A strange occurrence at Wal-Mart . . .

The weather over our four day Easter long weekend was absolutely gorgeous.  It was so nice that it was hard to remember that it was only the end of March.  Bill and I, encouraged by the sunshine and the warmth, eagerly visited local nurseries and farm supply stores.  I had planted quite a few bulbs and shrubs at the farm and now needed to repeat that in town.  Each of us was armed with a coupon for a free bulb if we spend $15 at one particular garden centre.  We spent an enjoyable hour or so, poking through the containers, the bare root trees, the bulb displays and the seed packages.  We both bought a variety of items and claimed our “prize”.  Unfortunately, as is often the case, I forgot to pick up some potting soil so Bill suggested we stop at Wal-Mart to get it.

Generally, I’m not a big fan of Wal-Mart but, as has happened in many other places after Wal-Mart moved in, there are fewer and fewer local retailers left.   We have one of those Wal-Mart Supercentres that sells everything from motor oil to carrots.  Strangely, they were almost out of potting soil and only had a few bags of the premium type that I wasn’t interested in.  Something else did capture my eye though.  Nesting deck chairs.  Colourful ones.  Cheap.  It just so happens I was in the market for new patio furniture after leaving the farm.

Bill had spied a few things he wanted too.  I grabbed a shopping cart and we both put our individual purchases into it.  It wasn’t clear to us if the cash tills at the garden end of the store were open so I hailed a young clerk and asked if they were.  Indeed he told me, he had one of them open but had just stepped away to help another staff member.  He quickly jumped over to the till and removed the closed sign.  I had difficulty putting the chairs into the cart (it’s a big cart but not big enough) so the young man told me I could hold the chairs at his till and drive my truck right up to the doors afterward to load them.

Bill put his purchases through first and as is our little custom wherever we shop, we kibitz with each other and with the cashier as we’re going through.  As Bill was paying and chatting with the cashier, I loaded my items on the belt without paying too much attention to what they were talking about.  Then I heard the cashier say “this is going to be a little bit of an odd question”.  I wasn’t sure if he was continuing a conversation with Bill but he looked right at me and asked “are you two a couple?”  I could feel my face turn beet red.  “Yes”, I said and quickly moved back to the chair display to collect the chairs I wanted.  I heard the cashier then ask Bill how long we had been together for.  “I don’t mind,” the cashier said, “I was just curious”. 

I completed the transaction without any more fanfare and Bill stayed with our purchases while I left to drive my truck to the door.  As we were loading, suddenly the cashier was there too.  “I thought you said it was a big truck” he teased.   Bill must’ve mentioned my truck to him.  We had a brief chat about trucks, we thanked him and went on our way.

“I think he’s gay” I said to Bill as we were driving off.  “Do you think so?” Bill seemed uncertain.  “Yup, he was genuinely too interested in our arrangement and in chatting with us” I replied.  I haven’t met many straight guys that intensely interested in gay relationships. 

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Bill and I have been a couple for so long and are so natural as a couple that we just appear to be a couple even if we can’t see it. Or, maybe it’s just a strange occurrence at Wal-Mart . . .

Being a townie . . .

If you count the rural years of my childhood and after twelve years recently as a “once and future farmer”, I have lived in the country for almost half of my middle-aged life.  Until I moved to town three months ago following my divorce, my nearest neighbours were chickens, a goat and a horse.  I could see across the field from my sub-standard, rat infested hovel to the farmhouse where my ex-wife and my kids lived but beyond that, no other neighbours were visible from my vantage point.

Since moving to town, I am frequently asked how I like it.  The truth be known, I have enjoyed living in town.  I would explain to those with inquiring minds that I have a very nice house on a quiet suburban cul-de-sac and I’m enjoying my new life.  Originally, my plans were to move back to a farm when my youngest son moved on to a life and career of his own after graduating from high school.  Further to those thoughts, Bill and I have spoken about buying a farm together in the future. 

