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>I've learned love lasts a lifetime. That we are surrounded by love—even from people we don’t know, choose not to know or remember.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Here’s to you, son. In celebration of a milestone. In anticipation of whatever lies ahead. In life, in death, in love,</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Dad</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<br />bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-72175771981177393602016-01-01T00:00:00.000-05:002017-03-20T18:00:40.079-04:00Guess who's coming to dinner?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimzk3kqB-vMR79V10HcUSO5fq8_T-sD8jXMxeg-EfQJIJafO7B05xXVqZpjjHuunH_V-G_FHd8cfRtztYdTRKFiY2cD9PuIKtM-BZQ7O3zdOFGaSsimxI482CUU8v-Tkhhyr7P-sVqonTn/s1600/pexels-photo-296881.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimzk3kqB-vMR79V10HcUSO5fq8_T-sD8jXMxeg-EfQJIJafO7B05xXVqZpjjHuunH_V-G_FHd8cfRtztYdTRKFiY2cD9PuIKtM-BZQ7O3zdOFGaSsimxI482CUU8v-Tkhhyr7P-sVqonTn/s320/pexels-photo-296881.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Living in the rural Midwest, I’ve had to develop a finely honed sense of gaydar as a means of self-defense. I want to know who’s a safe person for me, who’s not, before I open my mouth and render myself vulnerable. Sometimes the cues are fairly obvious: hair, voice, dress, mannerisms. Sometimes I see my former repressed self in a person and little bells in my head go <i>ding, ding, ding</i>.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>My husband Dave and I arrive at our favorite charity’s fund-raising dinner to discover we’re assigned to table four. Feels a bit posh, reserved tables; a bit constrictive, assigned seats. Table four sits stage right, a round top with eight chairs, four people already seated. We know two of them—a married couple. We sit down next to them, leave two empty seats between us and the strangers. These are two women. We exchange names, greetings. Then one of the women pulls out her smartphone to check football scores, reports to the other. <i>Ding, ding, ding.</i></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><i>Hmph. ’Might have sat closer to those two had I known they’re lesbians.</i></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>An African American couple joins us just as a local dignitary rises to say grace. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><i>Ah, ours is the diversity table: gays, lesbians, African Americans, and white Anglo-Saxon Catholic heterosexual allies.</i> </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>In my experience, people who value diversity are more relaxed, less uptight, more fun than the average sourpuss. Sure enough, ours is the table to be at. All through dinner we laugh and carry on loudly. Others cast glances our way—envious glances, I’m sure.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>As the program concludes I pull the lesbians aside, ask them over for supper sometime. I am conscious of what I am doing—zeroing in on one couple to the exclusion of the other two. I have my reasons. The lesbian couple is most likely to be safe; after all, we speak a shared language of experience; we can compare notes on what it is to be queer in conservative rural Indiana. The WASC heterosexuals live too far away. The African American couple keeps a tremendously busy schedule. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Too, I'm reading a book about our systemic racism, how in this country racism gets infused into our thinking, our belief systems, our very blood. No “c’m’on over for supper some night” gesture is enough. If I'm serious about addressing my internalized racism I need to meet my African American neighbors on their own turf. I need to make a serious and lifelong commitment to familiarizing myself with their culture, their area of town, their church traditions. I need to hang out in places where African American people hang out, eat in the establishments they frequent, shop where they do. Combatting the years of entrenched internal racism is no easy task. Nothing simple about it. No guarantee of success, only the promise of effort and energy. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>I don’t want to sign up for that gig. I don't want to work so hard. Easier for me to keep my life small, set my sights low. When I do open my door to new acquaintances I want them to be just like me. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>The irony smacks me upside the head. In coming out, I wanted my parents to understand what being gay means to me. I wanted them to meet my friends, read books, think critically about stereotypes they held. And would they? No. They clung to wilful ignorance and I faulted them for it. I wanted to holler, “For God’s sake—or mine, anyway—get outside your comfort zone and see what you’re missing.” </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Now here I am, doing my own version of their polka. Quick mincing steps. Limiting myself. Clinging to what feels safe. <i>If I don’t stick my neck out it won’t get chopped off.</i> But what do I know?</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Several days after the charity fund-raiser I chance to meet the organization’s executive director, a friend of mine. “Dave and I were glad to be the gay male couple at the diversity table,” I tell her. “In fact, the lesbians we dined with are coming over for dinner next week.”</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>She looks at me with furrowed brows. “That wasn’t a diversity table,” she says. “I put people there who volunteer for us. And those women? They aren’t a couple as far as I know. They’re friends. They live a long ways from each other. Different counties. One has a husband and three children.”</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 18.0px; font: 14.0px Cochin}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 18.0px; font: 14.0px Cochin; min-height: 17.0px}
span.Apple-tab-span {white-space:pre}
</style>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>This dinner party may prove more awkward than I imagined. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSj_kJz4BpLktjtL9_0ZRuiqyhQQu31LymGD-ysAvKvnxsSJMLBojG3TOk3D1rB0_ioqY4GHkaIqSMDHWcaeHxgERZ3fv0dCD0JbnGt0H9gVBmkmXAzvoREqvQO0UT5vPhgJXY6scU9h1W/s1600/pexels-man-stress-male-face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSj_kJz4BpLktjtL9_0ZRuiqyhQQu31LymGD-ysAvKvnxsSJMLBojG3TOk3D1rB0_ioqY4GHkaIqSMDHWcaeHxgERZ3fv0dCD0JbnGt0H9gVBmkmXAzvoREqvQO0UT5vPhgJXY6scU9h1W/s320/pexels-man-stress-male-face.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-72191765552456875342015-12-01T00:00:00.000-05:002015-12-24T09:22:56.636-05:00Who Let the Cat In?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3xesceap9iBuNFoO5RJ5-xjK21Ru9zEb0GLOuwADS-sVy9uYlnIku2daktSogoC0q6mBZofcgLeTU2VfX-uDh2iWCOfN6EPIQBwVcDpXAQ8r7Mph4CRY1E10cv7E5ULHRqH3ZFe1QnYBx/s1600/cat+at+creche.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3xesceap9iBuNFoO5RJ5-xjK21Ru9zEb0GLOuwADS-sVy9uYlnIku2daktSogoC0q6mBZofcgLeTU2VfX-uDh2iWCOfN6EPIQBwVcDpXAQ8r7Mph4CRY1E10cv7E5ULHRqH3ZFe1QnYBx/s320/cat+at+creche.png" width="180" /></a></div>
They're all a little worse for wear, the figures in our nativity scene. They show their age, their hard knock lives. The shepherd has lost his nose. Our lone wise man has lost both his companions and a chip off his shoulder. Our baby Jesus was dropped as an infant. The fall cost him the toes on his left foot and severed his left arm at the shoulder. <br />
<br />
Ours is not an expensive set hand-carved in Italy. With the exception of a black cat made of resin and stamped Singapore, the characters who gather at our manger boast a French connection—they were formed when wet plaster of Paris was poured into little molds and left to harden. Still, some unknown artist(s) took time decorating the figures. Jesus' eyelashes rival any drag queen’s. The sheep exudes personality. A touch of rouge on Mary’s cheeks sets her face aglow. <br />
<br />
After my dad died my husband Dave and I helped my mom clean out his workshop in the garage. This manger scene was tucked away on a back shelf. I asked if we could have it. I don't know its history or how my father came to have it. It's not the nativity set I remember from childhood. Maybe he bought it at a garage sale.<br />
<br />
It dates to the 1930s or 40s. It’s been cared for, even if its plaster players have suffered setbacks over the years. A previous owner made them a plain wooden stable with three openings: a huge bay that leads onto the front patio, a little window, forward-facing, low and off to one side, and a round hole high up in the back that admits a single small lightbulb. <br />
<br />
The homemade manger looks like a watering trough to me. It’s long enough the shepherd could lay down and take a bath in it. We've filled it with grey downy feathers from our chickens to make a soft bed for the Baby Jesus. I bet he once looked cute with both arms intact, outstretched. But he wouldn’t have been able to lay in this skinny manger. With only one arm, he fits in just fine. <br />
<br />
This year most everybody huddles inside the stable. Only Jesus, the sheep and shepherd are out on the patio. The donkey sticks his nose out the wide entrance. His ears lie flat against his head. This was a design choice meant to keep them from breaking off, I'm sure, but he looks as if someone's slipped crank case oil into his oats. Or maybe he’s feeling pain in his right hind leg where a chunk of flesh is missing. <br />
<br />
O, we are broken people every one, none of us a stranger to injury, indignity and loss. Sometimes we stand on the outside, left in the cold. Sometimes we grouse and grumble from within. Sometimes we’re as befuddled as the shepherd, with a look on our faces every bit as blank and dull as his.<br />
<br />
Being human is no cake walk. “Life breaks everyone,” Hemingway wrote. “Afterward, many are strong at the broken places.”<br />
<br />
When I worked as editor of my alma mater's alumni magazine I insisted we do more than fill each issue with puff pieces about how wonderful everything was on campus. <i>Who's gonna believe that and for how long?</i> I wanted to remind readers we were human, real, <i>honest.</i><br />
<br />
I relate best to folks who have suffered loss, who aren’t always at their best, who know the taste of defeat. Who keep showing up, year after year, scars and all. The people who scare me are the ones who know everything, have no doubts and no problems. They’re either delusional or divine. Either way I want to watch my step around them.<br />
<br />
