When I woke up this morning, I had Jeff Volmrich’s name pounding inside my head. He was in my high school class and I haven’t given him a second thought since . 25 years is a long time. I found it quite disturbing that I was thinking of him so strongly. As I sat doing my morning knitting meditation, I kept him in the forefront of my thoughts. When I rise thinking so strongly of a particular person, there is usually a readily apparent reason with which I can easily connect. Not so today. Here it is about eight hours later, and I have yet to shake him from the tree, but I decided this morning to let him linger as long as he likes, but that I would lose the disturbing nature of his presence. Deciding to not be disturbed was one thing. Accomplishing not being disturbed could be quite another. How would I make this happen?I decided to forgive him.Jeff wasn’t the meanest of my high school tormenters. That was Lori Staats. I’ll forgive her, too, while I am at it. Jeff, even though more of a leader, when it came to tormenting me, he was definitely more of a follower. The only brilliance he can claim as his own is taking “Maxine the beauty queen,” always said full of taunting malice, and giving it a French spin. “La beauty reine” didn’t have quite the same sting, and the whole thing sort of lost its mojo in the process. Beyond this, the details of his relentless teasing really don’t matter. I offer up a blanket of forgiveness to Jeff.

I have been sitting in the mornings knitting, as meditation. It has had such a soothing effect on me, and the time with my self and my knitting during the early morning pre-dawn hours, when the house is otherwise still sleeping, has been a cherished gift. It is leaving me feeling very full. I am pretty sure it all started on Thanksgiving morning.

The weekend before Thanksgiving, we took a day trip to Gruene(pronounced green), Texas. It is a quaint little village we discovered on the September 2006 Texas Watering Hole Tour and it’s between Austin and San Antonio. The day before we were to go to Gruene, I discovered via Google that it was the weekend of Market Days where they have vendors hawking all sorts of hand crafted wares. What a nice bonus this would be. We had decided on a bright and early start, and I think we were out of the house before seven. The forecast was less than promising, but we seem to be a little charmed when it comes to any sort of traveling and the weather, a fact I attribute to honoring Rita (eb’s mom) by wearing her divine opal ring as a symbol of my love and devotion to her daughter. I wasn’t too concerned by the overcast skies as we drove west in the early morning.

We hadn’t really given much thought to Market Days, and where they actually are in Gruene because it is a small enough town that it seemed it would be obvious. Right away, we found the town parking area near the center square, and got a decent spot right off. It was warm enough and as yet, still dry, so we went on our way following other people who had just parked near us, having faith that they were Market Day veterans. We weren’t disappointed.

My first order of business was finding the bathrooms. I didn’t yet have to go, but I feel a compelling need to know where bathrooms are these days. The first vendor we came across had glass beads and buttons she makes herself and since she was between customers I asked and was directed down the aisle, through the alleyway between those businesses, past the parking to a charming line of porta-potties. Since it sounded a bit far, I decided to go right then. I’m glad I did, too, because it was still fairly early and the facilities were pleasantly clean.

Business taken care of, we set off around Market Days to assess the shopping possibilities. We were able to get a few gifts for the upcoming holidays as well as a few things for ourselves. There was a man selling jalapeno relish and salsa among other sauces. He had made shrimp shooters with the salsa and a piece of avocado and a shrmp which were delicious, and he mixed some of the jalapeno relish with cream cheese to make a dip. I very cautiously tried the dip because I am somewhat wussy about anything jalapeno. It was tingly spicy, but not too hot for me, so we got some. We should have gotten more because damn, that dip is good.

There were several vendors with handmade glass beads and jewelry and eb found a pair of earrings she liked, so we got them. Once we made it back to the direction giving bead lady I took a look at her wares and she had the prettiest glass buttons. I bought two for future knit projects. We bought some soaps and we picked up a flyer from a man who makes Adirondack chairs. He had one design that is a double with a small table between which is also a glider. I think we need one of those for the back deck.

After our shopping spree, we went in search of something for lunch. We looked at the map to see where we were in relation to the Gristmill, the restaurant we had eaten in on our first visit to Gruene. We looked at the other listings and there was a place we wanted to try which seemed nearby. We walked in the general direction indicated by the map for Janie’s something or other, and we never found it. As we turned around to head back toward parking, We saw the Gruene River Grill and decided to go there because by this time, we were pretty hungry. I had the pulled pork tacos which were plain and simple, and just about perfect.

After lunch we walked through town on our way back to the car and stopped at Oma Gruene’s Christmas Shop. While there we bought a few Jim Shore ornaments for gifts, and a large Jim Shore snowman for us which we will likely leave out year round. I also got a Jim Shore Santa that is also a music box for my boss, not knowing she collects Jim Shore. She loved it.

