family

Drive In

We went to see Disney’s Cars 2 (overly long) this weekend and that got me thinking about my own early driving history.

I found a letter from my father not too long ago, which I will share in a couple of weeks on his birthday, but one line in it reminded me of how young I was when I started driving.

“In 1981 dollars the 50 ft drive would cost about $225,000 per mile”.

As you can well imagine, my first driving experience wasn’t a great success.

It was in Memphis, Tennessee, 1963 and our family had grown to four kids. My parents were out looking at houses to fit their extended brood. My younger brother and I had been placed in the front seat of the car while my parents finished speaking with the real estate agent.

In those days there were no requisite car seats. An enterprising youngster could stand on the broad bench seat, play with the radio and pretend to drive.

While my parents talked, I tried my hand at driving. So what did I do?  I mimicked what I had seen.  Put the imaginary key in, grab the wheel give it few turns back and forth with some zoom, zoom sound effects and then…shift.

One other note about cars back then, gears didn’t necessarily lock on automatic transmissions when the car was stopped and the key removed.

Now a geography lesson, parts of Memphis are quite hilly.  Many houses are built with good sloping driveways.  We happened to be parked on one.  When I shifted the gear lever, it went from park to neutral quite smoothly and my nine month old brother and I were off on our very first solo drive together.

I cannot imagine our parent’s horror as they watched their car starting down that hill and  carrying their two youngest children across a four lane street with oncoming traffic. I have visions of them doing the slow motion outreach, “Nooooooo….!”.

It was okay though, there was a house across that street to stop us.

The car crashed into the front of the house just under a large picture window.

We were fine. My brother didn’t even roll off the front seat.

Surprisingly, my dad says the car wasn’t damaged.  They sure don’t make ‘em like that anymore.

The our joy ride blockade didn’t fare as well, hence the inflationary comment above.  Would loved to have seen that insurance report write up.

I have three memories from the event.  Seeing Mom & Dad outside of the car, being pulled out of the car and the physical sensation that equates to “Wheeeeee!”.

My driving career was somewhat curtailed until legal driving age after that.  But I’ll be danged I didn’t develop quite a love for roller coasters.   

 

 

 

Pride

On June 27, 1969, the winds of fate gathered and the patrons of Greenwich Village’s Stonewall Inn fought back.  The seeds of Pride were planted.

And on this Saturday, 42 years after the riots on Christopher Street, the second annual Pride Parade and Festival will be held in our fair city.

There will be other parades and festivals more elaborate and attended by thousands around the world. I’ve been to the great parade and festival in Atlanta many times before.  I’ve even been in that parade, but there is nothing to compare to the emotion and inspiration of having this celebration in my own town.

My family and I had been absent from the Pride celebrations for several years until last year.

We would ordinarily choose not to go to the parade because number one it’s hot as blazes in Georgia in June, especially standing in a crowd of thousands and two, as parents we acknowledge that the Atlanta parade can be for more mature audiences, much as Mardi Gras is.

The festival, however had always been wonderful for any age group and we’d always had a great time there.  Except possibly the time our daughter kept fainting, but that was due to the heat and hypoglycemia, not the atmosphere.

The change came when our son was not quite 5 years old.  He was floating on cloud nine because he had gotten so many compliments on his Spiderman costume he chose to wear all day. It had been a good day at the festival despite the usual afternoon showers and fierce southern humidity.

We were tiredly trooping back to our car for the long ride home and it was then that some lovely, Southern gentleman decided that he needed to vent his hostility over our family unit.  This frightened our son, who couldn’t possibly understand that someone would hate his family. He clamored into my arms, buried his face into my shoulder and wouldn’t come out until we were well out of earshot.

If you want to demonstrate your narrow mind to adults that’s one thing, but to take it out on small children – shame on you.

Try to explain to a 4 year old, who has known only love and acceptance, that there are some people in the world who hate him because he has two moms.  Even his spidey powers couldn’t protect him that day in Atlanta.  It broke our hearts.

This combined with the heat (my partner says, yeah – give the gays the hottest damn month of the year to celebrate) gave us the excuse to stay home when Pride came around.

Then our very conventional, conservative town allowed something magical to happen. It granted a permit for a Pride parade.

We decided to go still wary about attending another arena where our son could be subjected to the vitriol of others, but he has in the past four years demonstrated a strength of character that we thought would sustain him if we were confronted again.

Boy, were we surprised, so brilliantly surprised.

The parade was filled with families and friends.  Our son saw his school mates with their straight parents and caught candy thrown by beautiful, well heeled drag queens.The festival was full of music, balloons and games designed for the kids to play.