Recently, I even began telling people that there was now only a 50/50 chance that I’d ever go back to the country.   It’s pretty easy living in town, especially when one has no pets to look after.  I think Bill was still resolved to live on a farm in the future as my conversion of him from city to rural life had taken root.

We don’t have alleys in this part of town so we share a common backyard fence and even though their land is down-slope from me, the size of our lots brings us into close proximity with one another.  This neighbour has two little girls and a very large trampoline.  One of the neighbours beside me has two beagle hounds.  One of the beagles must’ve been unsuccessfully “debarked” as is evidenced by the whiny, whistley sound it makes when aroused from its usual afternoon slumber on their deck and occasionally at 1:00 am.

Last week, with my youngest son hanging with his buds somewhere other than at home, I settled onto the couch to spend a few quiet, relaxing moments to myself before having to make supper.  Then it began.  I literally had to look over my shoulder out the window because I thought the girls’ peals of laughter and shrieks of joy were coming from directly outside my family room.  They were actually on the trampoline in their own backyard.  This is when I also realized that their father has a booming voice that carries right through my house as he’s calling to them.  At that moment, I was 60/40 heading back to the farm.

Last weekend, another re-evaluation.  Helping our friend Martha trim her goats’ hooves I was reminded just how much I love farm animals and farm life.  I think I’m up to 80/20 for farm life in the future.  I suppose, in fairness I should probably not decide this far out about being a townie . . .

Innocence of a child . . .

Our elderly friend Martha has recently acquired a used laptop computer and has subscribed to the local cable company internet access so she could have email.

I never thought I’d see the day that Martha would succumb to the siren call of the internet.  She was steadfast in her resolve to remain firmly rooted in the mid-20^th century.  This was quite a pain in the neck because she was the only member of our goat club without email so we always had to make the special effort to keep her informed of news, events, etc in person, or by phone or regular mail.

My Mother, just like Martha, was born 80 years ago and is another to refuse modern communication methods.  I appreciate that technology is daunting and can overwhelm older people so I always admire those, like Martha, that stretch themselves a little to stay in the world rather than complain about how the world has left them.   I know there were folks in these parts in the early 1960’s that refused to get a dial telephone, saying that it was too complex a technology and they preferred the old crank version phone, or the personal touch of visiting.  Well, computers and the internet are today’s dial telephones.

Martha lives alone on her farm and her nearest relatives are 4½ hours away via ferry.  I’m not sure if that factored into her decision but Martha suddenly realized that she needed to stay connected to the world and move beyond her push-button telephone.  She received her computer from a mutual friend of ours, whose husband had recently bought a newer one.  Before handing it over to Martha, the husband wiped the hard drive clean as he should have.  Unfortunately, he removed all the software, including email programs so Martha was taught by them to log-in to the ISP’s webmail and check her email in that fashion.  This became problematic for Martha and our mutual friend asked if we could help her.

Bill quickly ascertained that she needed to have an email program installed as even we found webmail to be cumbersome.  This way she wouldn’t have to remember the logging in sequence, password, etc.  We made arrangements to install the software she bought at our next visit to trim her goat’s hooves.  The install completed without any difficulty and before long Martha was able to send and receive emails with relative ease. 

One of the emails she received had a photo attached.  This presented itself at a very opportune time as we were able to show Martha how to open attachments.  The photo was a joke about a cat standing on its hind legs, straining to see over a snow bank.  It had the caption “Well shit!”.  This image caused Martha to convulse with laughter and even after she composed herself, and learned how to forward the picture to someone else, was still overcome with giggles like a schoolgirl.  The sight and sound of her innocent delight was heartwarming and brought joy to both Bill and I.

After the humour of the picture had subsided, Martha made the comment, “I didn’t think Susan had a cat, I thought she only had a dog”.  We didn’t have the heart to tell her at that moment that the picture was a generic one circulating throughout the internet.  Instead, we silently chose to protect the innocence of a child . . .

Can’t say the word . . .