Each December a black cat with no nose peers out the side window of our stable. I’d like to know where he fits into the story, how he came to join this crew. Yet I’m glad we’ve made room for the unexpected, the unexplained. So much of life is mystery. Let’s celebrate it for what it is.bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-57405961131181274642015-11-01T00:00:00.000-04:002015-11-11T12:35:00.219-05:00Flying Lessons from an Unlikely Angel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA2HfMd89dQ3BpfRAwKZEAHhKjSaPONihUobo6rM2UqHydX2BLRgypWc7BTVGjS4Q5dIUmxgGd2EsIyv4X4EZJQyUJVLHbbIIOYKiA50NTeR7jSJbh9G1BFLgCdW09iA892tbmsTAiMX75/s1600/WLA_ima_Angel_of_the_Resurrection.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA2HfMd89dQ3BpfRAwKZEAHhKjSaPONihUobo6rM2UqHydX2BLRgypWc7BTVGjS4Q5dIUmxgGd2EsIyv4X4EZJQyUJVLHbbIIOYKiA50NTeR7jSJbh9G1BFLgCdW09iA892tbmsTAiMX75/s640/WLA_ima_Angel_of_the_Resurrection.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
"The world had been sad since Tuesday." Gabriel Marquez grabs my attention with this line in his short story, "A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings." The sad world expresses itself with ash-grey skies and sea, three days of constant rain.<br />
<br />
During the downpour the parents of a newborn baby find an aged man lying face down in their backyard. His bedraggled wings are stuck in the mud. They’re amazed at first, but then. . . . well, the man is ancient, bald, nearly toothless. He speaks what they guess is Norwegian. They take him for a shipwrecked sailor—until the wise woman of the village points out the obvious: he has wings; he must be an angel.<br />
<br />
"Club him to death," she says. <br />
<br />
They lock him in the chicken coop instead and call for the priest. He finds the winged man suspect. The old geezer smells terribly human and doesn’t understand Latin, the language of God. A crowd gathers. Curiosity-seekers gawk and jeer. Pilgrims pray and petition. The homeowners fence off their yard and charge a nickel admission. The line stretches as far as they can see.<br />
<br />
The angel ignores them all. Eventually, the visitors and villagers lose interest, distracted by some new wonder. The courtyard falls silent. The angel’s hosts don’t mind. They’ve made enough money to better their situation.<br />
<br />
His eyes rheumy with age, the angel wanders house and yard, bumps into posts, seems not long for this world. <br />
<br />
Then one day the wife sees him attempt flight. He careens about the yard, crashes into the shed, ploughs into the vegetable garden. At last he lifts off. She breathes a sigh of relief, both for herself and for him, watches until he becomes a small dot on the horizon.<br />
<br />
End of story. And the beginning of its impact on me. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
+ + +</div>
<br />
We human beings have such a messed up relationship with the divine. Sure, drop an angel in our laps and we’ll take notice—then take advantage or try to turn a profit. Soon enough our attention wanders. Magic unfolds beneath our noses and we count it beneath our notice. We’re messed up, indeed.<br />
<br />
Or maybe not. Maybe we’re simply human. T.S. Elliot writes: “‘Go, Go,’ said the bird. ‘Human kind cannot bear very much reality.’” <br />
<br />
The birds I live with keep driving this message home. Every day my pet chickens present me with fresh eggs—the stuff of miracle and mystery. Yet I take them for granted.<br />
<br />
You’ve seen the inside of an egg. Nothing magic there. A yellow ball of pus sailing a translucent sea of snot. Mmm. I’ll have mine over easy, please.<br />
<br />
But put a fertile egg in our home incubator—as we did this spring—and 21 days later a baby chick emerges. Mouths open, my husband Dave and I watched life literally unfold, take a deep breath, start kicking about and knocking into things. <br />
<br />
This little winged miracle has since lost its luster, become just another chicken in our home flock. Another mouth to feed and water, another bird to lock in at night. Another reason to clean out the coop. <br />
<br />
Chicken shit happens. And human kind cannot bear too much reality.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
+ + +</div>
<br />
I might as well have been a Norwegian castaway dropped with a thump into the middle of my very straight, very conservative church-going family. It wasn’t wings but horns they thought I’d grown when I came out as a gay man. What to do with me? Club me to death? Call in the priest? Lock me away? They tried everything they knew. <br />
<br />
Not until my wings grew strong enough, not until I could unfurl them, careen about the place, finally take flight . . . not until I became a dot on their horizon did my true nature show itself.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
+ + +</div>
<br />
Maybe that’s how it is for each of us—we are born with tattered feathers, thrash about, run headlong into walls. Only when we recognize the reality of the divine within, the miracle of our being, only then are we able to cut loose and fly.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Image: Louis Tiffany's window, "<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louis_Comfort_Tiffany">Angel of the Resurrection</a>" (1904), Indianapolis Museum of Art, compliments of Wikipedia bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-79139026114476847382015-10-01T00:00:00.000-04:002015-10-01T00:00:09.279-04:00WHAT’S WITH THESE LITTLE BITE MARKS ON MY NECK, ANYWAY?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFMKj4_8xKcZ5nDHKm43GVagnLVi45EZk7G7GbXPj8TaGHY9po5VYIyn4YhrCwyC0RXAld5rWVXTb6GGQKvx6_pXBYKQv1vxQJFV-0JLmOBGnJzGZvJ4IT9Sds2kLDzYS0AEzlYIp59Xo4/s1600/Temptation_of_Saint_Anthony_%2528Gru%25CC%2588newald%2529%252C_detail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFMKj4_8xKcZ5nDHKm43GVagnLVi45EZk7G7GbXPj8TaGHY9po5VYIyn4YhrCwyC0RXAld5rWVXTb6GGQKvx6_pXBYKQv1vxQJFV-0JLmOBGnJzGZvJ4IT9Sds2kLDzYS0AEzlYIp59Xo4/s640/Temptation_of_Saint_Anthony_%2528Gru%25CC%2588newald%2529%252C_detail.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
“Do you want me to make you anything special for your birthday?” Dave asks.<br /><br /> “Yes,” I say, “cake.” <br /><br /> His mouth falls open. <br /><br /> “With ice cream. And hot fudge.” <br /><br /> “Are you serious?” he asks. My husband’s expression, his entire body language shouts, <i>I’ve been waiting all year for this!</i> <br /><br /> We decided to avoid sugar and artificial sweeteners this year as much as possible. The no’s started on New Year’s Day. No cake, no cookies, no candy, no chocolate chips. Worse, no ice cream.<br /><br /> Amazing the prepared foods laced with sugar: bread, snack crackers, red beans, creamed corn, dried fruit, light mayo, marshmallows. Many others. <br /><br /> We’ve changed our eating habits. No coffee creamer. No dry cereal with any taste. We now dress salads with oil and vinegar. For dessert, bananas—or apples, almonds, plain yogurt, muffins made with fruit juice concentrate instead of sugar, and so on. <br /><br /> I’ve been resolute. (Dave calls it stubborn.) I’m like that. Once my mind clamps down on an idea I’ll face hell and high water before I let go. <br /><br /> Of late I’ve met Count Chocula’s gaze without flinching. Told the Nestlé bunny to get lost. And shed 30 pounds since January. This strengthens my resolve. <br /><br /> So my birthday request surprises Dave. “What kind of cake do you want?” he asks.<br /><br /> “Something light,” I say, grabbing a vintage cookbook. “Here: Dorothy’s Fabulous Oatmeal Cake. But just a half-recipe, please—one layer.”<br /><br /> A few days later Dave unveils his masterpiece: a nine-inch round cut in half, stacked two layers high, slathered with coconut-pecan penuche. I forget to breathe. <br /><br /> I want that cake. I WANT it. It surprises and shames me how much I want it. Want all of it. Am prepared to face down anyone who’d dare stop me, even Dave. <br /><br /> I’ve forgotten sugar has this effect on me. <br /><br /> My intense craving reminds me of a gruesome passage I read, maybe in one of Anne Rice’s vampire novels. <br />
<br /><br /> <i>Two sexy young men fall for each other. Their love is doomed. Not only does medieval society forbid such relationships, a vampire wants one of them as his new boy toy. <br /><br /> The vampire stakes his claim during a bloody necking session. The youth resists the older man’s advances, then refuses to embrace his own fateful transformation.<br /><br /> The young lovers are imprisoned separately in a castle dungeon. Jailers ply the one with food; they starve the other. <br /><br /> Crazed with hunger and a thirst he’s never known, the boy toy collapses against his cell door. It opens. He wanders a dark corridor, senses a warm-blooded animal presence ahead. His lips pull back from his teeth. He snarls. <br /><br /> He nearly flies down the hallway, attacks, eats, drinks. Only afterward does he realize he’s killed his lover. No matter. The transformation is complete. He is vampire.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /> Eying my birthday cake, I can relate. <br /><br /> Desire is the thing with teeth. I know this. Although I’m a novice when it comes to erotica, I can devote hours looking at pictures of sexy men. That photos still fascinate me my friend Jim finds quaint. Like most gay men I know, he prefers online videos.<br /><br /> “A magazine with nude pictures used to excite me,” he says. “Now it’s passé. I’ve been desensitized. It takes more and more extreme images to get me off. Some nights I spend two hours surfing for the one video that will do it.”<br /><br /> He pauses. “And you know what? It’s dampened my desire for one-on-one human contact. The men I meet in real life never measure up to what I can see online.” <br /><br /> Another friend tells me he stopped watching internet porn after hearing a TED talk about how pornography zaps the power of the imagination. He abstained for three months.<br /><br /> I’d probably last three days. My steadfast refusal to get wired is in part, self-preservation. If we had internet access at home I fear I’d turn vampire. I forget that eye candy, like ice cream, is best enjoyed in moderation. Desire bites the hand that feeds it. Sometimes the neck.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Image credit: detail, Temptation of Saint Anthony, by Grünewald</span></span></span>bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-28534713912762629422015-09-01T00:00:00.000-04:002015-09-18T12:52:15.262-04:00The Uses of Enchantment<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8pJChKXlAjLAIJX85jOAc9blB8BQwBmba4lPwLMfkdzackOAjolZUI08q3tJ_O1HvC_tAPlOlb3FiNsMkbWj-LvJkVOs5oQRWhFgPiPWYVcmQN8bFWmfri32j-y_Ma-RliUx91p2uqX64/s1600/metropolis1928_by_Dix.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8pJChKXlAjLAIJX85jOAc9blB8BQwBmba4lPwLMfkdzackOAjolZUI08q3tJ_O1HvC_tAPlOlb3FiNsMkbWj-LvJkVOs5oQRWhFgPiPWYVcmQN8bFWmfri32j-y_Ma-RliUx91p2uqX64/s640/metropolis1928_by_Dix.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
