Ponderings and Musings

So it’s Halloween 2009. Since I’m on call for this momentous occasion I really don’t have a photo of a snappy costume to show off this year. This will probably lose me some gay points but I can deal with the pressure. Since I’m home tonight no one will point and stare. There might be some whispering but that’s fine by me.

I am proud to say that Earl and I are maintaining our record of the number of trick or treaters with the festivities this year. We are maintaining having ONE trick or treater in the past 13 years. One apartment and two houses; doesn’t matter, we’ve had one beggar bang on our door and that was the son of one of Earl’s employees who was brown-nosing. Lit up carved pumpkins be damned, no one treads on our door step. We didn’t even bother to buy candy this year. I figured if someone knocked on our door we’d poor some cake batter or kitty litter into their bag. That’d certainly get the neighborhood talking.

Earl and Jamie are off to the bowling alley for some cosmic bowling. I considered joining them but that would be way too tempting for the On Call Gods of all things Pager and some telecommunications catastrophe would have happened, so here I sit typing in my blog, burning CDs for the car and watching reruns of “Reba” (great show, by the way). To spice things up a little bit I am looking forward to the school clock collection shutting itself off for an hour so that the end of Daylight Saving Time can be captured properly.

I mentioned last week that on my way back home from Virginia that I had rediscovered country music. The trend has continued for the past 10 days; the presets are still under their new programming in the car and in the Jeep, my Pandora stations have been changed and I am finding myself thoroughly enjoying country music again. I find the music to help when I am working on various projects on the computer; the real musicality of country music doesn’t distract from what I’m doing. This is a good thing. I often find Top 40 and Adult Contemporary/Easy-Listening music to be distracting. Country is helping me process my thoughts.

One of the reasons for my return to country music is my discovery of Lady Antebellum¹, a group formed in 2006. They are pictured above. If you want a closer look you can click on the picture to make it bigger. I mentioned in my post last week that I loved the song “Need You Now”. This is the first single from their second album coming out in January 2010. I have already downloaded the first album. It resides on my iPhone and in the car CD player.

Now here’s where I get a little deep.

I have written before that I grew up in rural Upstate New York². Conversely, I have talked about living in big cities such as Toronto, Dublin, Oklahoma City, Denver and the like, heck, I even lived in suburban Boston for three years. While I really enjoy the idea of having so much available to me while living in a big city, I suspect that there’s a part of me that wouldn’t be overly happy for the long term while living in such an environment. I need open space, I need lots of wild flowers, fields and clear views of the horizon. Last night Earl and I were casually discussing the future and where he could go in his career and how it might involve a move. As we mentioned various places where we could live, I found myself saying that I would want to live outside of the mentioned metropolitan area: he’d mention Buffalo, I’d counter with Batavia or Medina; he’d mention Albany, I’d suggest one of the rural towns outside of the Capital District. I think that’s why Oklahoma City and St. Louis are high on my “preferred cities” list; they are good-sized cities that have more of a rural vibe about them. I like that. A relatively short drive out of the city and you’re back in the heartland.

As a gay man I was always hesitant to mention where I grew up, especially when hanging with the gays from the big cities. I always felt that I didn’t fit in. It was very rare that I would talk about the fact that I spent my single-digit years growing up in a 10’x50’ (with 8’x40’ addition my father built) mobile home that was surrounded on two sides by an electric fence (to keep the cattle and horses off the lawn). Sunday mornings were spent with my cousins racing through barns in wild games, after-school time was spent hiking in the woods and jumping in and out of the cow pasture (and once in a while being chased by an ornery bull). When Dad got home from work we’d do the chores and supper was served promptly at 6. You know what? I really like the smell of “fresh country air”. Was I embarrassed by these things when I was hanging with the urban gays? No. I just didn’t think that it made me gay enough (whatever that meant) and it made me feel like more of an outsider.

This runs contrary for a person that doesn’t even look at the same wall when everyone else is looking at the ‘big picture’.

I think one of the reasons I’m enjoying country music again is because it touches my rural roots and helps me remember and connect to the person that I really am, which is buried under layers of who I thought I was suppose to be. Others have talked about trying to fit into a pre-conceived stereotype of how they were suppose to act as a gay man. I’m guilty of that, especially back in the mid and late 1980s when I was first getting my bearings on the whole gay thing. And some of these things have stuck with me throughout my adult life.