Bill and I have been helping an elderly friend with her goats. Even though she is the same age as my mother, being 80 hasn’t deterred her from keeping a small herd of registered Nubian goats. Our friend Martha is still very agile but lives alone and has no immediate family so there are a few things she needs help with. One of them is trimming the hooves of her male goats. Bucks, as they are called, tend to be a little more aggressive and they certainly are “beefier” than the females (“does”). Lucky for me, Martha’s bucks (she has 3 of them) are all sweethearts. Being gentle though, doesn’t mean they are not strong. These guys could pull a small car around all day long and not think anything of it so even though they have a calm demeanor, they are still quite powerful and don’t necessarily fancy having their pedicures done. We usually tether them to a strong wall and I pin them against the wall with my body while I shear their feet. After a short time they settle down and usually lean on me as I lift each foot in turn to complete the trim. It’s a backbreaking task but also very satisfying to be helping a friend in need.

 

Typical Nubian buck



I’ve known Martha for quite a number of years. My ex-wife and I bought our first goats from her soon after we bought our farm. She has seen my children grow and she has seen the dissolution of my marriage and throughout it all, she has remained a good friend. I mentioned earlier that Martha is in her 80’s. I’ve believed for years that an age demographic comes with certain preconceived notions and Martha is no different than anyone else. I remember her reaction when she found out I was dating Bill. It was one of “extinction”, in which she ignored the fact that I went from being married to a woman to dating men. When Bill and I got serious, she would refer to Bill as my “friend”. That was actually very progressive compared to my Mother’s reaction. My Mother, who after more than four years, continues “extinction” to this day.


Martha has gradually evolved her thinking and now seems quite comfortable with Bill and I as a couple. I’m not sure how she’d introduce us to a third party but she has no qualms about inviting us to her house for lunch or dropping by Bill’s house to deliver a loaf of bread. This past weekend we had arranged to do some hoof trimming again. We were running a little behind schedule on Friday morning so I called her to tell her we’d be slightly delayed. She asked if Bill had received an email she sent that morning. No, nothing had come through. Martha had recently taken the unusual step of acquiring her own computer and was learning how to use email. She seemed disappointed that the email hadn't arrived but she quickly told me the gist of it on the phone.


“There are some nice boys from up the road that just got goats and I invited them around to see how it’s done professionally”, she announced.


My mind stopped for a minute. Professionally? I can hardly lay claim to that description. Oh well, I don’t mind if a couple of 4-H kids want to come around and watch. I’m happy to show them what I know.


“No problem” said I, “although I don’t want them to think I am an expert”.


“That’s okay”, she replied. “They are a couple of really nice boys and I’ve invited them for lunch as well. I’d really like youse guys to have the opportunity of meeting some other . . . “, her voice trailed off. 


Some other “what” I wondered? Goat owners? Farmers? City guys wanting to be farmers?


When we arrived, Martha informed us that the “boys” had phoned to cancel because one of their mothers had unexpectedly dropped by for an Easter visit. “It’s too bad,” she complained. “They are very funny (humorous) and you’ll really like them”.


Wait a minute, they don’t live with their mothers? Just how old are these 4-H boys, I wondered. Well, apparently the “boys” are in their mid-40’s and aren’t in 4-H. It seems they are “another gay couple” who had recently moved onto land near Martha and had bought some goats as pets for their hobby farm. It appears Martha had become quite smitten with this pair and she wanted us to meet.


Even though Martha can’t quite seem to say the words “gay” or “homosexual”, no doubt as a result of her programming in early stages of life, she is nonetheless a good friend and is obviously very accepting of her new-found clump of gay friends. I’m good with that, even if she can’t say the word . . .

 

 

I hope you had a fool's free day . . .

 

I’ve never been one for surprises therefore it should come as no surprise that I’m not really a fan of April Fool’s Day.   I also tend toward the gullible side so have fallen into the trap of being made to seem foolish at least once too often in my life. 

