November 30, 2006

Eddie

We were the closest of the four siblings. Sis was a bit of a goody-two-shoes. Younger brother was a typical little-brother-brat and very much Mama’s boy. That left Eddie and me. We found outlets for our mischievous natures together. When I was four and he was seven, our parents got tired of hearing both of us declare that we were going to run away from home. They dumped the two of us into the back seat of that year’s old clunker and drove out to a country highway. We were unceremoniously deposited on the gravel shoulder, our most precious goods in pillowcases swung over our backs. Eddie had his BB gun, and would find rabbits which we would roast on sticks over a campfire. I had my stuffed monkey and knew how to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches from the jars and loaf we carried. The Davy Crockett canteen and a few clothes completed our survival kits. Our bravado lasted for perhaps ten minutes, and we were both tear-streaked and repentant when Mom and Dad picked us up, somewhere around a hundred yards from where we’d started. That lesson was learned, though our parents may have later regretted our hard-won wisdom. There may have been days when they wished we were someone else’s headache. Throughout the late fifties and early sixties we frequently were called on the carpet together. “Wait ’til your father gets home” was Mom’s pronouncement that guaranteed her a quiet afternoon, as we retreated to our rooms to await the belt or Dad’s big, hard hand applied firmly to our backsides. Still, we tortured Sis and Little Bro, neglected chores and disappeared on adventures when homework was on the agenda.

Eddie had a garage band in his teens. My voice, not yet damaged by two packs a day, was pretty good, and I was soon recruited. Our public appearances were limited, but we practiced daily, much to the displeasure of neighbors. When we did our first paid gig, I bought cigars for all of the guys as a congratulatory gesture. I was rewarded with chaste kisses from the band. I’m sure I must have blushed furiously, since I had a crush on our bass player. So did Eddie.

It was hard to follow Eddie through school. His reputation preceded me, and I was often introduced as “the fag’s little sister.” Still, we remained close and I tried my best to forgive him for ruining my life. When I finally did run away from home shortly before I was due to graduate, I landed in his French Quarter apartment. He introduced me the gay bar scene, inadvertently guarding my innocence, as I quickly became “little sis” to my new friends. They found me “charmingly naive” and took turns steering me away from the hippies and bikers who fascinated me. It was many years later before I could appreciate their intervention.

Eddie and I drifted apart as adults. We lived in different states and didn’t see each other often. I grew up overnight with the arrival of my son, and set my sights on living a responsible life. Eddie continued to meander. He rarely supported himself, and never repaid the loans that helped him get by. He lived on the edges of society and found himself in trouble with the law more than once. He proudly declared that he would never grow up, choosing to cling to a Peter Pan existence. Still, he lived in my heart and I loved him. I fretted over him as much as I did my son.

I was one of the first to know he had been infected with HIV. The other who knew slipped one day and mentioned that Eddie’s most recent T-cell count had been good. Those words seared themselves into my brain and I reeled with the impact. It was several hours later before I pulled myself together enough to call him. He immediately began crying, and I knew it was because he knew that I knew. We talked many times in the weeks and months that followed. I pledged to take care of him when/if the time came that he needed help. I didn’t believe it would ever come to that. I just couldn’t.

Eddie became an AIDS counselor and did a weekly broadcast on public TV. He reported hopefully on each advance in research and treatment. He was sure that a cure was imminent. He continued to live his life pretty much as he always had, until suddenly he couldn’t. After several symptom-free years, Eddie was hospitalized several times in the space of a few months. I was living half-a-world away by then, and he wanted to continue his care with the doctors he had become comfortable with. I was not allowed to keep my promise. Sis stepped in. She was his twin and they lived in the same city. Their bond was strong, though “different” from the one that he and I shared. She was there to take him to the clinic, remind him to take his “cocktail,” and help him face his frustrations and fears. He still believed that a cure was near.

She called me in a panic several months after Eddie moved in. Dad was not doing well and little brother was not doing a good job of tending him. So, while Sis took care of Eddie, Dad was flown to my home, where his care soon became a twenty-four/seven commitment. While I was bathing our father, trying to get him to eat, struggling to get him off of the floor when he fell, I knew that she was doing the same for Eddie.

The end came quickly. Eddie was hospitalized with pneumonia. A few days later he was gone. My sister and an aunt were at his bedside, holding his hands when he quit struggling to breath. Eddie’s body was whisked away, to be used for AIDS research as he had wanted. I didn’t have time to mourn. Dad was having frequent strokes. I was exhausted with his care and barely felt the impact of Eddie’s passing.