I have mentioned before that I never thought that I would figure out this whole life thing, even at the age of 41. I don’t think that we ever truly get it figured out before it all ends, but you know what, I really think that I’m on the right track again. The high I felt after returning from my vacation last week has continued to linger. There has been no post-vacation crash, and aside from a few minor bumps here and there at work (that were really not a big deal once they were put into perspective in my head), I still feel amazing.

And I’m more proud than ever to say that I really am a country boy at heart.

¹ It did not escape my notice that all three members of Lady Antebellum are incredibly hot.

² By ‘Upstate New York’ I am not referring to Yonkers, Westchester County or even Poughkeepsie, but what I consider to be the true ‘Upstate New York’, the heartland of The Empire State, far away from the Big Apple.

Before I get into today’s blog entry, I’d like to thank the anonymous folks with the wifi network called “Belkin” in their home. I am sitting in a parking lot outside of the baseball field and the aforementioned wifi network is BLAZINGLY fast. I am impressed. I can only imagine how fast it would be if I were actually inside the house.

I am enjoying some of the gray October day during my lunch hour, opting to let the cleaning crew at home do their thing uninterrupted. I am listening to NPR (it’s not a ‘news’ broadcast right now, so it’s safe for me to listen to); Diane Rehm is conducting an interview with the author of “Public Produce: The New Urban Agriculture” by Darrin Nordahl. The interview is quite interesting as the author is discussing the reasoning as to why the “urban poor” are getting fatter in this fine 21st century; he believe it’s because of the lack of quality produce in larger urban areas. I guess this is something I never really thought about. I understand that there is a tendency for those less fortunate to rely on fast- and convenience food because it’s cheaper to buy but I never really associated it with just a lack of produce in urban areas. I’m finding the interview to be quite interesting as they are discussing the concept of edible landscaping in public areas (fruit trees, vegetable plants, etc). This makes sense to me. I don’t know why we didn’t think of this before.

I guess I find it surprising that shortly after World War II the United States had nearly six million farms and now we have around two million, with a larger population of course. The small family farm has given way to the corporate machine, it’s a little disturbing. I suddenly feel the need to engage in a Green Acres experience, or at the very least visit Homer and Henny Penny or Brett and his family.

So I am back from my vacation week and fully in the swing of things. I have the luxury of not returning from vacation to an on-call week so the high I’m feeling continues. Work was good today. I did a lot of thinking on my trip and my career path was part of my thoughts. Wheels are turning.

I decided that I would get things accomplished today, what with this new spring in my step and all, and so I did a load of laundry before work, another during lunch, a third after dinner, made supper, mowed the lawn and caught up on my e-mail. I feel like I have accomplished quite a bit. This is always good. When you’re stagnant you’re not really living, so it’s good to feel like I’m living.

Making supper was very important to me. Back when I was in school I made supper every night. Then I got wound up in the whole work thing and stopped making supper. I miss it. Making supper tonight was a way of getting back into the swing of things.

The momentum is back. I’m going to strive to keep it up.

So I am on-call this week, hence the reason for my lack of blog updates over the past couple of days. On-call week is going as expected when the weather forecast calls for rain, rain, thunderstorms, wind and more rain. I’m not swamped at the moment but I have been busy right along.

Being on-call for this job is so much different than being on-call for the radio station gig. At the radio station I was on-call 24 hours a day, seven days a week. This would mean that I would get called once in a while by anyone at the radio station with any given crisis: “I’ve plugged the vacuum cleaner into the server rack and everything went dark and the radio stopped playing”, “Why are we playing ‘Oops I Did It Again’ by Britney Spears?” or “The computer in the studio has gone crazy and keeps playing the weather forecast over and over again!”

My current on-call gig is a whole ‘nother bunch of wires; I basically do my job 24 hours a day seven days a week for a week on an as needed basis. Last night I dealt with a power outage, a very surly Verizon technician who couldn’t be bothered to put the food he was eating down to speak to me, multiple broken DSL connections and an ornery Outlook Express inbox that kept hiding an AARP newsletter. I’m not complaining as I’ll be quite happy with my choice of extra days off or the overtime in return, but nevertheless it does like I put my life on hold for a week whilst I do the on-call thing.

It’s sort of like sitting at a traffic light that has just turned red. I have to wait until it turns green (at least in theory). While I wait at the light, I can’t do much but look around and see what’s going on around me. I’ll answer a text message or phone call or I’ll busy myself by picking up the stray fries that are wedged under the stick shift.

But until that light turns green, I’m just sitting there idling.