The spotlight hits the shiny silver tinsel curtain. Out steps the master of ceremonies. He leers at us with thick mascaraed eyes, gender-bending costume of tight black pants, black army boots, tightly laced corset, white tank top undershirt. I know this character. He lives inside me and has for a long time.<br />
<br />
“<i>Wilkommen, bienvenue,</i> welcome…" he sings, “<i>Fremde, enchantre</i>, stranger.” It's our local civic theatre’s production of the stage musical <i>Cabaret</i>. The setting is the Kit Kat Klub in Berlin. The Nazi Party is coming to power and the main characters are oblivious. Life is a cabaret, after all. <br />
<br />
For the audience, too. In an oily voice the emcee tells us, “Leave all your troubles outside. Here, life is beautiful." And so it seems. Singing, dancing, laughs and love stories muffle the drumbeat of approaching horror. <br />
<br />
It comes as a shock to us watching, the first appearance of the swastika, that black-on-white-on-red symbol. We cringe when we hear the Nazi Party’s anthem sung with gusto, watch others go on with their lives as if they haven’t a care in the world. We know what they are not able or willing to see. It’s playing out before our eyes. And theirs.<br />
<br />
As the evening progresses, the emcee’s role grows more and more sinister. Grinning his death mask grin he openly mocks Jews, throws a brick through the window of a Jewish shopkeeper. For most of the play the main characters act like nothing out of the ordinary is happening. As the close, Cliff, a writer from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, decides to write a novel about his experience: <i>There was a cabaret and there was a master of ceremonies in a city called Berlin, in a country called Germany, and it was the end of the world. I was dancing with Sally Bowles and we were both fast asleep.</i><br />
<br />
“Life is a cabaret, old chum, come to the cabaret.” Sally doesn’t fool us with her celebrated song. It’s obvious to us her life is anything but a cabaret. It’s unraveling. Hitler’s reach extends to the doors of the Kit Kat Klub. Death, destruction and doom are in the offing. We know this. What to do with our knowledge, that’s the question. <br />
<br />
One dance number includes a Rockettes-like kickline. We have our hands apart, ready to clap and cheer—but the performers finish with a Heil Hitler salute and goose-step off stage. Into the awkward silence a man behind me asks, “How are you supposed to applaud that?” <br />
<br />
We audience members are not innocent bysitters; we’re implicated by what we know. We know life is no cabaret—not for them on stage, not for us in our padded seats. Yet we act like it is. Here we are at the theatre, forgetting our troubles for an evening. <br />
<br />
What are we avoiding? <br />
<br />
The emcee—the whole show—keeps telling me something I already know, a message that came mixed in with my baby formula: it takes a lot of work not to see what's in front of your face, not to hear what's being said, not to know what you know . . . but if we all work together we can make it happen. <br />
<br />
With concerted effort, I grew up unaware I am gay. My family valued denial and avoidance as coping mechanisms. Too few years ago my parents worked hard to ignore the cancer then ravaging my dad's body. His "sudden" death genuinely surprised my mother.<br />
<br />
Denial permeates our culture and our country’s politics. Elected leaders vie to lead the parade of their constituents pooh-poohing the latest bad news. The call to avoidance is everywhere. Pretend. Deny. Escape.<br />
<br />
How well I know it. Almost every day an oily voice deep within promises a comfy chair, speedy internet connection and plenty of eye candy—easy entertainment to numb the gritty pain of living fully alive. <br />
<br />
<i> Bienvenue stranger.</i><br />
<br />
Stranger? He and I are old friends.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">photo credit: Otto Dix, Metropolis 1928</span></span></span>bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-30058313846615949732015-08-01T00:00:00.000-04:002015-08-01T00:00:01.242-04:00Close Encounters of the Weird Kind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfqz2dNhy7JTYldSDN079JN3bMGfVGcQRgFzINrGDfThBfP0RIqp74IQhwJIuTRIALa3GLw_c0dAAbum7y_JC7zNMkbUFjsBW6SkBVkb8ZZnezqLFCpDKi-WC8DEPK9b26C9-fbCdjKSX9/s1600/Punch+cartoon+amalgam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfqz2dNhy7JTYldSDN079JN3bMGfVGcQRgFzINrGDfThBfP0RIqp74IQhwJIuTRIALa3GLw_c0dAAbum7y_JC7zNMkbUFjsBW6SkBVkb8ZZnezqLFCpDKi-WC8DEPK9b26C9-fbCdjKSX9/s320/Punch+cartoon+amalgam.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
If he volunteers to climb into our shopping cart, we'll gladly take him for a ride. <br /><br /> My husband Dave and I are shopping the pasta section at a small local grocery store when a gorgeous man rounds the corner. I pretend to keep looking at the lasagna noodles. A woman pushes a cart beside him, I note, but I keep my concentration trained on him. <br /><br /> Short of stature with a thin trim build, hiss close-cropped hair looks the color of wet sand. His rugged face has aged prematurely. His fine lips are set in a serious mien. <br /><br /> He works out regularly—one glimpse of his biceps tells me that. The muscles of each arm twine like cables anchored in a camouflage tank top. <br /><br /> And if he wears baggy jeans—well, one must make allowances.<br /><br /> He looks our way. Dave makes eye contact, smiles and nods. I lose myself in choosing between rotini and penne. <br /><br /> <b> Perhaps it puts Mr. Camo off to see two men flagrantly grocery shopping together.</b> Or maybe our presence stretches to the breaking point his hetero-centric vision of his hometown. I suspect he feels threatened, his masculinity called into question. <br /><br /> Maybe he senses we're scoping him out and that’s what pushes him over the edge. Whatever the reason, when his female companion bends over for two cans of tuna fish from the bottom shelf, he gives her a resounding swat on the butt. <br /><br /> “Ow! What’s that about?” She stands upright, rubbing her posterior.<br /><br /> I don’t hear his answer, yet I doubt he verbalized his real motives. Maybe he isn’t aware of them himself. <br /><br /> I see a man who, in the presence of a male couple, feels motivated to assert his own masculinity. I watch him respond with violence. I see him direct his blow at the person nearest him. <br />
<br /> He makes a show of exerting power over a woman. <b>He reminds me of a dog marking its territory. He might as well hike his leg and pee on her.</b><br /> I may be way off base, of course. I can’t see into his mind, and I don’t quiz him on his reaction. Nevertheless I suspect his companion’s butt hurts because of something he carries inside.<br /><br /> In <i>Essays</i>, Emerson tells of two small boys playing near a darkened entry. They are frightened by the big shadowy figures they see moving against the wall. Watching them, an old man says, “My children, you will never see anything worse than yourselves.”<br /><br /> This is what I want to say to Mr. Camo (this, and “My gosh, you’re hot”): “Do we unsettle you, studmufffin? Let me tell you, as you walk through this grocery store, <b>you will see nothing scarier than yourself.</b><br /><br /> “You see two men who are attracted to each other, and maybe to you. You think you’re reacting to us. But we human beings see everything through the filter of our own perceptions. What you see in us is really some aspect of yourself. <br /><br /> <b> If you are repelled, it isn’t us who repels you, but some part of yourself you’re uncomfortable with. </b>Could it be you don’t like being seen as an object because you tend to objectify those around you?<br /><br /> “It works the other way, too, Cupcake. <b>What you admire in others is really some quality in yourself. </b>You think the woman you’re with is sexy? You like her curves, winning smile, warm personality? Those are reflections of yourself—perhaps your appreciation for beauty, the smile you carry inside, an ability to touch your feminine side.<br /><br /> “Our eyes act as a reverse-action magnifying glass for looking within. We see magnified in others the very qualities we carry in ourselves. ‘You spot it, you got it,’ they say in 12-step circles.<br /><br /> “We go though life thinking the world is as we see it. Not so, Sweet Cheeks. <b>We are as we see the world.</b>”<br />bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-76448966443523972612015-07-01T00:00:00.000-04:002015-07-15T09:02:48.164-04:00My “Dear John” Letter to a Ghost<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0eBNeuH_VTzd18qeVIiaUvnurgUHXXiI0W7LAi09rccz3gR1ar4q6ajLFPe8zGpRA1pGE_HuDvC4dKAB_XCGGSkoAgpPcgvYKDGD_FeRvz4x_Etds6PEpPpFsTJCqOSfouQQij3LnmWq4/s1600/Punch+cartoon-memory+18410724.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0eBNeuH_VTzd18qeVIiaUvnurgUHXXiI0W7LAi09rccz3gR1ar4q6ajLFPe8zGpRA1pGE_HuDvC4dKAB_XCGGSkoAgpPcgvYKDGD_FeRvz4x_Etds6PEpPpFsTJCqOSfouQQij3LnmWq4/s320/Punch+cartoon-memory+18410724.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<b>W.H. Auden captures my predicament:</b><br />
<br />
<i> Go, go, go said the bird: human kind</i><br />
<i> Cannot bear very much reality.<br /> Time past and time future<br /> What might have been </i><br />
<i> and what has been.</i><br />
<i> Point to one end, which </i><br />
<i><i> </i>is always present</i><br />
<br />
<b>What I ask via FaceBook:</b> “Are you the John Doe <i>(not his real name)</i> who worked one summer at Camp Reveal in Evansville, Indiana? I’m chasing ghosts and wonder if you are<i> that </i>John Doe.”<br />
<br />
<b>What I actually mean:</b> OMG, after all these years of wondering whatever happened to you and if you did indeed go to Mongolia as a missionary and if you came out as a gay man and whatever did you do with all that talent and imagination and spiritual fervor…<br />
<br />
…and having looked for you online after there was an online, and online in the pre-Facebook era and not having located you, today I log onto Facebook and there you might be, with that gorgeous gentle smile, your head cocked slightly to the side, and in your pictures file additional mugshots of you in a knit beret making faces and acting silly…<br />
<br />
…back with a rush come my feelings for you or the memories of my feelings for you, back in the day when I was sure because I was a committed Christian that what I was feeling for you was a knitting of spirit brought on by the Holy Ghost and a sense of Christian brotherhood…<br />
<br />