After the Christmas shop, we headed in to Austin. We couldn’t go that close to Austin and not stop in at BookWoman to drop a little support. I had also read about a cupcake stand that I wanted to stop at. Hey Cupcake! is a converted Airstream trailer that is roadside and has window service. I had a red velvet cupcake which was a nice afternoon snack and very delicious, and eb chose something chocolate on chocolate. As it happened (wink wink) Hill Country Weavers was right across the street from the cupcake stand, as is some chic boutiqueish sort of shopping. From the cupcake stand, I headed across one street while eb headed across the other.Hill Country Weavers is an awesome yarn store. It is an old house and it is packed full with tempting niceties. I browsed around a bit and decided on some chunky thick and thin yarn for a scarf in beautiful watermelon pinks and greens. I also bought the Kushu Kushu scarf kit from Habu textiles. I knit up the chunky watermelon scarf during the week after our return from Gruene and Austin. The Kushu Kushu brings us back to Thanksgiving.On Thanksgiving morning, the start of a long weekend when there was to be no early rising for work, what time was I up? Right about 5:00 a.m. I have long since decided that there is no arguing with my body. If it is time to sleep I sleep, if it is time to be up I am up. This is haw I came to be casting on the Kushu at 5:20 Thanksgiving morning.

The dogs went out to do their business and Sawyer and Nola were snuggled into bed with eb. Lilli Munster and I were snuggled in on the chaise in the library which is my chair of choice for knitting or reading or just plain snuggling in. I had opened the Kushu kit and was trying to not give in to intimidation. Kushu is started on a size 8 needles which is moderately large as knitting needles go, almost standard pencil size. The needle size is extremely large given that the ultra fine merino and sink stainless steel “yarn” used for Kushu is more like sewing thread. I’m not in the least exaggerating.

As it turns out, Kushu is a very meditative and soothing knit. I can’t work on it any time other than the early morning silence. I can’t take it to knit night. I can’t cart it around to work on when spare time presents itself. It is a dedicated knit and early morning silence is its time slot. I fast learned that six is often the magic number of rows which will be done.

I started with six rows because for the first sixty rows, there are decreases ever y six rows and I felt I needed to have structure surrounding how and when the knitting could be put down to facilitate keeping track of where I was. I soon enough learned that I could some days do more rows, but by row six I always had a definite sense of either six being enough or more being possible. It was rather like my body deciding it is time to rise or sleep. Once committed to more, it became multiples of 2 rows that created pause for the decision to proceed or not. Twenty rows is the most to date in one sitting. It is very intense knitting with my glasses perched atop my head and the needles about six inches from my face for perfect focus and attention to detail. Then the inward journey begins.

This is how I arrived today at abundance. A month later and Kushu isn’t finished. I am not full of Kushu. The process of knitting Kushu with its meditative quality has been a journey of sorts. Moreso than any holiday season I can remember at the moment, I am feeling a sense of overwhelming abundance. I recognize it as part of a bigger journey, but I can also see the connection to knitting this simple scarf very clearly.

We have also begun somewhat intentionally, somewhat by accident, a journey toward less. Less stuff. Less waste. Less mindlessness. We are consciously trying to be more aware of our environment and the footprint we leave.

There will still be awesome gift giving and receiving, and I still have a want list, but it is more necessity and consumable driven. Would I absolutely faint for the diamond cigar band ring from the jewelry store circular? Certainly. But the difference is I have no expectation or desire for such extravagance. It’s been totally reeled in. My wants these days revolve around books and music and maybe some yarn. I think these things as they present themselves in my path, will always be met with a heartfelt smile.

I have my health and a few cherished friends. I have a roof overhead that is my home ( I wish that could be enormous swirly script) and a decent income that generously supports a lifestyle to which I am accustomed. Most importantly, I share an impassioned existence with a woman I love and am totally devoted to. She lets me love her unconditionally, and she lets me revel in it in return. Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Abundance is mine.

Quite often, moments of grace arrive veiled in such a way that we don’t take them for more than face value for quite a while. The following piece was written about 5 years ago and it addresses a woman I met online before I met Elizabeth.

The story unfolds over a period of about 4 months, and as she was retreating, Elizabeth was coming forward. It was very much a one door closes, another door opens sort of time.

Brigit

In January 1998, I had to move back into the home I shared with my husband after having been separated for some time, and living separately for 6 months. He had gotten military orders to Iceland for 1 year and his household was set up, and there was no way there was room for the kids in my tiny apartment. I totally resented him for this being necessary, but there really was no way around it. The benefit of me moving back in was that the kids would not be uprooted and would be able to continue for the school year with no disruption to their routine.

I had Steven get us a WebTV unit, as it was much cheaper than getting a computer, and it would be cheaper than phone calls back and forth for him to be able to talk to the kids. We went looking and learned more about it and finally bought one. Only then would I agree to moving back in and we all packed up my stuff and it was a done deal. He left a day or so after that and although I was no longer comfortable in what used to be our happy home, he was not there and I was soon settled in.

I set up all the accounts on the WebTV and was soon surfing the internet and searching for this and that. At this point I had known I am a lesbian for about 4 years. I began searching for lesbian this and lesbian that to see what was out there. I found out about message boards and chat rooms and through that I learned about email lists.