 

I pity those born on this day for they must carry the burden of it their whole lives.  Such foolishness to mark a day for being silly.

 

I hope you had a fool's free day . . .

Life as a single father . . .

With 2013, a new era in my life dawned.  On Jan 1, I officially became a single father when my youngest son moved in with me.  Ever since his mother and I separated five years before, I have lived alone while he and his brothers remained in the family home.  In the intervening years, his two older brothers grew up and moved on with their lives so our youngest was left alone with his mom. 

During our divorce proceedings, he made it very clear to us that as soon as I was situated in a new home in town, he intended to leave the farm and move in with me.  Under Canadian law, a minor over 12 years old has a significant say in their custody and by the time they are in their mid-teens, they pretty much call the shots.   His mother was mightily unhappy with this and did her best to alter the course of his decision however, to no avail.  I think she still has the misguided belief that he will change his mind.  Unfortunately, her awkward attempt at changing the situation culminated with her kicking him out of her house.  It was a sad moment in our family history, far sadder than our split and one which might have a lasting detrimental effect (for her).  Since that time, he has limited his contact with her to one “coffee date” per week.

To say that having a teenager live with me has changed my life is somewhat of an understatement.  After living alone for five years, suddenly I have parental responsibilities again beyond merely writing child support cheques.  I have to think of meals in advance.  I have to think of laundry other than my own.  I have to go around the house turning off lights in empty rooms.  I have to buy foods that I don’t generally buy for myself.  I have to pick up soda cans and chip bags all over the place (or be a nag to have them tidied up).  I have to try to remember the names of the buddies he brings to the house and I worry when he’s not home when I get home.

Yes, my life has changed and even though I have to make adjustments, I am thoroughly enjoying having him live with me.   I love that I can share in his life.  His brothers were around this age when their mother and I split so I missed the daily aspects of their lives as they progressed from teenagers into young men.

This has had an effect on Bill too.  No longer can we spontaneously decide to go to dinner or jump in the car and head to the USA for a shopping trip.  I find we’re spending an inordinate amount of time at my house, whereas we tried to balance our time between our two homes prior to this.   But Bill is such a loving and generous person and having been a single parent himself, understands these dynamics and is highly supportive.   The great side of this is that Bill and my youngest get along like “a house on fire”.  I know they enjoy each other’s company and that is wonderful.  

This past Sunday, I dropped my son off at the ferry terminal with 40+ of his fellow students and chaperones as they embarked on a spring break visit to Cuba with his high school band.  He’s having the experience of a life time and I’m so happy that he’s having this opportunity.  I couldn’t help but notice that he labelled his luggage with the address of my our new house.  I think he’s here to stay.

We’ve lived together for less than three months and he’s only been gone for three days but I missed having him around almost immediately.  I guess that’s life as a single father . . .

 

 

 

My heart bleeds . . .

Bill’s daughter is our very own pride parade.  She is one of the most supportive straight people I know.  She confided to me a couple of months ago that she seems to be a “gay magnet” because she realized that a lot of her friends are gay guys.   She and her partner, the father of her children, have a very active social life and even though they live in a relatively small community (about 25,000 people), their circle of friends has a high proportion of gays within it.

When we have a party, as we do every Christmas season, it is usual for Bill’s daughter to bring some of her straight and gay friends with her.  We always chuckle at this because, here we are, a couple of 50+ dudes, and the 25 year olds want to party with us.   It’s a two hour drive from their town to Bill’s house so we often put them up overnight.  Last Christmas was the first time that a gay male couple, friends of Bill’s daughter, stayed over with us.

We really enjoyed their company.  After everyone went home, we stayed up until the wee hours discussing life and love.  I thoroughly enjoyed learning about how they grew up, how they came out, how supportive (or not) their families and friends were.  In this case, I also learned that I went to elementary school with one their cousins.  It truly is a small world.