…and oh, <b>how I wanted to be with you every free moment of the day</b> and those not-so-free moments, too, all that summer long…<br />
<br />
…and how jealous I was of our fellow camp counselor, he of the maize-colored curly locks with whom you held private Bible studies and prayed early morning prayers and whose place I wanted to take and whose heart I wanted to run through with a stake to make it happen…<br />
<br />
...and are you the selfsame John Doe who taught me about unrequited love and longing, long long after the fact?<br />
<br />
<i> (Insert long radio silence here.)</i><br />
<br />
He never answers my que(e)ry. Perhaps for the best. I peruse his “likes” and see the National Rifle Association is the most liberal of the organizations and causes he supports. Not much chance of us re-connecting even if he is John Doe of blessed memory.<br />
<br />
<b> But in some part of my psyche I am still 18 years old</b> and he is 21. I am gangly, nerdy, scatter-brained; he is earnest, creative, focused. I am smitten; he is oblivious. We work together the entire summer. When the camp closes, I ask John D. for a ride home. To his home. It means my folks can pick me up after a drive of one hour instead of five. It also means I’ll have to stay at his house overnight. <br />
<br />
Not that I read anything into this. <b>I am so highly closeted as to be clueless about my sexual orientation.</b> Really. All innocence, I gush to him during the long drive to his house. <br />
<br />
That evening we walk a rolling country lane. John leads me across a bean field and through rows of head-high corn. <br />
<br />
"I used to run down these rows pretending I was an Indian and the cowboys were after me,” he says.<br />
<br />
"When you were a kid?"<br />
<br />
He laughs. "Last summer. We only moved here a year ago."<br />
<br />
He is this free—free to be himself, express himself, and talk about it without shame. I burn with adoration and jealousy. I want him. I want to be with him, be him.<br />
<br />
That night we sleep in separate rooms.<br />
<br />
My parents pick me up after breakfast. John hugs me good bye. <br />
<br />
Not for years will I understand the ache in my heart, what it means, why it remains, why the memory of him brings sorrowful joy.<b> I loved him more than I knew.</b><br />
<br />
<br />
+ + +<br />
<br />
<i>Illustration is modified. Original from Punch, 24 July 1841 </i>bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-18937194770796274652015-06-01T00:00:00.000-04:002015-06-03T16:50:09.308-04:00Mindfulness is a booger some days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimyW7qdNqknc6Pm2FZbjUM0YZbj_SNSHZwINJ7NtnQVuFfw28Bq-qmsMI5IjUyw8jrNlCA3hkrmnhZgRmkIWhLWfINCYH0fd7H1l8oP0dYtef7xQ2O2zKcn047tARcMqZvldePYRqvM91u/s1600/mindful-white.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimyW7qdNqknc6Pm2FZbjUM0YZbj_SNSHZwINJ7NtnQVuFfw28Bq-qmsMI5IjUyw8jrNlCA3hkrmnhZgRmkIWhLWfINCYH0fd7H1l8oP0dYtef7xQ2O2zKcn047tARcMqZvldePYRqvM91u/s320/mindful-white.jpg" width="192" /></a></div>
I stand at our bathroom stool, getting ready to take a piss. Sunbeams filter through the woodland canopy. They light up the greenery behind the vintage wire fence north of the house. Two white butterflies dance amongst the green and gold, then flutter into the verdant depths. <b>All I need to know about the world is right here, right under my nose.</b><br />
<br />
And what does that mean?<br />
<br />
It’s one of those sudden insights best accepted at face value, not poked and prodded too much. In this world a glimmer of truth is a delicate creature, not a pickled frog to be dissected in ninth grade biology class.<br />
<br />
Yet I start picking at this vision as if it’s a booger I can’t quite let alone. Perhaps I’ll always be a callow freshman in the school of life, hopeless when it comes to understanding the deeper mysteries of being.<br />
<br />
Those are cabbage butterflies, I remind myself, bad news for our six spindly cabbage plants. And those green bushes they used as a dance floor, that’s an invasive species we’re to eradicate from our property. So said the district forester who was here yesterday to measure the health of our 15-acre woods. And the white ash trees out this back window? He pronounced their death sentence, also. They’ll soon fall prey to an pestilential insect invasion, now about three miles from our house. We’re to girdle the trees—kill them now, before the emerald ash borer does—and harvest the wood. <br />
<br />
The sun shines bright overhead even as distant thunder growls like my grandfather used to. <b>Nothing is what it appears. I’m taking a piss in thinking I know anything.</b><br />
<br />
Still, I keep trying to learn. I’m on my way out to the chicken coop when I stop by the far gate. Ahead of me, an ash tree wraps a large rust-orange metal drum in leafy embrace. The limbs have grown around the old gas tank. It gets more support from the tree nowadays than from its original metal legs, one of which has rusted away at the ankle. A knee-high log stands on end near the base of the tree. A red-bellied woodpecker perches on it. This is the chopping block on which I have executed many a rooster using a sharpened axe. The bird drives his strong sharp beak into the wood, seeking life where others have met their death. His skull and the membrane around his brain are thickened to cushion the shock of ramming his bill into hard wood. When he locates a beetle or ant he shoots out a sticky barbed tongue, impales the insect, then devours it. How might I might follow your example, ingenious and wise one, you who find life in a place of death, who uses your thick skull to nourish yourself.<br />
<br />
As if to belie my assessment of him, the woodpecker hops onto the metal leg of the gas drum. He hammers at rusty iron. Foolish fellow, there are no bugs inside that metal tank.<br />
<br />
Or maybe not so foolish. My bird book informs me woodpeckers drum on trees, poles, even telephone transformers, as a mating call and to warn away other red-bellies from the area. This one was playing love songs on a kettledrum. Quite the way to make a statement, and one other than what I was trying to read into the encounter.<br />
<br />
<b> Not a bad lot in life, to keep my eyes and ears open, try to read the signs, listen to the voice of the world, laugh at my misinterpretations, lose myself in wonder and joy. </b><br />
<br />
En route to the coop this week I stop short when find a spotted fawn blinking big brown eyes at me. I hold my breath. Ever the world shows it soft self again and again, even to cabbage heads.bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-13217465478691888072015-05-01T00:00:00.001-04:002015-05-01T00:00:05.540-04:00Nothing runs like a dear<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9oq5wTw3R5xOHE2xqkDkkcXbpgN24olPghY7avs_23NygyWJ1mARttYs_Ed1HIF6_YxQFGFuVqqY0VIomBAGiUvUeEd-bBxJA6WdIWF6_Aaezsgw1tpWgVyF_RoDMX9MRPIMEN3JtYW6f/s1600/stag_man_by_patrike-d6o4a05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9oq5wTw3R5xOHE2xqkDkkcXbpgN24olPghY7avs_23NygyWJ1mARttYs_Ed1HIF6_YxQFGFuVqqY0VIomBAGiUvUeEd-bBxJA6WdIWF6_Aaezsgw1tpWgVyF_RoDMX9MRPIMEN3JtYW6f/s1600/stag_man_by_patrike-d6o4a05.jpg" height="320" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://patrike.deviantart.com/art/Stag-Man-403307429">Stag-Man</a> by Patrik Törnroos, used by permission</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Astride the green ogre, Dave appears
less than his usual confident self. <i>Omigosh, he is human. </i>Suddenly, I
can't wait to get him in bed.<br /><br />
My husband stands out in any
crowd. He has all the style and class I never got. My earliest image of
him: swimmer's build, tight jeans, cowboy boots, purple jacket,
Crocodile Dundee hat. At last year’s Pride parade, divas on floats and
sexy men in skanky underwear waved and called out to him, “Love your
hat.” He was wearing a straw cowboy hat, hand-shaped to look extra-cool,
decorated with black and white polka-dotted feathers from our guineas,
and set off with a dangly piece of shiny blue jewelry. <br /><br />
People
warm to Dave easily. And no wonder. He’s friendly and good-natured. He
was born with a droopy eyelid—it makes him look like he's thoughtfully
considering everything you say. He probably is. He's a great listener.
He exudes confidence, competence, wisdom and compassion. Dave served as
hospice chaplain for 25 years. These traits served him and his patients
well. He's the sort you’d trust with dark secrets. With your life. <br /><br />
Say you and he find yourselves in dire straits—you’ve climbed a fire
tower to get away from a 60-foot alligator. From here you can see the
huge forest fire headed your way from the east and a tornado coming in
from the west. Now you notice termites have weakened the tower
structure. It sways from side to side. The staircase below crumbles to
dust. Deep breath. Dave assesses the situation, calmly explains your
options, makes a decision for himself and supports you in crafting your
own plan of action. Offers to lend you an extra jet pack and parachute.
Betcha.<br /><br />
Do you get the idea I think Dave can do anything? You're
right. But here, outside the John Deere farm implement dealership, I’m
seeing his vulnerable side. <br /><br />
We've push-mowed our two-acre lawn
for 15 years. A twisted ankle last year made us rethink that plan. Back
in February we bought an old John Deere 318 garden tractor. It ran fine
for two weeks this spring, then not at all. We purchased a utility
trailer, manhandled the behemoth onto it, and drug it into that bastion
of butch, our local John Deere dealership. <br /><br />
The mower’s been
repaired and we’re back now to pick it up. A few minutes ago a manly man
in a green farm cap drove it up onto the wagon, grunted, then sauntered
back to his man-cave. <br /><br />
Fine, except when he parked it, he rammed
the mower into our trailer’s flimsy front rail. The thin wooden board
looks ready to snap. Dave puts the tractor in neutral and tries to roll
it backwards, but to no avail. The mower won’t budge. We push, pull,
push some more. No dice. Dave climbs up on it and starts the thing.
Still no luck.<br /><br />
“The brake pedal is stuck in the down position,”
he says. “I can’t get it to let up.” (Later we’ll learn the way up is
down. To release the brake pedal you have to press it all the way down.)
<br /><br />
I suggest Dave go back into the shop and tell ’em we're new at
owning a Deere, ask how to unlock the brakes. I myself don’t volunteer; I
don't want to look stupid. But I’m sure he can pull it off without
looking the fool. He grew up on a farm. Those men in there are his
peers. <br /><br />
Dave gives me a pointed look. “We'll wait until we get home and read the manual,” he says. <br /><br />
Suddenly, I see him in a new light and my heart melts. He’s vincible.