Dad died five months later. My son and I flew him home to place him beneath the double stone where Mom had rested alone for a decade. Eddie was nearby and I think his death finally became real to me then. His remains had been released a few months before. The extended family was in turmoil, because Sis, with little money and reeling from her own grief and exhaustion, had allowed the county to bury him in a pauper’s grave. I was still dealing with Dad at that time and told her I would support her in whatever she needed to do. It had not occurred to Sis to ask the family to help, and none of them came forward to volunteer. Some of them have still not forgiven her for not giving Eddie the cremation he had stated was his preference. I understood her decision, and I think Eddie would have, too. And I think that, in some perverse way, he would have appreciated one last opportunity to stand the family on its ears.

Michael Edward B.
September 28, 1949 - December 2, 1998

I’ll be watching And the Band Played On again soon, Eddie. I’ll be thinking of you, and then of so many others. I’ll cry and hurt and then become enraged, for you and for them. And Eddie, you were wrong one last time. They still haven’t found a cure.

November 29, 2006

I feel small today.

How shall I stretch and expand myself?

Suggestions, please?

November 28, 2006

Wallhogs!

How many totally cool and unique gift ideas have you found this year? Most of what I’d seen so far is just a step removed from what was available last year and the year before. Until I came across Wallhogs, that is. Your own photos, blown up to gigantic size (7 feet by over 4 feet) and printed on durable, semi-adhesive vinyl, shipped in time for you to slip it under the tree. Most folks will probably put them on a wall. I’m selfishly thinking about the one that I want. A huge me, performing that super-prestigious job a while back. Slap me on a van and park it across the street from that competitor who still thinks a woman’s place is not in our industry. You know, the guy who didn’t get the job? Could I be that petty? Mmmmm … maybe! Season of giving? That means I can give to myself, right? I want to be the cool one this time.

Is it rumor or rocksolid? Will Wallhogs be providing bigger-than-life Gwen Stefani images soon? Could other popular figures and stock images be coming, too? Check it out for yourself!

There’s a new day coming

There’s as large vacant lot that abuts my neighborhood. It’s been the bane of our existence for many years. The acreage has belonged to a government entity that had no use for it and wanted to transfer it to another government entity. There was no real oversight, and the land became a favorite gathering place for crack users and criminal types. Stolen cars were frequently dumped there and most of those were torched. The vegetation is extremely dry most of the year, and the keawe trees (related to mesquite) make excellent fuel for barbecues and brushfires. Several years ago two homes in my community were destroyed by an out-of-control brushfire, and we have grown accustomed to dozens of fires each year. We finally persuaded the property manager to install a fence on our side of the property and that did cut down on commercial dumping and abandoned cars. A clean-up at the same time produced truckload after truckload of junk cars, construction debris, rusted appliances and other rubbish. We breathed a sigh of relief, but the other side of the property remained unfenced and it didn’t take long for the miscreants to discover the back way into the place. In the three years or so that followed, we battered ourselves against the bureaucracy and made little progress. A fire break that we were promised at the time of the clean-up finally materialized about two months ago.

Last night I met with two representatives from the state department that has now taken over the property. Their responsibility is to set up and implement a program to meet the needs of the homeless populations throughout the state. Their initial project, which will hopefully be the model for similar efforts statewide, is scheduled to start soon. Construction will begin as early as February on a transitional housing community, to be situated on that troublesome lot. This project is being constructed to provide for the homeless who live on “our” beach, the one I see each time I leave my house, one of the beaches where I distributed books last week. The plans and drawings are stunning. A broad circle of residences will surround a large green space. One building will contain an adult learning center and space for community gatherings. Another will be a pre-school and daycare facility. Various support services which are desperately need by this fragile population will also have facilities on site. The first residences are slated to be ready in September of next year. Phase two, a little further down the road, will be an adjacent community of affordable housing, with preference given to those who have come through the transitional housing facility.