Here’s where I come to the subject of this post.  Two months after this party, I found out that these two guys had split up.  I was shocked and saddened by this news.  Shocked because they seemed so “together”, so “forever”.  As we all know, relationships have their ups and downs and sometimes they don’t survive.  Goodness knows, some of us take longer to figure that out than others (in my case 20 years).  

 

I’m not sure why, but when I hear that a gay male couple go their separate ways, I am truly saddened.  What puzzles me about this is that I don’t feel the same way when I hear that straight couples split.  I also don’t have this reaction when lesbians split up.  Sure, I’m sorry for the individuals going through the grief of a lost relationship but when gay men split up, it strikes me deeper.  It seems to go to my core.  Is it because I fear that it’s not possible for gay men to make a lifelong commitment?    Is it because I fear that it’s so much harder for a gay man to find a suitable partner again, given we are a minority in society?  Why is it?

My co-worker, Mary Anne has a gay son who I’ve never met.  He’s previously had a tumultuous life but he is now in a committed partnership and everything seems to be working out fine for them.  As often as seems reasonable, I enquire with Mary Anne as to how they are doing.  She probably wonders why I’ve taken such an interest in two people I don’t know.  I think deep down, I desperately want them to make a success of their commitment to each other.  I want the world to see that it is possible for gay men to “settle down” and lead “regular” lives.

Truly, all other relationships than my own are none of my business but nevertheless, when I hear that gay male couples have split up, my heart bleeds . . .

I'm glad too . . .

I saw a post on Facebook today that attributes this comment to Anderson Cooper:

“I think being gay is a blessing, and it’s something I am thankful for every single day . . . I couldn’t be more proud of being gay”.

I completely understand and identify with that sentiment.  I’m glad too . . .

Happy St Patrick's Day . . .

To all my Irish friends and to those that become Irish today, Happy St Patrick's Day . . .

Rub-a-Dub-Dub, the joys of a tub . . .

I do believe it is the simple things in life that bring us the most joy.  For instance, yesterday I had a bath.  A bath in a real bathtub.  Not much could be simpler than that however, for over four years I’ve lived without a bathtub.  My “temporary” accommodation, which housed me since “the separation”, had only a shower facility. 

In retrospect, it seems that I’ve experienced some significant inconsistencies related to bathing during my life.  My family was very poor when I was a child.  My Dad was what I refer to as a “latter day hippy”, also known as a “back-to-the-lander”.  He didn’t do drugs or free love but he embraced almost all other aspects of the 1960’s counter-culture.  For instance, our family of five lived in a one-room shack in the middle of 30 acres of bush (the “woods” for my US friends) without electricity or running water for five years.  That is, until my kid brother was born into those circumstances and my mother put down her foot saying “I will not raise a baby under these conditions”. 

A consequence of not having plumbing was that we had to haul, by hand, every drop of water we used into the shack.  Bath time was very limited as a result, occurring once a week, on a Sunday.  We literally had a baby’s bathtub that we washed in as kids.  I have no recollection of how my parents cleaned themselves. 

As the eldest child in the family, I had the privilege of bathing first.  This was important because there was no change of water between bathers.  That would have been much too difficult since Mom had to heat the water on the stove.  Occasionally we would visit the home of kindly neighbours who seemed to take pity on us as a family and would invite us to Sunday supper.  This was followed by the kids having a bath in the neighbour’s tub and afterward we’d get to enjoy watching their television.  We were enthralled by shows like the Wonderful World of Disney, Bonanza and the Ed Sullivan Show.

We left “the bush” when I was 13 years old and moved into town.  From that point on, and until I was past my teen years, we only lived in homes that had bathtubs but no showers.  It was a real treat the first time I made use of a shower instead of a bath.  It was quicker and far less work than having to clean the tub after every use.  It was the most modern of conveniences for this rube from “the sticks”.

Don’t misunderstand me, I love showers and will certainly continue having them but there is something wonderfully relaxing about having a nice, hot bath.  Maybe next time I’ll employ fragrant bath salts and light candles.  A-h-h-h-h, rub-a-dub-dub, the joys of a tub . . .