He’s not as omnipotent as I think. Someday I’ll lose him. All I ever
touch is fragile. My hold is tentative, even on those I love most. Time,
and with it life itself, darts away, runs like a deer.bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-50768648735086349322015-04-01T00:00:00.000-04:002015-04-14T12:30:55.025-04:00“All I ever had, Doc, was courage and dignity”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGIZZlhLNdMcZ-cCL_P6_UDJYUiuhmMobEVbiNLb6rZuQqcD7O4bBdCrLlK1UZcNBHglGYDaGjhQxKQQPnBw2z1BSpH64lPg19MmIiDhDuYO48WOFkIZ6JPnt8njNEUtfQDZXlBjVuhpOE/s1600/courage-dignity.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGIZZlhLNdMcZ-cCL_P6_UDJYUiuhmMobEVbiNLb6rZuQqcD7O4bBdCrLlK1UZcNBHglGYDaGjhQxKQQPnBw2z1BSpH64lPg19MmIiDhDuYO48WOFkIZ6JPnt8njNEUtfQDZXlBjVuhpOE/s1600/courage-dignity.jpg" height="320" width="228" /></a></div>
It is 1988. Out west, my wife and I will welcome the arrival our first child soon. Down south, Norman Sanger is dying. Ten years from now, I’ll read about him in a book. His story will inspire me.<br />
<br /> Norman was born a hemophiliac without the blood factor needed to cause clotting. By age nine, he had been hospitalized more times than most people are in a lifetime. <br />
<br /> His story briefly is recounted in Abraham Verghese’s 1994 memoir <i>My Own Country</i>. I first read it shortly after I came out. Recently my husband Dave and I read it aloud together. We’re going to serve as panelists at a presentation featuring the book. <br />
<br /> Verghese writes from the perspective of an outsider. Born in Africa to parents from India, he obtained his medical degree then came to the United States, where he specialized in infectious diseases. About the same time, HIV/AIDS began to show itself across the nation. Verghese writes about his five years practicing medicine in Johnson City, Tennessee. <br />
<br /> He introduces us to the patients he serves. He describes the community's reaction to them, to him and to the spread of the pandemic. Norman is one of his patients.<br />
<br /> Repeated intra-joint bleeding from hemophilia has left Norman with a limp, deformed his body and stunted his growth. Growing up, he had to sit on the sidelines and watch as other boys his age played contact sports. <br />
<br /> Now an adult, he learns he has contracted HIV through a blood infusion. <br />
<br /> “All I ever had, Doc, was courage and dignity,” he tells Verghese. “That was my thing. Am I going to lose it to this disease?”<br />
<br /> Verghese can’t promise him he won’t.<br />
<br /> Ah, Norman. I hear these traits in your words. Courage and dignity shine in your willingness to ask the question. You face a grim reality. Often, those with almost nothing are called upon to relinquish even the little they have. Your story lodges in my heart. <br />
<br /> “It is in the small things we see it,” writes the poet Anne Sexton. (She herself suffered mental illness and died in 1974 at her own hand.) She titles her poem “Courage.” She might have been writing of you, Norman. Sexton says courage shows up in the young child’s early actions: first step, first time riding a bike, first spanking. Such events loom large in the child’s world and elicit an outsized response.<br />
<br /> <i> When they called you crybaby<br /> Or poor or fatty or crazy<br /> And made you into an alien,<br /> You drank their acid<br /> And concealed it.</i><br />
<br /> We LGBT adults can relate who as children grew up aliens in our own homes, schools, churches, communities. For Sexton, courage lies in taking life one step at a time, meeting what comes, doing what you can, even if that involves drinking poison.<br />
<br /> Norman, you knew hardship and alienation all your life. You dove down deep into your own inner resources. You drew on courage and dignity to make it through. You wore them as shield and buckler. Now even these may desert you: “Will I lose them, doc?” <br />
<br /> Jonathan Larson echoes your plaintive cry in the Broadway musical _Rent._ In an HIV support group meeting one person after another stands and sings, "Will I lose my dignity? Will someone care?”<br />
<br /> I don’t know what your final days were like, Norman. I don’t know what mine will be. I can only hope I have the courage to face death with as much dignity as I hear in your words.<br />
<br /> Here’s Sexton again. She predicts you’ll show your courage in determination, fierce love, resistance, hanging on as long as you can, <br />
<br /> <i> And at the last moment<br /> When death opens the back door<br /> You’ll put on your carpet slippers<br /> And stride out. </i><br />
<br /> You’ve been dead 30 years, Norman, but your courage and dignity live on. You’ve left some some mighty big slippers to fill.<br /><br />bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-35875611836380685592015-03-01T00:00:00.000-05:002015-04-14T12:23:58.870-04:00Proof positive<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiylM4HMwi9Kpxgwv0Ekz48UdfJICGTfi-5O_9mb9qffG2O48umQhLewYVWK3vtwfRowyW9a_h46vPqU6SMNdI5BdhdRjo1z4kcsjy6cO_zkaXEHp3914y4QLlh9Q7Dbbe4xbPZgHkv5YWI/s1600/love+peace+goodwill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiylM4HMwi9Kpxgwv0Ekz48UdfJICGTfi-5O_9mb9qffG2O48umQhLewYVWK3vtwfRowyW9a_h46vPqU6SMNdI5BdhdRjo1z4kcsjy6cO_zkaXEHp3914y4QLlh9Q7Dbbe4xbPZgHkv5YWI/s1600/love+peace+goodwill.jpg" height="288" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
The Goodwill store is crazy busy—half-off sale today, storewide. The checkout lines stretch from here to next Sunday. My husband Dave saunters over. I signal I’m ready to go. <br />
<br />
Dave gestures behind him. “See that man way over there, next to the guy in the red coat?”<br />
<br />
I scan the crowd.<br />
<br />
“He’s in the far checkout lane, towards the back.”<br />
<br />
“White shirt and bow tie? College age?”<br />
<br />
“That’s him. I was walking past and he stopped me. Said, <b>‘You spoke in my social work class last semester. I want to thank you. You changed my life.’</b>”<br />
<br />
“Really?” I take another look. “How cool. Great. I’m glad he said something to you.”<br />
<br />
“That’s for you, too. For both of us. We both would have spoken to that class.”<br />
<br />
Dave’s right. We’re often asked to address social work and psychology classes at area colleges and universities. We go as the featured couple or as co-participants in panel discussions. We tell our coming out stories. We talk about what it is for us to be gay in this time and place. We answer questions. Any more, students are generally receptive.<br />
<br />
“I wonder which class it was,” I say. “I don’t recognize him. I wonder what he heard that made such an impact. I think you should go over and ask him to elaborate.”<br />
<br />
To my surprise, Dave agrees. He’s bolder than I and more socially adept. I tag along. He taps the young man on the shoulder. “We were wondering: could you say a little more about your story?”<br />
<br />
Joe College obliges, and as he starts talking I’m able to place him: The Man With the Crotch. Drop-dead gorgeous, dark eyes, Adonis face, olive shirt unzipped to offer a tantalizing glimpse of his chest, tight red jeans, stylish leather shoes. Devastatingly handsome. I wanted to spend the entire period looking—no, gawking—at him. I restrained myself. Whenever I addressed the class I avoided looking his way for fear I’d babble. Not easy to do. He sat directly in front of me, legs spread wide. When I wasn’t talking, I looked down. <br />
<br />
After class, Dave and I compared notes.<br />
<br />
“He’s so cute.” (We both knew who I was talking about.)<br />
<br />
“Adorable. I just wanted to stare at him.”<br />
<br />
“Me, too. In fact, I did stare. At his crotch.”<br />
<br />
“Do you think he’s gay?”<br />
<br />
We thought we’d never really know, but here we are, getting it straight from the source. <br />
<br />
Not that it’s been easy for him. He grew up in foster care, was told to hide his sexual orientation—“otherwise you’ll never be adopted.” <br />
<br />
Indeed, his family of origin severed all ties with him when they learned he’s gay, booted him back into the foster care system. Eventually the couple he calls his grandparents adopted him. <br />
<br />
“And they’re fine with my being gay. They love me, as do my amazing friends.” He turns and points to a motley crew of students behind him. They look our way and grin. They’re a diverse lot—race, gender, body type. All friendly. <br />
<br />
Good. He surrounds himself with supportive people.<br />
<br />
He says what meant so much to him when we spoke in class was the obvious love Dave and I share. “I was right there with you, crying when you cried, listening to every word, seeing two men who really love each other. You guys changed my life.”<br />
<br />
My mind flashes to Bob and Bruce, Larry and Larry. <b>Early in our coming out Dave and I saw separately in these two couples proof positive that long-term gay relationships do exist and can be richly rewarding. Knowing this gave us something to shoot for, confidence we could.</b><br />
<br />
I hope that’s where Joe College is now—buoyed by hope, poised to call into being then will into reality a love-filled life. <br />
<br />
“Can I hug you guys?” he asks.<br />
<br />
Zowie.bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-67532344290218774412015-02-01T00:00:00.000-05:002015-02-17T12:19:18.209-05:00Sootprints in fnow<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_lObaPDX5cjJumjcjksly1C8ZaeyAURg97GgGQo7rdTtFoZ6lREN9pUK5LPS1fWBG4jkzKJ2v6DD2c2s4W8_szl1rSsWFUQTH4jqZu3nbp9_Lnop93ThPcN8MGvqIXs3wiM_4LoJ5AFzS/s1600/Kevin+Payravi,+Wikimedia+Commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_lObaPDX5cjJumjcjksly1C8ZaeyAURg97GgGQo7rdTtFoZ6lREN9pUK5LPS1fWBG4jkzKJ2v6DD2c2s4W8_szl1rSsWFUQTH4jqZu3nbp9_Lnop93ThPcN8MGvqIXs3wiM_4LoJ5AFzS/s1600/Kevin+Payravi,+Wikimedia+Commons.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Kevin Payravi, Wikimedia Commons</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b> We live so much of our lives without telling anyone.</b> But not when we walk through a snowy landscape.<br />
<br />
Several inches of new snow fell last night and I’m taking advantage of the afternoon light to traipse amongst the trees. I can see by the deer's cloven hoof prints the place it leaped the fence. There’s the rabbit’s dash-dash-dot and the raccoon's little paw print. Here a mouse scrimshandered a thin line atop the snow, then tunneled down under. (Such a little creature to face the great winter.) The squirrel's bounding trail of double dots connects one tree to another, then explodes in a mess of dirt and torn-up earth where it retrieved a buried nut from the frozen ground. Great galumphing footprints behind me testify to my own passage through this little piece of the world. <br /><br />
Traces of my presence—and yours—are not always so visible as footprints in snow, though they may linger after we’ve passed.<br /><br />
Recently my husband Dave and I watched the 1970 film "The Boys in the Band.” We'd heard of it but never seen it on stage or screen. The show opened Off-Broadway in 1968. Says playwright Tony Kushner of <i>Angels in America</i> fame, “...it certainly started a new era in American drama, and was an immense contribution in American literature because it’s so unapologetically gay.”<br /><br />