I was tested for HIV last week. There was no specific reason that prompted me to be tested; it had been a year or so and I felt it was the right thing to do. I believe everyone should be tested on a regular basis, regardless of your sexual orientation or the type of activity you engage in. It’s probably easiest when the test is integrated into your yearly physical. This time mine was not.

When I was tested last year, the test was included in the blood tests associated with my physical. The doctor didn’t prompt me to be tested for HIV or anything so I specifically requested it because it had been a long time and while I don’t engage in any sort of dangerous sexual activity, I know in the back of my mind that sex isn’t the only way of contracting HIV. So my doctor included the test in the whole screening thing; I had blood drawn and then had to wait 10 days for the results. To obtain my status I had to report to the doctor’s office for the news. This is a customary procedure. It was much easier than the first time I was tested back in 1990. Then I had to wait three weeks for my results (and several hours in the waiting room at the Chautauqua County health clinic).

This time I decided to go to the local health clinic for my test. I hadn’t been to this county clinic for an HIV test since the mid 1990s but the procedure is somewhat the same: you walk in during a certain time frame on a certain day, take a number, speak to no one about anything and then sit in the waiting room amongst all the others that have just taken a number. There is a wide smattering of people usually found in the waiting room; this time there were people of varying races, colours, sexual orientations and one woman that was having difficulty reading the word “vaginal” from a pamphlet about STDs. She chose to sound the word out aloud by saying “vag”, “vajuh”, “vajunohl” and then she finally got it. I’m glad she did because I wanted to stand up and help her by yelling “vaginal”, “vaginal”, “it’s vaginal!” but I refrained from this. She was ticking off the STD tests she was going to get as if she was going through the drive-thru and yelling into a speaker. It was shortly afterwards that a woman came out of one of the exam rooms and barked my number: “5”!

I was asked why I was there and then shuffled to a counselor that specialises in HIV counseling and testing. She explained that the new test now takes just 10 minutes. She would prick my finger as if I were doing a daily diabetes/blood sugar test, put it on the special stick and then talk to me whilst we waited for the results. She would only do this if I signed a form stating that I would not commit suicide if the results were positive because if that were the case, they would then do the older style test with the tube of blood and send it off to the state for more testing. I signed the consent form, provided some further information and then she did the finger prick.

She talked about safer sex, I talked about safer sex and she seemed slightly uncomfortable with my frankness on the subject but remained entirely professional. She was only concerned about my sexual activity for the past six months so I couldn’t regale her with my colourful history of trapezes, summer breezes and other adventures from days gone by (sorry, Mom). Before I knew it she declared 10 minutes were up and gave me my results.

People may wonder why I am being tested for HIV or why I feel it’s an important thing for everyone to do. I have dear friends that I love and others folks that I know that are HIV positive and while they live a healthy existence courtesy of modern science and will most likely continue to do so, I can guarantee that they will tell you that their life is more complicated, more costly and that they would probably rather be HIV negative instead of HIV positive. Being HIV positive does not take the worry of unsafe sex practices away. I knew a person that contracted HIV through a blood transfusion; I know others that didn’t practice safer sex and was infected by someone that didn’t share their status with them beforehand. I know one that just didn’t give a damn and was infected. While HIV can be mostly controlled these days, it can not be eradicated (though there are promising strides being made).

I believe that living my life honestly and striving to set a good example by contributing to the world I am making a difference somehow, somewhere. And I believe by sharing the fact that I was tested for HIV in an hour’s time at a local clinic and received my results the very same day, that I will make a difference in someone’s life with this information.

This has been a little bit of a strange week thus far. I’m already in a weekend frame of mind, which isn’t entirely unusual in itself since I’m sort of wired for the weekend but tonight I keep thinking tomorrow is Saturday. And it’s only Wednesday. And I have to get up at 5:30 tomorrow morning to work the early shift.

I think the week is a little weird because it’s bookended with extra days off. I called off sick on Monday due to that 24-hour bug thing I had (which is completely out of my system, apparently) and I have a forced day off from work on Friday. Jamie will be out of town and Earl has taken a vacation day on Friday so it looks like there might be an adventure in the Jeep this weekend. And I’m kind of thinking about that. I have other things on my mind as well, but I’m definitely in a weekend mood.

Last night we had our adventure at Dunkin’ Donuts; tonight Jamie, Earl and I dressed in a presentable manner and went to Barnes and Noble where we read books, interacted with society, looked wise and had a cookie. There were no discussions about the lad named Beef Stew because he doesn’t work at Barnes and Noble, so instead we talked about important things such as the unavoidable arrival of 2012 in three years, the quality of a pumpkin chai and whether George Carlin lived in Nevada or not.