One evening I did a search for lesbian email lists and came across a list of lesbian lists. It was truly a comfort to see there were so many options to choose from. I went from one to the next reading their descriptions until finally I came across one named MarBLes. It stood for MARried But LESbian. I was amazed that there were other women in my same situation and signed up right away. I was a little nervous initially, but soon discovered a great deal of
support and tremendous diversity among the group. When I joined, the group was 40 members and it was like finding my real family, as corny as that sounds.

MarBLes had its own chat room on an irc channel that with a little help, I was able to get into. Chatting was a good supplement to getting to know this group a little better, though I did not say much initially because I could hardly keep up just reading the screen.

Pretty soon I had a clear mental image of who I had common ground with and who I was comfortable talking to. The person I was most comfortable with was Brigit. She was close enough to my age, had kids, and was able to still be happily married, having an open agreement with her husband. This opened my mind to the same possibility with my husband, though deep down I think I knew he would never go for it and that it would not work for us.

Brigit and I fast became a couple and I learned an entirely different kind of relationship. I remembered with a laugh having seen a show on Sally Jesse Raphael about this very topic and thinking how ludicrous it was, people meeting online and thinking they had found love, but here I was getting a thorough understanding of it because it was happening to me. We would agree to meet at a certain time, our dates, and we would chat with the MarBLes group at weekly sessions, and email each other several times daily. There seemed to be no limit to what we could share this way even though there was more than 1000 miles between us. Soon enough I lost my cyber cherry and it only escalated further from there.

We decided we should meet in real life to see if what was happening online was something that was sustainable. Brigit thought it better if she came to Virginia rather than me coming to Kansas since her kids were grown and her husband was there to watch over them, and mine were not. A plane ticket was purchased for the last week in March and it was actually going to happen. There was a lot of nervous anticipation as the day of Brigit’s arrival grew near.
We thoroughly discussed all the possible scenarios we could conceive and agreed there would be no pressure and no expectations. At the very least we would be friends, but the possibilities beyond that remained open for negotiating depending on how we actually felt.

I am a rather touchy feely person, and when Brigit walked down the ramp, I first made sure it was her, and then I gave her a big hug and a quick kiss. We went to pick up her luggage and then we were on our way to my house. While I was driving I placed my hand on her thigh as this is my habit, and after a while, I realized how quiet we were. It suddenly occurred to me to ask her if it was ok that I was touching her. She said it was fine and that she liked the ease I had in finding an immediate comfort with her. I think she also mentioned that it might take her some time to adjust. I told her there was no rush, friendship was a given.

We developed into a rhythm of comfort, companionship I suppose. Our comfort level with each other was evident and continued to deepen. At one point, Brigit asked if she could stay longer. I had no problem with her staying as long as she liked because I really liked her. At some point I was concerned that the incredible sex we had had online was not incredible sex we were having together in the flesh, but I also thought it was something that just needed more time. I soon saw this to be true as on day nine, the tide turned and intimacy together was found. We had crossed some sort of threshold and our relationship was fortified. We began to make plans for when we might be able to see each other again.

While Brigit was visiting, a local radio station was giving away concert tickets and a bus trip to the show. You had to bring a bag of food to a location and this got you an entry in the drawing for one of 12 pair of tickets to go on this trip to see Sarah McLachlan. It was a kismet as far as I was concerned. Her music is something we shared and discussed at great length when we chatted and emailed.

It was a lovely morning and we went to the food drop off point set up at some store in Virginia Beach. We got there when it started at 10 and got our ticket. It did not occur to either of us to bring more than one bag of food to have multiple chances to win. Before too long there were about 100 people there, some bringing even 20 bags of food. The food bank was collecting a bundle, and we were getting a little less excited with each new person showing up with their donation.

At Noon, the radio DJ began to draw names, and he drew one name every 5 minutes for the next hour. Brigit’s ticket number was the ninth one to be called. She screamed so loudly that everyone around us jumped. This was the first thing she had ever won in her life. We were going to be on a bus trip to Baltimore to see Sarah in a few days.

Of course the concert was fabulous. Though the bus ride was 5 hours, it really was a perfect trip. On the way to the show, we watched “A League of Their Own” on the video monitor system of the tour bus. I had seen it before, but Brigit had not and it was a pleasant distraction. There was a toilet on the bus, but about half way to the show, the driver stopped at a rest area so he and everyone else could stretch and take a short break. We had noticed another set of lesbians, maybe a couple, maybe not. They sat in the front seat of the bus behind the driver and were so very proper and dignified. All the quiet people were in the front of the bus. There was almost an us/them feel of delineation from the front of the bus to the back with the radio station dj pretty much in the middle. Brigit and I were not the ringleaders of the rowdy set, but we were sitting in the back seat, polar opposites of those “other” lesbians.

We got to the show about half an hour before it began and saw that our seats, row 107 I think, were actually 7 rows from the stage. It was simply amazing. The opening act for Sarah was Lisa Loeb. I had not really heard much of her music but a song or two played on the radio. I really enjoyed her performance, especially her song called “Pulling Taffy”. It just cracked me up. She played her set and we were all revved up for Sarah to take the stage. The intermission was not too long, and then the lights went down low. She was a goddess. I was so very in awe of her presence, and we were so very comfortably enjoying this together. We thoroughly enjoyed each other on this trip and we were a couple. There was somewhere along the way a transformation that seemed to cement us together a little more tightly.