The action centers around nine men at a birthday party. It's funny, sad and suspenseful all at the same time. The friends trade vicious cut-downs almost as a matter of course. This put me off on a first viewing. <i>Why must they be so negative towards themselves and each other?</i> I've watched it four more times, however, and come to appreciate its humor, heart and snapshot of pre-Stonewall gay life. <br /><br />
In one scene the embittered Michael confronts his college roommate about the latter's reaction to a mutual friend’s coming out. <br /><br />
“You couldn’t take it, so you destroyed the friendship and your friend along with it,” Michael says. "To this day he remembers the treatment and scars he got from you." <br /><br />
This line sticks with me. <b>Even today, the coming out process for many LGBT people is fraught with peril and littered with former friendships.</b> This was true of my experience. My life has been shaped by a society that had no place—no word, even—for someone like me. I carry the scars of my late parents' eventual and lukewarm tolerance of me. They were unable to fully embrace me as their son once they learned I am gay. <br /><br />
Yet others trail healing in their wake. When I came out at 35 my grandmother was 90 years old and the one person in my family of origin who accepted me without reservation. My mind goes to this scene: Dave and I sit with Grandma in the church she's attended for nearly 60 years. The pews and paneling are of ash; the aisles carpeted in red with tiny flecks of black. Frosted glass windows discourage daydreaming. Today is Communion Sunday. Grandma learns Dave and I will not be offered the sacrament. Incensed, this little white-haired lady puts away her usual smile and marches up the center aisle, leading Dave and me out of the building. <br /><br />
This memory of my grandmother’s show of support nurtures and sustains me years after her death. As she well knew, <b>people do not remember what you do or say, so much as they remember how you make them feel.</b> Grandma made me feel like a million bucks. No, she made me feel loved. <br /><br />
<b>Love. Such a little thing to arm ourselves with as we face the great cold.</b> And best shared with another—person, animal, plant, planet. For no matter how many our footsteps upon the earth, our trail is soon ended. A few generations pass; the snow melts and all trace of us is gone. <br />bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-57690436747040350232015-01-01T00:00:00.000-05:002015-02-17T12:42:46.418-05:003 months now my marriage is recognized and still I’m waiting for guests to arrive at the reception<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHAoO2Bx4jG2bxQcdFjSYpttvN7snKnhxIQxm5lUzZ-60kCQroZvnaNQYyKfUr-HXnL6IDS49jmJQRk8BFFMVQeti1hrv-ih4XHnQEIpD3V-PbbNmGqWHiBWOxbVSc1SMJ7DbPia4xnFP3/s1600/cakeweb2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHAoO2Bx4jG2bxQcdFjSYpttvN7snKnhxIQxm5lUzZ-60kCQroZvnaNQYyKfUr-HXnL6IDS49jmJQRk8BFFMVQeti1hrv-ih4XHnQEIpD3V-PbbNmGqWHiBWOxbVSc1SMJ7DbPia4xnFP3/s1600/cakeweb2.jpg" height="266" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Daddy’s Day at Charlie’s church-based preschool class. The man who plays the title role in our grandson’s life can’t get off work for the hour-long program. Dave and I shoulder grandfatherly duties and attend in his stead. Charlie’s mom ushers us to the classroom door, chats briefly with the teacher, then leaves. Charlie takes over from there. <br />
<br />
“This is my Papa,” the four-year-old says, pointing to Dave. He turns to me. “And this is my Iso Papa.”<br />
<br />
The teacher laughs. “Your evil papa?” <br />
<br />
Charlie looks daggers at her. “EESO-Papa,” he says, and leads us over to a stack of wooden blocks.<br />
<br />
Maybe the teacher spoke her truth in referring to me as Evil Papa. Later she makes an elaborate point of there being a “special friend” in the room. She uses her voice to draw quotes around the term. <br />
<br />
“Children, you may ask your father or grandfather or ‘special friend’ to join you at the craft table.” “Boys and girls, I want you to sing your best for your father or grandfather or ‘special friend.’” “Students, you may now offer your father or grandfather or ‘special friend’ a half-doughnut and glass of juice.”<br />
<br />
I seethe with anger. Does it matter that she and others locate me outside the family? Label gay people as wicked? Feign inclusivity? Broadcast such messages to four- and five-year-olds? <br />
<br />
Sure, it does. <br />
<br />
Even before they’re taught to use the potty, children receive training in societal prejudice, gender expectations and roles. I learned at a young age to despise a deep part of myself. I’m coming to realize a lifetime is too short for me and others to undo all those early lessons. <br />
<br />
Not that we should quit trying.<br />
<br />
Since July, Dave and I have frequented a local film club. We’re the young ones in a crowd of 15 or 20 who gather once a month to watch old-time Western movies. At the club’s 38th anniversary celebration this fall we learned they’ve cancelled meetings only twice—once for the blizzard of 1977 and again for the blizzard of 2014.<br />
<br />
Last month we decided to ante up the annual dues, only $10 per person or couple. We approached the treasurer, an amiable white-haired man of short stature and warm smile, and told him we wanted to become official members.<br />
<br />
“Do you have change for a twenty?” Dave asked.<br />
<br />
“Um, it’s $10 per person.”<br />
<br />
“Not $10 per couple?"<br />
<br />
“Well, are you two brothers?"<br />
<br />
“We’re married, actually,” Dave said.<br />
<br />
A bystander chortled loudly, then flushed when neither Dave nor I laughed. He quickly retired to his seat.<br />
<br />
The treasurer checked his wallet and waved us off. “I don’t have change.” He, too, beat a hasty retreat.<br />
<br />
“That was a conversation stopper,” Dave whispered.<br />
<br />
I nodded. “You sure know how to clear a room.”<br />
<br />
We talked about it on the drive home, how Indiana’s marriage equality played a role in our actions. “I’m feeling bolder,” Dave said. “More ready to publicly claim you as my husband.”<br />
<br />
“Me, too,” I said. “Most of the time. Not the other night at that new theatre. You dropped me off at the door. The usher wanted to seat me. I told the her I was waiting on another person. When you came in she asked, ‘Is this your friend?’ I didn’t correct her. I could have said, ‘He’s my husband.’ But I was in new territory, didn’t feel safe. I kept mum.”<br />
<br />
Maybe this happens to others, too—the club treasurer, the preschool teacher, my evangelical pastor brother, my deceased mother, my children. Marriage equality is new territory for them, may feel unsafe, scary. I want them to get over it. Buck up, duck. If our conservative state legislators have to accord me the dignity of marriage, you should, too. <br />
<br />
But it may a hard pill for them to swallow. Maybe instead of scorn I can offer a glass of water. While still holding them accountable to treat me with respect, I can offer grace instead of judgment. After all, I’m asking the same of them. For me and my special friend. For every last one of my grandchildren. And theirs.bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-10499852393990046422014-12-01T00:00:00.000-05:002014-12-01T00:00:01.001-05:00Winkum, Blinkum and GodShout “Hallelujah!” in this part of the Bible belt and odds are someone will answer, “Amen!” Here we’re surrounded by evangelical Christians, a group not known for their warm embrace of gay, lesbian, bisexual and trans people. In my coming out experience, theirs was the loudest, nastiest voice telling me to get lost, assuring me I am sick, sinful and on the fast track to damnation.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJHlzFO8Wu5gaJxEiDe4YfnhS6xLcJgITCTOiholu1s0_4gztGo8WdY9_4_yvwcTO9RKALFs0fuOcbp80vHGX1Ssm72KJxebpvLD5faFEHfpFI9nwq1qdfYfThvLIAYLdNy8-NCer6A_UI/s1600/Blinkers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJHlzFO8Wu5gaJxEiDe4YfnhS6xLcJgITCTOiholu1s0_4gztGo8WdY9_4_yvwcTO9RKALFs0fuOcbp80vHGX1Ssm72KJxebpvLD5faFEHfpFI9nwq1qdfYfThvLIAYLdNy8-NCer6A_UI/s1600/Blinkers.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
<br /><br /><b>I do a better job nowadays at throwing away such demeaning messages—but what to do with the people who repeat them? </b>My one brother, for instance. And my three sons. They root their rejection of me and other gay people in church dogma. <br /><br />Of course, not everyone takes the same stance. Other evangelicals in my family and Dave’s are more accepting; they’ll interact with us face-to-face. But ours is an uneasy truce. It includes a don’t ask–don’t tell provision: gay topics, activities and issues are taboo subjects of conversation. Vast swaths of the life Dave and I lead remain under wraps.<br /><br />Maybe this is natural. <b>Maybe I'm off base in pining for full acceptance by others, particularly self-identified evangelical others.</b><br /><br />To be sure, Dave and I do have evangelical friends (well, two) who are wondrously accepting and whole-person affirming. They sympathized when I related a recent encounter with my best friend from college. <br /><br />Ken and I hadn’t seen each other since 1983, not since the day he’d served as best man when I married a woman. Years later I’d written him to say I'd come out as a gay man. He’d responded, “Go to hell.” That was the last I heard from him. Then the other day this note arrived: "It’s been a long time. Lots of water has gone under the bridge. I'd like to hear your story. Can we get together to talk?"<br /><br />We arranged to meet at a restaurant. When Ken arrived I recognized him right away. He’s hardly changed in appearance nor, I soon learned, in his acceptance of gay people. He began dropping hints. How important church attendance is to him. How he uses every opportunity he finds to model the love of Christ to those outside the church. How angry he gets at people who claim to be Christian but don't follow the rules.<br /><br />But he’d asked to hear my story and I obliged. I gave him an overview, stressed the innate nature of my being born gay. As we said goodbye he told me he understood I had been dealing with same-sex attractions from an early age, but he drew a different lesson from this than I did. “If I were convinced I’d been born a bank robber,” he said, “I wouldn't see that as a lifestyle choice that honors God.”<br /><br />(When I related this comment to a gay friend he laughed. “You got ‘bank robber?’ I got ‘ax murderer’ from my college roommate.”)<br /><br /><b>Much as I lament the traditional evangelical stance towards gay people, I understand it.</b> After all, I was raised evangelical myself. I know first-hand the sense of entitlement that comes with believing yourself to be one of God’s chosen few, granted special power and privilege. <br /><br /><b>Power and privilege act as blinders. They blot out a wider world view. </b>While I recognize this in my evangelical neighbors, I have a long way to go towards seeing it in myself—especially when it comes to my being white, male and middle class. I’m certain people of color, women and those less well-off than me can spot ways I rely on power and privilege. Thank heavens I see it myself every once in a while. <br /><br /><b>Times I do drop my blinders I discover all over again the world is far bigger and more interesting than I know.</b> It’s right there for the looking all the time. To which I say, “Hallelujah!” (Do I hear an “amen?”)<br /><br />bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-22724868778436680552014-11-01T00:00:00.000-04:002014-11-01T00:00:00.573-04:00A funny kind of love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdFRow4YoqiHbyKhge277_smzyb7wYWGdagXlhuqT7bb2Ns4vy_D3fvyE6iI9PQgMXBm7IbHV5HTcNcpRj6sqYY9rVuZtW-QtvBHKY0irE-HfcVqQwr0tFAl36y1Wb2oVL72AMNKnfv6B6/s1600/Nov-0W-3-bw-vignette.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdFRow4YoqiHbyKhge277_smzyb7wYWGdagXlhuqT7bb2Ns4vy_D3fvyE6iI9PQgMXBm7IbHV5HTcNcpRj6sqYY9rVuZtW-QtvBHKY0irE-HfcVqQwr0tFAl36y1Wb2oVL72AMNKnfv6B6/s1600/Nov-0W-3-bw-vignette.jpg" height="313" width="320" /></a></div>