The reason I met with the people spearheading this project is that I am the president of the homeowners association for my community. There will inevitably be some squeaky wheels who don’t want “those people”to move this close to their homes. Having heard rumors of this project a few weeks ago, I volunteered to serve as liaison between my own community and the state. The objections about property values I can handle. A planned community of working citizens will be much healthier for our property values than the threat we lived with for many years. I am confident that our security will be not be threatened by the new residents. Those whose lives are out of control due to substance abuse or who have violent backgrounds will be offered other transitional programs to get them off of the beach and into homes. The objections I’m most worried about addressing are the ones that have no bones. What bridge to reasoning can I offer for folks who don’t recognize our neighbors on the beach as being our neighbors. The ones who carry irrational fears and prejudices. What arguments can be offered to those who sincerely believe that those who have been forced to live in sub-human conditions have given up their claim to humanity?

I’m still working on that one.

You asked what I wanted for Christmas

I was born in a tiny town in Texas that most folks have never heard of. My family moved away when I was quite young, but I still retain memories of some of the special people and places there. My parent’s closest friends were house parents in an orphanage, and we visited there almost every week. The orphanage had a small working farm, and we were sometimes allowed to help the residents collect eggs, milk the cows and select the beans and tomatoes that would grace the table for our evening meal. But the memory that shines through the most clearly is that of a cowboy, whose name is now lost to me, but whose smile captured my heart. He was my first crush, a bull rider, and spent every weekend at the rodeo practice grounds that sat beside the orphanage barn. On Saturdays my siblings and I would join the crowd of orphans, precariously balanced on a split-rail fence, to watch our heroes. Splinters in hands, legs and backsides didn’t matter, nor did the clumps of mud that flew from wild hooves to smear our clothes and fleck our faces. We had front row seats to the rodeo! Those days, and that special cowboy who smiled at my prettier Big Sis, but always had a wink for runt-of-the-litter-me, fostered a life-long love of the rodeo in my heart.

Things have changed a lot since those days. I still go to watch the cowboys perform their amazing feats from time to time, and am the target of occasional teasing for watching the events that are televised. The weekend rodeo amateurs are now professionals contending for big prizes. One thing that hasn’t changed, though, is that the Professional Bull Riders are still my favorites. So Santa/Son, are you listening? The Professional Bull Riders Finals are in Las Vegas. You’ve been bugging me for a while now to join you for a trip to Las Vegas, and you’ve even talked about giving me a trip for Christmas this year. I’m thinking that some PBR Tickets would fit nicely in my stocking.

Who knows? Maybe he’ll be there to toss me a wink!

Technorati Tags: first crush, memories, rodeo

Link love - a true story.

Once upon a time there was a lovely blogger who invited one and all to join her for sweet tea and pleasant meanderings. Alas, though her company was delightful and her thoughts were provoking, she was lonely, because her invitations had gotten lost in the blogsphere and guests did not know to come. Her isolation drove her to despair, and she cried out her envy of the A-list blogger across the way. Ah, but Mr. A-list was a kind soul who knew that hers was only a momentary despondency, and that he had the sure prescription for a cure. He gathered his entourage and directed them all to visit the lovely, lonely lady blogger. His charisma being great, they responded with enthusiasm and warmth. Her home swelled with happy throngs (or was it thongs?)and the lovely lady blogger was lonely no more. In deep gratitude, she regaled her guests with a song of appreciation for her A-list friend, and there was much cheer throughout the land of blogdom.

andtheyalllivedhappilyeverafter-theend

November 27, 2006

Take good care of yourself

Shopping for nutritional supplements, vitamins, herbs and beauty products has just gotten easier. You won’t need to spend hours searching for your favorite products and product lines anymore. N101 Nutrition carries over two hundred of the best brands and has what you need. Their site is well organized and offers secure ordering. Whether you’re dieting, trying to add muscle or looking for supplements and herbs to enhance your overall health, you’ll find it here, and you’ll save 30-75% on their everyday prices. Free shipping is available on some items. While you’re there, check out the savings on beauty and personal care, pet care and household products. One-stop shopping at the click of a mouse, what could be better?

Have I mentioned that I read - a lot?

November 26, 2006

The Catholic Church wants you back

The Catholic Show wants you to reclaim your faith. A laic project, it is seeking to encourage “holiday Catholics” to revitalize their interest and return to weekly mass. This lively series of podcasts boldly faces some of the problems confronting Catholics and the Church today, and asks you to help support “a Church vibrant and growing as never before.” Check it out.

Mr. Monk is in the house!

A Monk marathon, including two episodes that I missed the first time around - what a perfect way to end my weekend! I’m sitting at my desk registering books for my next releasing frenzy as I watch, so I don’t even have to feel guilty, right?