Another thing we did on this extended first date was to go get tattooed. I had already taken the plunge about a year prior and gotten a sun on my ankle. I am not sure if it was more to assert independence from my husband, or to spite him as he thinks tattoos are nasty, especially on women. Brigit had wanted to get a tattoo for some time and never actually done it. I told her I would get a second one and she could watch and then decide if she wanted to go through with it or not. I added a moon on the inside of the same ankle, and Brigit decided she would go for it. In preparation, she had my older son sketch a design for
a double-headed axe. They worked together refining it and had an excellent design for the tattoo artist to work with and once he added color, it really came out lovely.

During the tattoo experience with Brigit, I learned a new appreciation for the potential of eroticism that might accompany the process. To me, it was not as unpleasant as I expected. It was more like being stung repeatedly by annoying insects. For Brigit it was that pleasurable pain making her squirm in the seat. She was so flushed that the artist thought she might need a break. She told him to proceed because she was thoroughly enjoying herself. I was enjoying the show just as much. I wish I had taken a picture of her tattoo for my son to have in his portfolio. It really was that good.

A week prior to Brigit’s visit there had been a few wicked storms. I learned that these storms had sort of churned up the ocean and bay and sort of spit out a lot of shells up on the beaches. We went one day to the beach for the afternoon. Every few yards there was what looked to be a pile of gravel. Upon closer examination, I saw each was a pile of shells. They were whole miniature seashells, like you might buy a basket of at a décor store. I was content to just sit there and pore through them.

At one point, the boys were playing down at the water’s edge and Brigit was off walking near the surf, and I was still sitting there, running my hands through this seashell gravel. A woman came seemingly from nowhere dressed in flowing gauzy layers. She had long blond hair that can only be described as unkempt. She came within about 5 ft of me where I was sitting and put her bare heel into the sand and proceeded to enclose me in the center of a near perfect circle. It was very bizarre. She was softly chanting something unrecognizable and never took her gaze from me. Then she left as suddenly as she appeared. I was telling Brigit about this and that she had circled me 3 times and seemed to be chanting. Brigit told me she had celebrated my energy and it was like a ceremony to honor me or some such thing. I have not thought about that again until now.

After about 2 weeks, Brigit felt she had to go home. I think it was a sort of test to see how we would fare separately now that we had become a part of each other. It was a test we failed miserably. When our agreed upon meeting online came around, Brigit did not show up. When I posted a message asking her to contact me on a message board we went to, she did not respond. When I went to the group chat, she was not there. When I mentioned on the email list that I needed to hear from her, there was again, no response. I was beginning to feel that when Brigit physically left from visiting me, that all the intimacy left with her.

A few weeks later I saw her in the chatroom on group chat night and she was very distant. I knew somehow it was different, that we were no longer a couple. I did not understand it and I did not get any explanation from Brigit other than it is just her way of dealing with all the different pieces. I was hurt and felt rather discarded. Not something I was equipped to deal with because it had been wonderful and now it was just over.

I still tried to email and get further explanation, but heard little back from her. I soon realized that it was not a lot different than someone in real life not returning phone calls. No matter where a relationship takes place, a brush off is still a brush off. A mutual net friend had told me that it was her way, that all I would ever get would be a little piece of her, and that I would have to accept this. He told me she would show up when it suited her or when she was able. It was difficult, but I soon enough moved on.

A few months later I came to realize that my time with Brigit was a spiritual awakening or discovery of sorts. That was the purpose of our paths crossing, I suppose.

I learned from her a lot about myself in a short time that I still am digesting some 4 years later. Every once in a while I would send an email to addresses I knew were hers or were maintained by her, but if I got any reply back it was a short few words. My interest was one of friendship, not love pining away. I had already played that game once before and knew it has no happy ending.

When I first asked myself this question, I was 29 years old. I had not had the luxury of growing up with the personal knowledge that I was “different,” or lesbian, or anything other than a normal suburban misfit. Hindsight, of course, is the greatest illustrator. Looking back on my life as I remember it, I see all sorts of instances that pointed toward the homo end of the normal scale. At the time, however, I had no clue…no idea at all, that I was anything other than a “normal” hetero chick.

I was not in denial for 29 years. At the oh-so-mature age of twenty, I thought I was in love. I had been dating this guy for about two and a half years and we lived in apartments in adjacent buildings on the main street of a quaint little worldly village. My roommate at the time was my still best friend and omigod…she was a lesbian. It is not like being from a small town left me with no known lesbian role models.