His invitation to celebrate Thanksgiving pulls me up short. I read it again, then once more, then squint at it and read it aloud. “We would love to have anyone—everyone!” It’s from my one-year-younger brother. He posts it to the private Facebook group for members of our extended family.<br />
<br />
But he doesn’t mean it, not the way it sounds. Anyone, everyone? He can’t mean it that way. He’s inviting my husband Dave and me to Thanksgiving dinner? <br />
<br />
It's been years since Judas (not his real name) and I spoke to each other. He leaves my occasional letters unanswered. Except for funerals, he boycotts family events to which I am invited. Not that there are many. I’m the black sheep of our family. The rest of the flock is afraid I shed. They don’t want dark ringlets of wool all over the davenport. They take their cues from our Bible-thumping brother. He preaches in the type of church we five siblings were raised in—one that excludes gay people from fellowship.<br />
<br />
<b> His invitation reads like the title of a children’s sermon: “Thumper Invites Black Sheep for Thanksgiving Dinner.” Has he lost his mind? Or has he changed it? </b><br />
<br />
I’m guilty of pickling in formaldehyde people I haven’t seen for years. I expect high school friends to look just the way they did when last I left them, and to hold the same opinions and beliefs. I expect my favorite college professor to appear in a wrinkled green suit with a narrow black tie, rap his knuckles on the table as he talks to me. I’m surprised almost every time I reconnect. People have moved on in my absence, grown more wrinkled, wiser and dear. <br />
<br />
What if Judas did have a change of heart, does indeed mean to invite me for Thanksgiving? Ooh, that will upset my applecart. I’ve convinced myself I am the bigger (and better) person because I reach out to him from time to time, am willing to overlook his offenses. <b>But it’s easy to be noble in a party of one. Maybe he’s calling my bluff. </b><br />
<br />
I could ask him if “anyone—everyone” includes me. Sure, I could. But do I want to? He testified against me at my child custody and divorce hearing. Do I want to open myself to outright rejection again? And what if he says “Yes, come on over.” Do I want to sit down to table with him?<br />
<br />
<b>Maybe we could build bridges, set an example for the wider family, recapture some of what we had as kids</b>—those long talks when we were supposed to be asleep, when we were marooned in the wild cherry tree, closeted in the clubhouse in the garage’s rafters.<br />
<br />
I email him privately, keep my tone neutral, my words few: “May Dave and I join you for Thanksgiving Day?" I leave it at that.<br />
<br />
So does he. <br />
<br />
A month passes. His silence rankles. What do I want? Not for him to change. There will be no miracles here. I want common courtesy, the decency of a reply. <br />
<br />
My follow-up email elicits a direct response, a first in over 15 years. For this alone I am grateful. Judas writes to inform me that no, I am not welcome in his home; the invitation was not family-wide. He’s doing what he believes God wants from him. He’s sure I am doing what I feel is best. He signs off by twice saying he loves me.<br />
<br />
<b> A funny kind of love, this, wrapped in religion and dubious convictions. </b><br />
<br />
But some of my own convictions are suspect: Chickens are the most intelligent life form on the planet; Horseradish is the secret to the good life; When in doubt, sing.<br />
<br />
So my brother says he loves me. Well, well. I happen to think love is our only hope. I’d like to believe it is enough.<br />
<br />
<br />bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-49622697903167871072014-10-01T00:00:00.000-04:002014-10-22T17:25:54.443-04:00My Big, Fat Gay Marriage Issue, Resolved<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYPvCYt_zoPD_bgJVjdIkMDD5smxb-WqZJc8kfwOkbChXt-CfXm0-rI2ontBC8b8pk_We55ArJZ_RrSZ6CrlReamrHFBFw1BTpaE6XY0Jc5jEjHIJd0IezPUDWPOlgTbjoA1JAvElVVg36/s1600/vintage+collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYPvCYt_zoPD_bgJVjdIkMDD5smxb-WqZJc8kfwOkbChXt-CfXm0-rI2ontBC8b8pk_We55ArJZ_RrSZ6CrlReamrHFBFw1BTpaE6XY0Jc5jEjHIJd0IezPUDWPOlgTbjoA1JAvElVVg36/s1600/vintage+collage.jpg" height="262" width="320" /></a></div>
The minister signed our marriage certificate with a flourish, then said, “One of you needs to sign here as ‘husband’ and and one over here as ‘wife.’” It was 2005. Dave and I were wed in Canada on our ninth anniversary as a couple, soon after Ontario legalized same-sex marriage—so soon that gender-neutral forms were not yet available. <br />
When we returned to the U.S. our marital status lodged in the Twilight Zone. It’s still there. We believe we’re married. A whole vast country north of us believes we’re married. But what happens in Canada stays in Canada. According to those with saying power, Dave is married to nobody. Guess what that makes me.<br />
Being nobody wears on a person. Researchers have long documented the negative effects of the stigma of homosexuality on gay people. Recent studies show that residing in a U.S. state that outlaws same-sex marriage has a direct adverse effect on the mental health of lesbians and gay men.<br />
It makes me sick to live in Indiana in a marital state of perpetual confusion. Here’s my marital history: Not married, 23 years. Married, 14 years. Not married, seven years. Married, but not according to my state or federal government, nine years. Married and recognized as such by the state, 36 hours. Back to married-but-not-married, two months, followed by 10 days of being married. Then back to yes-but-no, then over to yes-but-not-really, not until the Supreme Court says it’s okay. (Did you follow that?)<br />
In June a federal judge ruled Indiana’s same-sex marriage ban unconstitutional. As gay couples lined up to obtain marriage licenses, Dave and I marveled. We could sip coffee at our own kitchen table as a bona fide married couple. For all of three days. The court ruling was stayed, pending appeal. For us, it was back to life in limbo.<br />
Our summer vacation offered a breath of fresh air. We spent 10 consecutive days touring several states and two provinces where marriage equality is the law of the land. “This is the longest we’ve been married since we got hitched,” Dave said.<br />
Toward the end of our trip we visited Niagara Falls, took in the view from the Canadian side, along with a thousand or more other spectators. So much water rushing over the brink made me have to pee. When I returned from the rest room I soon spotted Dave among the crowd. It’s not all that difficult to recognize someone you care about. <br />
At the same time it’s easy to dismiss those you refuse to see. Experience has taught me this. My three children have severed contact with me over my having come out gay. As has my brother. As have former friends and fellow church members. No place at the table for the likes of me. <br />
Where am I welcome? Life keeps me guessing. This past weekend I attended a college class reunion. I almost didn’t show up. I often encounter judgement and rejection from people who knew me before I came out of the closet. I feared more of the same should my classmates learn I am gay. I tested the waters. The first time a fellow alumnus asked about my spouse, I mentioned Dave by name. I was peppered with questions, taken to task for believing homosexuality cannot be changed, and charged with a lack of religious faith. Sheesh. Thereafter I mostly dodged questions about marriage and family. I avoided some conversations altogether. I shut down, hung back, withdrew. I was present but not present—off in limbo land again. This is familiar territory; I check in there frequently to visit my marital status. <br />
Not long ago, the federal court of appeals ruled against Indiana’s gay marriage ban. The state has appealed to the U.S. Supreme Court. But I’ve been thinking: Dave and I could settle the matter now. As our state government is so antsy about keeping marriage between a husband and wife, we should send the folks in Indianapolis a copy of our Canadian marriage license. It’s there in black and white: on March 12, 2005, Dave took me to be his lawfully wedded wife.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://shelovesmagazine.com/"><img alt="SheLoves Magazine: a global community of women who love" border="0" src="http://shelovesmagazine.com/button.jpg" title="SheLoves Magazine: a global community of women who love" /></a>bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-51174084559188814182014-09-01T00:00:00.000-04:002014-09-11T12:20:38.740-04:00As the Lady From Joisey Said . . .<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo80RVpK8JzQ95zwceimEgSnri-qLY_RuGjwsaflD0SUAbOMPk2L42vVaFR5mW4IH7cpUL33CtaVmpUvU4m0SJLMMJ1WHZcUUEAxs_XrP4A6lGXkn1WNTyRn1YSbxt9FU1GZeREb8GXpeT/s1600/ganymede+rubn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo80RVpK8JzQ95zwceimEgSnri-qLY_RuGjwsaflD0SUAbOMPk2L42vVaFR5mW4IH7cpUL33CtaVmpUvU4m0SJLMMJ1WHZcUUEAxs_XrP4A6lGXkn1WNTyRn1YSbxt9FU1GZeREb8GXpeT/s1600/ganymede+rubn.jpg" height="400" width="190" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Rape of Ganymede by Rubens</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
“We think we know everything. We don’t know shit.” The name of the play escapes me, as does the plot, but this line sticks with me, as does the image of the world-weary drag queen who delivers it.<br />
Growing up, I thought I was in the know. My brand of church taught that we had the inside track on salvation, knew exactly what God wanted. It was up to us to point out to others how wrong they were. <br />
My eyes opened when I came out gay in mid-life. I went from a desk job at a religious organization to biscuit maker at an interstate truck stop cafe on the early morning shift. One of my co-workers was a large imposing woman with a thick New Jersey accent. I loved her sense of humor and take on the world. I often told her so. “Aw, ain’t you sweet,” she’d say. “You want to know what I think? I think you’re full of shit.” <br />
I didn’t want to believe her. These twenty years later I begin to think she was spot on.<br />
Last month I wrote a short piece about the brevity of life, how everything changes and how quickly. How to manage in such a world, I wondered aloud, and concluded: “Live as fully alive and fully aware as possible. Choose love. And gratitude. Laugh often.” <br />