Yep, definitely in a weekend mood.

So I have spent the day home from work recuperating from a bout with an apparent 24-hour bug. Yesterday afternoon I was hit hard by something that got me all stopped up. It was a struggle for me to breathe, I was sweating like a pig and I just felt like crap. I doubled up on the Vitamin C intake and hoped for the best but the bug ultimately won and I called off sick from work today. That’s very rare for me.

I ended up going to bed fairly early and didn’t wake up until between 11 and 12 this morning. When I awoke I had a nurse watching over me. I believe he said “no pictures” and told the camera to get out of there. I guess it was his Sean Penn imitation.

After spending until 1 p.m. in bed relaxing, fading in and out of consciousness and playing on the computer a little bit, I finally jumped into the shower and threw on my best clothes from 2003 (jeans shorts and a t-shirt) as I wanted to just feel comfortable.  I had some lunch, drank more juice and by 2:30 or so I was feeling better. I’m not 100% by any stretch of the imagination but I’m getting there and feel like I’m making progress.

I think the boatload of sleep is what helped the situation. I’m going to take it easy this evening to make sure all is well before heading back to work in the morning.

As I left the office for lunch today, I noticed a very large plane in the sky headed toward the old local Air Force Base. This is a rather routine thing in these parts, as there are always large jets flying in and out of the maintenance facility and training operations at the base. It was five minutes later when it appeared to be flying over the house as I pulled in the driveway; it was banking right over the driveway, low enough to be quite impressive. This struck me as rather odd as the turnaround time from the base and back should have taken a little longer than that.

I made my way into the house and readied my lunch, hearing the jet pass over again. I dashed out to grab a photo.

It was then that I realised that there were two planes doing maneuvers so I decided to sit on the back patio and watch them do their thing while I ate my lunch. The planes were low enough that they made quite a rumble. I waved to the pilots as they flew over but they probably didn’t see me.

With the planes overhead during my lunch hour my mind got to wandering to the days of my childhood where many Saturday evenings and Sunday afternoons were spent at the local airfield. I think I was around 7 or 8 when my Dad first soloed in his training for his private pilot’s license. Both Mom and Dad belonged to the Pilots Association at the small airfield and there were quite a few guys (and a few women) that were taking flying lessons. Each week an instructor flew up from this area (ironically) to where I grew up to give all the weekly lessons back to back. Even after Dad soloed and progressed his way to his private pilot’s certificate, we still went to the airport on many summer nights to join others from the club and have a barbecue, play games in the picnic area and go for airplane rides. Usually after the lessons, the instructor would take each of us kids up with him. We’d sit in the pilot’s seat of the Cessna 150 at the controls and he’d sit in the co-pilot’s seat. He’d keep his hand off the stick as we took off, controlling only the throttle with his hand and the rudders with his feet; we were pulling back and easing the Cessna into the air. I remember one occasion where I pulled back a little hard and the stall warning went off. The next week I tried again and nearly took the tops off the cornfield at the end of the runway, but Bob (the instructor) never got worked up and we didn’t crash. I loved the feeling of being in the pilot’s seat of N7177F.

One of my favourite moments at the airport was captured in this photo. Here I am standing with all the guys after their flight lessons. It was one of the first times that I felt like one of the guys because not only was I standing with the group, but I had flown in the pilot’s seat, just like they had.

I’m the shortest one in the bunch.

I think I was in grade 8 when Dad and Grandpa bought a Piper J-5A and rebuilt it. I remember that plane sitting in the garage, being taken down to the bare metal before being rebuilt from the ground up. I remember the excitement I felt after it was deemed airworthy again and was able to go for a flight with Dad. Dad and I would fly to other airports in the relative area for a Sunday pancake breakfast (when the weather cooperated); there were many of these around as they were often used for fundraisers for their local community or the airport’s flying club. Grandpa would fly ahead of us in his homebuilt and because my grandfather always did his own thing, he’d usually find himself on the ground before us and anyone else that might have been in the pattern on approach to the airport.