During this time, one of my jobs was as a supermarket cashier. My roommate worked there and she helped me get hired on. The Bookkeeper was another good friend of hers, and over time, we fell in together much like the three musketeers. Eventually, I realized I had fallen in love with this woman. I never considered that this might mean I was a lesbian, and though I believe she loved me too, our relationship was never real. We often went on group dates, my roommate, her girlfriend, The Bookkeeper, and me, but The Bookkeeper was such a good Catholic girl. (Sigh…)

Our unofficial dating and non-lesbianness was not a whim or a fling. This went on over a period of three to four years. Did I forget to mention that The Bookkeeper was engaged? She was. For part of this time, I was still with that guy I thought I loved so much. That dalliance produced my first child. Once I smelled the roses about my relationship with him, I left him, and still had no thought that I might be attracted to women. I was attracted to one
woman…there was just something about “her.” After leaving him, I dated guys and carried on as heterosexual, something I never even questioned I was or wasn’t, and still continued also dating The Bookkeeper.

Of course, over time, the non-consumation of my desires for The Bookkeeper led me to a state of discontent. Please remember, too, that at no time when all this was actually happening was I so fully aware of all the things that contributed to life actually happening as it did as I am now so many years removed from it. When I was 22.5, I had the opportunity to move away from it all because a friend of mine extended me an invitation to stay with her until I could get settled on my own. Thank the Goddess she had the insight to realize I needed a fresh start to get mylife turned around and headed in a more productive direction.

I often wonder why I did not take that opportunity to reevaluate exactly what it was I wanted from life. I suppose the simple truth of the matter is that I was just not mature enough to sit down and be still with my authentic self. At 38, this is something I am just now coming into. I did, however, take the time to acknowledge to myself that I was worth more than a casual relationship. A week after moving, I got a job in a busy hair salon, which is what I actually went to school for a few years before, and I concentrated my efforts toward making a successful career transition and found a career I could be passionate about.

Coincidentally, I also took on a second job as a cocktail waitress and subsequently met the second major love of my life (the first being The Bookkeeper), my exhusband. He and I were together happily seven years before I had my grand awakening. For a while, I had even convinced myself that we could stay happily married, *and* I could be/become a real lesbian. A lot of drama later, I realized that life like that could only happen for me if all the people involved were on the same page, and certainly my ex was not on that page, and likely not even in the same book.

At a point when I still carried a small semblance of hope that my marriage might survive, I found an email list called MarBLes. It was for women who were MARried But LESbian. I could not believe that I was not the only one, and quite frankly, the idea that this might be an entire segment of the lesbian community had never entered my mind. I was still trying to rationalize the fact that I was not really a “babydyke” (at 29) even though in so many ways I felt that I was, I was discovering that I was a MarBLes dyke, and I was liking it. It made a lot of sense to me at first and at the base of it all it just felt good to feel validated for a while.

I soon found that within that small faction of the lesbian community, there were yet more differences dividing us. There were women who had crossed over and left their marriages to live a lesbian life, women who knew they could never compromise their hetero family, women who had successfully brought a girlfriend into their marriage, and many other variations on the theme. I even met a woman I considered myself to be dating online. That in itself was a bizarre concept to me, but it taught me that there was indeed something missing in my life, and that once again, I had to acknowledge to myself that I was worth more.

After the first MarBLes relationship disintegrated, I met my current partner. All I can really say about it without spinning off in a totally different direction is the old cliche, “Third time’s a Charm.” She is the other half that totally completes me. Though I do not consider living and sharing my life with her, and loving her completely to be the defining aspect of me being a real lesbian, it is deeply ingrained into my soul as an integral part of the whole picture.

As I ask myself this question today, am I a real lesbian, in answer I can only quote Melissa Etheridge and say “Yes, I am.”

It is nearly midnight. The logs pop as I take my poker and stir up the coals once more before the flames die out altogether. Once enough embers are glowing, I hastily add another log to the fire. If the fire dies out, the evening is over. The sparks cascade heavenward and light up the surrounding fireside area. The light from the newly flaming log is enough to enhance the view I have of Michael. He is sitting directly across from me, and Gene has told me that Michael really likes me. I was fifteen at the time and not quite sure what that really meant.

It was my duty each evening at dusk to get a fire going in the common pit outside of the reservation desk of my family’s campground. As the night wore on, customers would come and go, just chit-chatting, or perhaps checking up on their kids who were likely sitting out there with me. Marshmallows were always available, and on occasion, someone would bring the required Hershey bars and graham crackers for s’mores.

By about ten each evening, any younger kids and any other campground guests would trickle back to their tents to go to bed. We always had guests who stayed for longer periods of time, and many for the entire summer. The teenage children of these guests were my inner circle. Michael’s family were summer residents.

Looking through the flames, I could see his long blonde hair shadowing his face. His bangs would separate in the middle and his eyes would mirror the flames that danced between us. As the summer wore on, Michael’s designated seat would move clockwise around the circle changing every few nights so as to not look suspicious. After about two weeks, his seat was right next to me.

The innocence of this nightly ritual is long lost, but the memory of the first kiss is still sharp in my mind’s eye some twenty five years later. Soft youthful lips. Hands not knowing where to go so they remain at our sides. A brief kiss, then it is time once again to give the dying embers a stir so that another log can pile on to warm the midnight sky as sparks cascade heavenward.

When feeling nostalgic about high school, there are few people I would want to come across on a spiritual plane. John is one of them.