This on a Wednesday. <br />
Thursday morning, my employer called me into his office to tell me he’s decided to change my job description. I’m to identify prospective customers and sell them on our services. “I know this has been a revolving-door position,” he said, noting the average tenure of marketing personnel at our company is three months—people get fired when sales quotas are not met. “I’ve decided this is what I want you to do.” <br />
Had my anxiety been rocket propellant, there’d be a big hole in his ceiling. I am no salesman. As a kid, I tried peddling magazine subscriptions, and in college, vitamins. I proved an abject failure on both counts. After college, armed with a communications degree and no job prospects, I went into telephone marketing. That career topped out at a week. My next position, also in sales, lasted four times as long: I sold popcorn and caramel apples out of a wagon at the Covered Bridge Festival in Parke County, Indiana. I haven’t looked back. Until now. My boss orders me to walk the plank. <br />
What I wrote about living awake and aware, embracing what is? <i>Ehhhnhh.</i><br />
When change stares me in the face, I notice I sing a different tune. I go all queasy—and with good reason. <br />
It has to do with the story I heard Saturday at graduation open house for a friend who just earned her Ph.D. in psychology. As we ate out on the deck, we heard the neighbors’ chickens. Erin told us they’re being picked off one by one. Coyote? Hawk? Conversation turned to a YouTube video she’s seen: a family sets their baby bunny free to live in the great outdoors. <i>Hop, hop, hop.</i> As Dad videotapes its first steps toward freedom, a hawk swoops down and carries off the little rabbit squealing. <br />
“Run, run, be free!” said Erin, gesturing wildly. “Then wham-o!” A bunch of us laughed. <br />
“That’s not funny,” said her mother-in-law, who finished chemotherapy two weeks ago.<br />
“I’m sure it wasn’t funny at the time,” Erin said. “But isn’t that life? It’s what happens.”<br />
Indeed, life pulls no punches. A bald-headed woman. Bunny nuggets. Me a salesman. Everything changes in an instant and it’s not funny. It’s tragic—except that it’s also somehow comical. <br />
We traipse through life thinking we know the score.<br />
“We don’t know shit,” says the drag queen, kneeling at her friend’s grave. She carries her purse over one arm, in the other, a toilet seat lid.bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-76033764410495366682014-08-01T00:00:00.000-04:002014-08-01T00:00:01.519-04:00Brief matters.1. “A walnut killed him,” a relative says at the family reunion this summer, speaking of my great uncle. “He had a lot of food allergies,” says a second cousin. Apparently, Uncle Louie was deathly allergic to walnuts and didn’t know it. I stare at a sepia photograph of a young married man with big ears and bigger plans. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwzFmjoPV90vsuZsG-j1X_fK60gF_PsccELKaNHvEGpFCUDyNDWzef837cV7bA42NL0Q1l2Hyv3Je9Jd4llFoklsrEEMPExQSc-DX1037b2G1ZTgY96jZqbSGDnE5zxmbdw6svCjOR-RaF/s1600/pioneer+engraving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwzFmjoPV90vsuZsG-j1X_fK60gF_PsccELKaNHvEGpFCUDyNDWzef837cV7bA42NL0Q1l2Hyv3Je9Jd4llFoklsrEEMPExQSc-DX1037b2G1ZTgY96jZqbSGDnE5zxmbdw6svCjOR-RaF/s1600/pioneer+engraving.jpg" height="208" width="320" /></a></div>
<i>Live like you mean it, Louie. Hear me? Love like you’re gonna die at 31. ’Cause guess what—</i><br />
<br />
2. Blend the peel of an orange, a patch of velvet cloth and a gold doubloon with a Georgia peach and you’ll approximate the color of day lily my husband Dave has growing out back. Gorgeous blooms. But don’t blink. As their name implies, each blossom lasts but an afternoon. <br />
<br /> 3. The pain is intense, and it isn’t as if I haven’t been warned. Dave pointed to the hornets' nest being built above our barn’s double doors, said he planned to kill its inhabitants. I made a case for living and letting live. They'll interfere with our painting the barn this summer, he said, and will probably sting us when we go in and out. Not if we don’t bother them, I said. I’m reminded how physical pain rivets my attention, even as I mutter, “this, too, shall pass.”<br />
<br /> 4. After our long cold winter, the attack of the mayflies didn't happen at my workplace this year. There are usually one or two days the entrance to the building is heaped with mayflies that have expired beneath its bright security light. These creatures spend most of their life as nymphs in the nearby Missinewa River. Come spring, they transform en masse, unfold new wings, fly, mate and die—all within a few hours. <br />
<br /> 5. Love me, love my cock. My hens, too. Our barnyard chickens are more pets than livestock. I was stricken last fall when a dog maimed my favorite hen. Three weeks ago she went broody, determined to hatch a clutch of eggs. My heart swelled to think of this scrappy survivor bringing life into the world. Yesterday she responded in soothing tones to the peep-peeps of her lone new arrival. Today her nest is empty. No sign of her chick anywhere; only a broken eggshell to prove she is a mother.<br />
<br /> 6. My oldest son is seven years old when I come out to myself and others. I lose my court gambit for joint custody, then see my visitation hours cut and cut again until finally a judge issues an order barring me from seeing my children altogether. <br />
<br /> 7. Pride Day in Indianapolis offers a flash of rainbow warmth and dazzle. Then it's over. Back to life as usual. Yet for one brief Camelot moment, a shared sense of acceptance and freedom.<br />
<br /> 8. Life itself might well be an orgasm, fast as it shoots by. I’m at the age now where years collapse into months, months into hours. My elders assure me the pace only quickens from here on out.<br />
<br /> 9. In the wake of a recent federal judge’s ruling same-sex couples here in Indiana are allowed to marry. No having to travel out of state or out of country (as Dave and I did when we wed in Canada in 2005). For three days I revel in the notion my state finally has to accord Dave and me this measure of dignity, humanity and equality. Then the 7th Circuit Court stays the order. Now, a colleague bustles over to tell me what she heard on the radio: same-sex couples who wed here are to return their marriage licenses and collect a refund of fees paid. <br />
<br /> 10. All things change. All things change. My crib notes for living in such a world: (a) Live as fully alive and fully aware as possible. (b) Choose love. And gratitude. (c) Laugh often. (d) Avoid nuts.bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8072882870635795625.post-63164449396221908382014-07-01T00:00:00.000-04:002014-07-17T17:29:17.775-04:00I Found Captain America Where I'd Least Expect Him <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhz1sFJbEFBBjcV5TV3TZ2YSqCPCZxZBZlX0JonXVIoH-q8q8Gv8PUlQXAZDRWMrJC5WMqPXGCKGpba9X1F2mK4re62bg3Tv1uimthGbjbJ3Z_218PFqJKEsKswwWBhh9XJPjSosDdwDi1/s1600/closetcase.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhz1sFJbEFBBjcV5TV3TZ2YSqCPCZxZBZlX0JonXVIoH-q8q8Gv8PUlQXAZDRWMrJC5WMqPXGCKGpba9X1F2mK4re62bg3Tv1uimthGbjbJ3Z_218PFqJKEsKswwWBhh9XJPjSosDdwDi1/s1600/closetcase.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
My husband Dave and I arrive late for a poetry reading—open mic, read your own work or somebody else’s—and watch the Midwestern version of Captain America approach the podium: trim well-formed body clad in blue jeans and a cardinal-red dress shirt, top button opened to reveal a white undershirt. Black cowboy boots match a thick black leather belt with shining silver buckle. Bright blue eyes, unapologetic nose, strong stubbled chin. Dark brown hair close-cropped up the sides, growing out of a crew cut on top his head. Captivating smile, a mixture of confidence and self-consciousness with a dash of eager-to-please stirred in. His introduction is promising: “I really like this poem and I love the man it’s about.” <br /> <i>Woof.</i><br /> He launches into the reading and my ardor cools. Flip-flops into foreboding, actually. Captain America narrates with pietistic fervor a piece of religious propaganda about the life of Christ. What starts as a sexy male daring to read a poem about the man he loves turns into a quasi-militaristic call to sacrifice lives for God and country. <br /> I find myself thinking, <i>Don’t trust this man. He will hurt you. This man hates you and your kind. He doesn’t believe you’re human. He thinks you deserve everything you get. A man like him fatally stabbed your friend Carl. Remember Andy and his partner? Clubbed to death by a man like this. And Dick’s suicide? Brought on by people with this sort of religious fervor. Their thoughts, words, theology and way of life willed his death. No, this man is not safe. Keep your distance.</i><br /> I plan to. Eying Captain America, I now see him as a red, white and blue coral snake. Beautiful, but deadly. He symbolizes the irrational knee-jerk prejudice and homophobia I fear most. I’ll be careful not to out myself with him around. I wouldn’t want to meet him alone on the sidewalk afterwards or have him drive slowly by our house fingering his shotgun.<br /> He reaches the final line at last, slithers back to his seat. I do not join the general applause. <br /> Later that day, at another venue, Captain America takes to the podium again. He reads his own work this time, a revealing look at his childhood. Abusive home, alcoholic father, raised in squalor, often scrounging for food and affection. His words are heartfelt and moving. Life has not been easy for him. It’s a wonder he’s standing before us, looking as sane and sensational as he does. I clap as loudly as anyone.<br /> Why must life be so complicated? I want to go back to hating him in peace. Instead, I must do the hard work of reconciling this conflicting information, the paradox that most human beings are, the mix of good and evil, of positive and not so nice. But really, the work to be done is in myself. Deep inside. <br /> It’s not Captain America whom I fear and mistrust, so much as it is that part of me that still is quick to judge others, that believes I’m right, that divides the world into us and them. I’m right to mistrust this energy, but it’s this energy in me I need to be aware of and wary of first of all. Psychologists call this a negative projection, not recognizing an annoying quality in myself and attacking another person for it. A positive projection can be something I admire in another person (Captain America’s beauty) but unconsciously devalue in my own life (my own degree of handsomeness). Whenever I refuse to accept something as a part of myself I project that something onto others. <br /> It takes energy to shoot out these projection missiles, but it takes work to withdraw them, too. It takes me waking up to the idea that I can’t blame others for my own failings, nor look to them as superheroes who may save me from myself. <br /> The adage rings true, “We are the ones we’ve been waiting for.” Time to don my mask, take up my shield, get ready to roll.bryn marlowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12956944005519769506noreply@blogger.com0