Smiles abounded. Words of encouragement and love were spoken by supporters.  Tears of joy and wonder were spilled. Many exclaimed with choked voices that they didn’t think they would ever see the day our town celebrated its GLBT citizens with such kindness.

Oh, there were the odd protesters (and some were really odd), but all were welcomed and given and gave respect even when they were holding placards damning us to eternal fire.

In the gay/lesbian community, we often refer to each other as ‘family’.  That Saturday in June of last year was about family. We are looking forward to another Saturday spent with family this year.

I am so proud of my city and the fantastic people who made this happen.  My family thanks you.

*http://socialistalternative.org/literature/stonewall.html  (good site to visit for information on Stonewall.)

The beauty of a rainbow after a storm.

Just keep singing

I attended a funeral today.  A friend lost her valiant, last battle against breast cancer.

Jewish funerals are usually pretty cut and dry. The rabbi may say a few words, but for the most part, they follow a certain rhythm of traditional prayers and solemnity.  Family members rarely speak.

Today was different.

Her son sang a psalm to honor his mother that I shall not soon forget.

Alberta was a woman with a voice.  The kind of voice that brings to mind Ethel Merman. It was unmistakable.

Alex recalled his mother’s love of singing with that voice.  But unlike her grandfather, a professional opera singer, Alberta was not bestowed with so much melodic talent.  Nor was she the best at remembering the words to what she sang, be it prayers in service or popular music to her children.

She sang for the joy it brought to her soul. If she could not recall the words, she filled in with la-la’s.  She just kept singing.

Alex said he tried to find the perfect song that would summarize his mother.  And like with many things, inspiration and revelation come from unexpected sources.  Alex found his mother’s song playing in his car by random shuffle.

From Wicked – Defying Gravity:

So if you care to find me

Look to the western sky!

As someone told me lately:

“Ev’ryone deserves the chance to fly!”

And if I’m flying solo

At least I’m flying free

To those who’d ground me

Take a message back from me

Tell them how I am

Defying gravity

I’m flying high

Defying gravity

And soon I’ll match them in renown

And nobody in all of Oz

No Wizard that there is or was

Is ever gonna bring me down!

For all the struggles Alberta faced in her life, this truly was her anthem.  She was a woman who loved her family, community, friends and life. And she kept on singing.

It would do us all good if we just kept singing.

Keep belting them out Alberta. Nothing can bring you down now. Fly free.

Mom’s Face

My Mom has had the same face her entire life.

You know how you can look at someone’s baby pictures and never know they were the same person?  Not my mom.

If you were to take a series of infant images and their corresponding adult images, how many do you think you could match up – infant face to adult face?  I most likely couldn’t match my own or my daughter’s if I wasn’t familiar with them (my son is a different story, but he’s not far enough away from babyhood just yet).

I am grateful that my great grandmother, Mar – she added the ‘r’ so that people would be sure to pronounce her name as Mah, why she thought Ma wouldn’t be sufficient, I don’t know – anyway, I’m grateful that she had a love for and instilled that love of photography in her children.  We have a treasure trove of encapsulated history because of it and that’s how we know that Mom’s face has always been the same.

We have portrait of Mom as a very little girl taken in the 1930’s, where the photographer carefully arranged her seated on a bench holding a wooden toy. Its colourized, Mom’s eyes are not blue and I don’t think her cheeks were ever that pink, but it is definitely her face.

The underlying structure stays the same whether she is plump toddler, skinny girl in a tap dance recital costume, a free spirit on the beach or the grandmother of eight.  Deep set grey-green eyes, with a longish nose and a mouth that shows off her high cheek bones when she smiles. She has one crooked tooth, the right one next to the front teeth, whatever that’s called.  I think it adds to the genuine quality of her smile.

Her adolescent photos often remind me of Anne Frank, but I’m guessing that’s the time frame just as so many kids always seem to look alike.  Her face was surrounded by jet black hair in her youth, now its a beautiful, soft white.

Sometimes the face is stern, sometimes on purpose – ask my younger brother about the time he ran home and hid all the spatulas and wooden spoons – and sometimes not, she’s just deep in thought. Mostly it shows a twinkle that pokes fun at the world. But with any expression, Mom always looks out recognizable to the world.

Either of my brothers, my sister or I would do anything for that face.  Each of us in turn has told her that she should come live with us if anything (turn around three times and spit) should happen to our father. She always replies with, “Don’t worry about it, I’m okay with going in a home.  Just be sure to check on me, a lot.” As if.

Today I celebrate that face, that wonderfully consistent face. Happy Birthday, Mom!

“We turn not older with years, but newer every day.” – Emily Dickinson.