John was a student at Camelot, St Francis’ home for troubled youth. The youth of Camelot were all boys, and many of them had been assigned there for various criminal infractions of their youth. It’s a good bet that the infractions imagined by their classmates were always considerably worse than the actual. A boy from Camelot had a certain rep to live up to, and he either did or didn’t rather immediately, usually hammered out on his first day at school. The path a newly registered Camelot boy traveled, was of course usually governed by Camelot boys with more tenure. The more tenure a Camelot boy endured, the more risque he was perceived by all. For some it was respect, for some it was fear. On occasion, a new Camelot boy was considered a wuss right out of the box. As he stepped down from their bus the first day, John was shoved and one of those more revered said “Out of the way, faggot,” a brief comment which told volumes.

Having witnessed John’s arrival fresh off the bus, it was with ease that I approached him in homeroom, because his treatment from his Camelot peers deemed him, in some nondescript way, safe. John was glad to have someone talking to him, and that it was a girl was a bonus. He knew nothing of the facts of small town school and the particular fact that I was from Wilmington, effectively the other side of the tracks. Of course, John had his own tracks to contend with. We talked of everything and of nothing all in the same breath, all of the time.

As different as we were being boy and girl, we were equally similar, somehow of the same cloth. At least this is how it felt to me. John and I could often finish each other’s sentences and we were totally comfortable in companionable silence.

Soon after arriving at school, John was dating my friend Sharon. She had an entire bad girl wannabe personna, and she was dating John before she learned he was a boy somewhat less than bad. He was at Camelot because he was a runaway, repeatedly leaving his home for some misunderstanding between him and authority, if I remember correctly, a new stepfather. His Mother’s answer was to turn to the church, and her church advised sending John to Camelot for some retraining.

At the time, Sharon and I were best friends. I was often at her house overnight or for the weekend, and we thought we were as worldly as any two small town girls could be. She was a year ahead of me in school, but we had lunch and a math and english class together. She would fill in all the details of the many snippets of time she could catch with John, but he was fast losing her interest. John, on the other hand, was fast labeling Sharon a tease. It was an interesting position for me, having the confidences of both of them and I worked hard at never giving either’s away.

That is how tenth grade went, the three of us linked in an obscure way, though never the three of us together. Over the following summer, John went home to his family, and I was busily tasked at the campground my family owned. Sharon and I lost touch and I fell in with a new group of friends. John and I wrote w few times back and forth, and when school began in the fall, our junior year, we were tighter than ever.

A few times during the course of the school year, John and I had the occasion to find ourselves on dates of a sort. We never thought of them as dates and we never planned them specifically, but as the president of my church youth group, activities I suggested had a certain weight, and I often planned our activities to coincide with those scheduled for the Camelot boys.

Thursday night at the roller skating rink was Log Night. You bring a log for the woodstoves which heated the rink in the winter, and you got in free. Thursday night was also the night the Camelot boys went to the roller skating rink. My friends and I would be skating the night away from 6-9, and when we were lucky, Jim or Judy were the parents driving us. Both of them would sit in the rink snack shop with a book paying absolutely no mind to where any of us were. John and I would have a lot of fun with our friends rollerskating, playing foos ball and other games at the rink, but never really officially dating. It was all deliberately planned, but it was all so very innocent, too.

The first and third Saturdays of every month were movie night for the church Youth group, and not at all coincidentally, movie night for the Camelot boys. (The church youth group had it’s best membership when I was president, and to this day, no one realizes why.) I remember quite vividly meeting John at the movies to see Friday the 13th. The first one. That must have been 1981. We sat there watching the movie in the dark, very much away from any of our friends. He did the old stretch and reach and suddenly, his arm was around me. When I turned and gave him a questioning glance, he kissed me. I was 17, and though my virginity was long gone, I was still pretty innocent in many ways.

The following summer, John’s family vacationed at a campground around the corner from ours. He called me for directions and said his mom would drop him off if my folks could bring him back later. I agreed to this without even asking because I was so excited at the prospect of seeing him. I knew that if not my parents, I would find someone who would drive him around the corner when it was time.

I finished up my daily tasks and let my mom know a school friend was in town for the week and could see me that day, that he was coming by and we would stay around and just hang out. I told her all my work was done, and she said that was fine.

I ran and changed from my work clothes into a rather revealingly low cut top with nothing but spaghetti straps over the shoulders. It was pale yellow, and I had a very dark tan. The shorts I chose were Adidas running shorts. They were very short. Very. Short. I put on a little mascara, looked in the mirror and was satisfied with the result. I looked good, and I thought even John would have to notice.

When John arrived, I was so happy to see him, I just wanted him to myself. The only way that was going to happen was if we took a boat out. I was all set to be the one piloting the boat, but John’s chivalry took over and insisted he row. We started off in the right direction, up river, and I would take every opportunity to lean forward and give John the money shot. The shirt I was wearing was not one that a bra could be worn under, though it did cover up what it was supposed to, barely. I wanted to tease him along in the manner I had not yet consciously realized he had been teasing me. As my teasing flirtation escalated, John started a little teasing of his own, turning the boat down river toward the dam. I really wasn’t afraid we would get too near the dam, but more-so, I was afraid someone would see us and tell my father I had a boat out in that direction, even though it was clear I was not the one in control.