As I sat watching the two Galaxy C-17As fly over the house today at lunch it was then that I realised that one of my favourite vacations was when I joined my Dad and Grandpa on a trek to Oshkosh, Wisconsin for what is now called the EAA AirVenture. Ironically we drove out there but there were a lot of planes and a lot of people interested in flying and some amazing aerobatics. I think it was probably the first time that I felt any sort of closeness to my usually distant grandfather and I really enjoyed that time with my Dad. It was probably one of the first times that Dad and I talked about guy stuff. I could tell that both he and Gramps were squarely in their elements amongst the planes and other pilots. They took me to a bar for dinner and drinks and introduced me to other pilots and their sons. I really liked that trip.

I love to fly. I admire those that do it for a living in any capacity and I admire even more those that do it for fun (and usually there is a combination of the two going on.) Commercials flights are great (aside from the tourists) but flying in a two- or four-seater is where I really want to be. Airport hopping in a Cessna or a Piper on a Sunday afternoon is my idea of a good time. Earl has never flown in a small plane before and I want to give him that experience at least once in my life.

Flying season has not yet come to a close in these parts and I think I’m going to have to see if Dad wants to go for a ride before he puts the plane, a two-seat Acrosport, away for the winter.

Flying with Dad in 2005.

Lake Ontario from the Acrosport, courtesy of my cell phone camera, in 2005.

I dreamed about my grandmother last night. This is not an unusual event in my life as I often have vivid dreams and I occasionally dream about those that have passed on. The details of the dream are unimportant but the lingering feeling I had this morning after the encounter I had with my grandmother was reassuring and comforting.

Ever since we were children, my sister and I have commented that as far as grandmothers go we were pretty lucky grandchildren. While quite different in personality, our grandmothers both had a very common trait: they turned their house into a home. I’m sure most would say that of their grandmother; the feeling is not an uncommon one. I like to think that their influences contributed to who I am today.

Whenever you went to Grandma Country’s house you would smell something baking or cooking. Whether it was chocolate chip cookies, homemade bread or any given flavour of pie, Grandma Country could usually be found busy in the kitchen, and if she wasn’t there or elsewhere in the house doing some chore, she was in her chair next to the window reading a book, most likely waiting for the chime of the oven to signal when something had finished baking. My sister and I were lucky in that we grew up next door to my country grandparents and when we were younger we’d go over for milk and cookies and watch “Bewitched” and “I Dream of Jeannie.” There were rarely hugs or kisses from Grandma Country, it wasn’t really in her nature, but we felt loved and comforted and very welcomed into her home. It wasn’t a house she kept, it was a home.

Grandma City lived further away so we didn’t see her as much, but when we stopped by she’d always give us a big hug and a kiss and want to know what we were up to. Grandma City was the giver, she’d give anything and everything she had to help a person that needed help; her house was always open to friends and family. Grandma City didn’t bake that much, she was more in line with the arts and crafts and plants and she did all the really well. While Grandma City’s house was in a suburb and didn’t smell like baked goods, you knew you were always welcome there. Grandma made her house into a home. And it was comfortable.

Of all the things that are important to me, one particular one is making sure our house feels like a home. Earl and I are blessed, we have a newish house that is quite nice and I love every inch of it (even when the plumbing is acting feisty). Our old house, which was a 150+ year farm house, had the “warm” feeling built into it because it had housed so many people for a century and a half; this house has always been beautiful to me, but it’s only been the past two years or so that it has truly felt like a home and it’s only been the past six months or so that I have been able to say that I could live in this house forever. I always strive to make guests feel welcome here and I often entertain thoughts of having dinner parties or movie nights or all of that stuff. Unfortunately, where we live makes us out of the way for most of our friends and family and on the run the rest of the time, but I hope that loved ones feel welcome to visit us.

One of the reasons that I am anxious to meet Homer in Tucson someday is because his blog depicts a friendly place where friends meet and eat delicious baked goods. Like many of the bloggers that I read daily, I like what Homer seems to be. It’s one of the reasons that I enjoyed visiting with Sean and Jeffrey in Albany and visiting them from time to time, the apartment they had at the time felt very comfortable. The conversation was good, the energy was great. If we have a home that others feel they can’t visit then I guess I’m feeling like I have failed along the way. This is important to me. I suppose it’s because of the impending change of season where I get into harvesting/baking/get ready for winter mode.

Earl and I recently welcomed Jamie into our home. Jamie is attending school locally and is going to be a brilliant photographer someday. I admire him for the strength of his convictions and I it is my hope that Earl and I contribute to the foundation he needs to embark on this whole life thing. We share a lot of common interests and as I may have mentioned before, he reminds me of myself at that age. I hope that when Jamie is here he feels like he’s home.

I know Grandma would like that.