We spent the rest of the afternoon doing who knows what else, and as twilight approached, my dad said the ride was now or never. It was too soon for my liking, but I had little say in the matter. The suburban was running and John and I both climbed into the back seat. John was looking out the side window when his hand reached over and held mine. That was the second time I gave John a questioning glance, and had we been anywhere else but the back seat of my father’s car with my father driving, I think he would have kissed me again.

The campground we were driving to was just 2 miles away. We were almost there when my dad pulled the car over. There was a van parked by the side of the road and a woman ran out not fully dressed. The men, there were 2, were obviously
high and the woman seemed very scared. John and I stayed in the back seat of the suburban and my dad got out to see if she needed help. He told the men to stay where they were and one of them had an empty bottle in his hand. They started to come around to see what the old man wanted and my dad pulled his gun. As he tells it he was really afraid that he “was going to have to shoot one of those poor bastards”. I think it is the only time he has pulled a gun on a person, certainly the only time I ever witnessed. As you can well imagine, when we got to the campground, John could not get out of the car quick enough. Though he never let go my hand, his eyes were big as saucers. I also didn’t see him again that week his family was in town, very likely because of this incident.

I didn’t know it then, but John was not to be returning to Camelot for our senior year. Either his step father was out of the picture, or the family reached some sort of understanding. I was saddened by his absence, but we continued our innocent flirtation via the mail. It was always very easy to talk or write to John. We shared a companionable existence and I still value the friendship we shared at that time.

More than a year later, John resurfaced in the flesh with no warning It was toward the end of the summer after our separate graduations. I did not know it, but John had gone into the air force. I hadn’t heard from him for a while, and out of the blue, a man in air force dress blues walked into the campground while I was at the reservation desk. He was so totally hot. I was sitting there in a stunned silence as we just stared at each other for what seemed like several minutes. The man’s grin just kept growing bigger and bigger. When it finally became a full smile flashing teeth, I knew in an instant it was John.

I opened the counter gate, and gave him the most genuine crushing hug I had ever given anyone. I was so glad to see him. And Oh, what was that other feeling? Did I say he was totally hot?

My heart was racing in my chest. then my mind was racing even faster. I wanted him and I was going to have him. I took him to the room in the trailer that I was using for the summer. After hanging a bed spread over the curtains that were just a little too sheer for my liking, I got him mostly naked, all the while telling him how sexy he was and how much I wanted to fuck him. I am sure he was the first man to hear that from me. I had never been so blatantly direct before. We didn’t fuck because we had no protection, at least he had some sense about him, but we had a lot of fun otherwise.he was only in town for the day so that was all I saw of him.We talked of dreams and the future and what we thought it held for both of us. We were in touch for a while after that, but as it happens, we lost touch after a couple of years.

I didn’t know it for a long time afterwards, but on the day I saw John in uniform, the day I met John, the man, I learned about patience and respect. John was so deliberate with his uniform as he undressed. He truly respected the clothing and all it stood for. He carefully folded his trousers with the creases in tact. He shook his crisply pressed shirt so any wrinkles it might have gathered could be eased free. Even his boxers were neatly folded over the back of the chair.

More than respect for his uniform, he had respect for me. For my desires. For my ability to bring forth life. “There’ll be another time.” He told me this so gently, yet there was no swaying the decision to behave responsibly.

There never was another time for us, but I still feel John’s presence in my soul. He is the kind of friend that this human life is all about.

The Carnival

As I drive home from work at night, I hit an overpass once I have gone from 59 to the Beltway that allows the night sky to become animated with uncommon color. There are flashing bulbs of every color and design matched only by fireworks. I love the lights of the carnival in the night sky. I love the carnival at night.

When I was 16 or 17, I went for a girls night out with my best friends at that time. I think there might have been 5 of us piled into Colleen’s Maverick, Colleen, Tina, Eileen, Paula and myself. It was the end of summer and we were out to just have a grand old time. Someone had procured a couple of eight packs of Miller Light ponies, and we were on our way to the county annual carnival by dusk.

I remember the five of us actually all fitting in the seat on the Tilt-a-Whirl together. It was a celebration of sorts because Eileen had finally relented and accepted me into the group of locals. I don’t remember the five of us being exclusively social before this time. We were a pack of local girls out for the first time with none of the boy/friend regulars, also part of our group. It truly was unique to be out doing something with none of the boys figuring out where we were and just showing up.

There were mass quantities of cotton candy, funnel cakes, corn dogs and let’s not forget, beer. Someone’s cousin was working the beer concession so of course, there was more to drink than what we had on the way there. We stopped on the side of the road as soon as the night sky was filled with the lights of the carnival rides to drink the rest of our beer stash and dispose of the empties before unleashing ourselves for our night of fun. It was also the night of my first and only drunken tattoo.

As we took a break from the rides to stroll around and cruise for hot guys, someone suggested we play some carnival games. We went booth to booth and threw darts at balloons to win posters, played ring toss to win goldfish, and the best of all, thew softballs for record album cover mirrors. I remember bringing home Steve Miller Band and someone else scoring Fleetwood Mac. After a fresh round of beers, we came across the tattoo tent.

The tattoo itself wasn’t a bad choice . I got it on my left shoulder and it was about 4 inches high. There was a tiger with a sash across it where in my drunkenness, I took everyone’s suggestion to heart and I put my boyfriend Michael’s name boldly in black scripted letters. The tiger itself was vivid orange striped with black and behind the tiger was a red heart. Then the sash saying Michael. It really was stunning and I felt like such a rebellious bad girl. Truly one of the group for the first time. This was followed by more alcohol, more food, and more riding in the sea of colored lights. It really is one of my fondest memories of that era.

The next morning, I got up as usual and had campground chores to do. First there was the bathrooms, then the firepits and trash, then lifeguard duty for the bulk of the day. It was the lifeguarding where the drunken tattoo became a questionable choice. As my father finished cleaning the pool, He and I passed through the pool gate and I still had a hooded sweatshirt on over my bathing suit. I really was not consciously trying to cover the tattoo, I truly hadn’t really remembered getting it.

Michael and his dad returned from fishing and hit the pool at about 2 in the afternoon. I had been lazing around sunning for a bit and chatting it up with Stephan, one of our summer residents and a good friend and confidant. Stephan was a couple of years older and he and I developed a thick sibling like bond almost instantly when we first met the summer before. He asked about the new ink and for the first time that day my eyes went to my shoulder. Shit. I had been parading about all day without a clue. I touched it gently and instantly had the memory of the ink flowing off the artist’s brush onto my skin. Yes, brush, not needle. Thank God it wasn’t real.

So Michael and his dad came in for a dip. As soon as Mr. Wheeler swam the length of the pool, he got out of the water, dried off and told us kids to have fun while he went in search of a cold one. I knew he was also in search of my dad for some bullshitting. It was after fishing ritual. What didn’t occur to me was that he had taken notice of my tattoo.

Not five minutes after Mr Wheeler’s exit, I hear my dad on the speaker in the tree. “Inside, now” was all he said.

Out of the pool, towel around my waist, hoodie back on, I ran across the parking lot to the office.

“Let me see it.” I had never really seen my dad pissed off. Certainly not at me. If steam could have blown out his ears, he would have looked like many a cartoon venting frustration. I really was puzzled as to what he was talking about. This only infuriated him more as he yanked me into the back room. “The tattoo.”

I told him it was fake. He wasn’t hearing that at all. He wanted to see it and he wanted to see it immediately. My hoodie was off in a flash. My dad touched my arm. At that point I thought he was ready to beat my ass, something that had never in my lifetime happened. He was reaching for the first aid kit and he rummaged through it for something. Finally he comes out with an alcohol wipe. I knew this would take the tattoo off, and Michael who was still at the pool hadn’t seen it yet.

I got my dad to give me the wipe and I proceeded to take off the tip of the tiger’s tail to prove to him it was fake. My dad was instantly relieved and I was again his little girl. “Go” was all he said.

Mr. Wheeler was sitting at the counter drinking his coke and chuckling as I ran out the office door. I shed my hoodie and towel as I went through the gate and dove into the pool and came up in the deep end standing between Michael and Stephan. Michael and I had been a couple for about a year at that point and he had never kissed me in front of anyone. He was shy and protective. We were naive enough to think none of the adults knew and only many years later was this illusion shattered. Michael, after hearing the whole story leaned in close and hugged me. He then turned my face up to his and kissed me. I looked over his shoulder to see Stephan smiling and swimming off. Michael and I spent the rest of the afternoon sunning ourselves.

How does this relate to the theme of cultivating grace? The thread that continues through this from beginning to end is one or innocence. Never throughout this experience was there a shred of contrivance. Life was being lived in every moment from a point of purity. Grace in motion.

Cultivating grace. What does this mean. Is it different for each person? Does it have qualifiers?

I googled it and came up with little I was not already thinking. I find it as a sort of catch all for all those moments when I have a sense of understanding. when I get it. Whatever ‘it’ is.

I have been considering the implications for some time now. Perhaps even all my life. Have all of my life lessons this far been leading to this very moment? Or are
they leading to some future moment. Maybe it has all been about a fleeting moment, already past.

An entire lifetime is spent cultivating grace. Every moment remembered leads toward it. Perhaps grace is evident in these moments all along, and as the stored quantity of grace increases, the awareness of it shifts. It is enormously subtle, and then one day it dawns much like the sun.

Grace arrives in many shrouds. It is the recognizing that can be complex. Or simple. If very fortunate, it arrives totally naked. But that is rare.

2 comments:
eb said…
This is fucking brilliant.

Oh…ifly
May 30, 2007 6:53 PM

Jeanne said…
The theory of cultivating grace could be no more well explained than this. I agree with e… brilliant!

…and while i do NOT f l y … i DO l y, my wonderful friend. lol!
May 31, 2007 1:48 PM