My Aunt Toodles

Aunt Toodles knew everyone else a lot better than anyone knew her. She was the most empathic person I've ever known. It was her gift.

Whether you were sick or upset about something, Toodles always knew exactly how you were feeling. She not only listened, but put herself in your place. Without fail she knew precisely what to do to make you feel better.

You're thinking she always knew the right thing to do because she knew me so well. Perhaps. We did share a very special bond. But it wasn't just me.

Toodles had close relationships with lots of people. At her funeral, I lost count of everyone who told me they had just lost their best friend in the world. I knew exactly how they felt, but unlike my Aunt could find no words to comfort them.

Through the eyes of the child I was when our paths first crossed, Toodles was a cross between Barney the Dinosaur and Mary Poppins. Every interaction was special, every outing an adventure. I adored her. We all did.

As soon as I could walk she took me shopping. We'd ride the bus downtown, shop, and have lunch at Woolworth's. I'd pick out dresses and tell her she'd look beautiful wearing them. She was always the most beautiful woman in the room to me.

Until she married (at age 50), Toodles lived alone. I remember an apartment on Mill Street, a little house on Hummingbird Lane, and an apartment on Royalty Court. Between work and her social life, she wasn't home much. She wasn't much of a homemaker either. Every few years a troop of cousins would descend upon her place to clean and restore order.

Before she married Alex, Toodles lived paycheck to paycheck. When I was a struggling student and college dropout, we both got paid every two weeks on opposite Fridays. We had lunch together every Friday for years. Whoever got paid that week picked up the tab and gave the other person $20.

When I lived alone and was too sick to get out of bed, Aunt Toodles would appear with bags full of groceries, over-the-counter medicines, and magazines. I never called to tell her I was sick or needed something. Didn't have to. She always just showed up. She did the same thing when I was growing up.

Eventually I moved in to the apartment on Royalty Court with her. A few months later she announced she was marrying Alex. They married on Valentine's Day. Ever after she said her life began at 50.

I miss you Toodles....

Grannie

Grannie was my only grandparent. Mom's parents died before I was born. I vaguely recall Grandpa Buck, a widower and farm laborer who married Grannie in no small part to help raise his two children (now deceased). They raised eight more kids (all still living but one) for a total of ten. He was really old when I was born and died a few years later.

To say that Grannie was a hard worker is a gross understatement. She planted, tended, and harvested a big vegetable garden every summer. She mowed her own yard, kept her house spotless, and painted every fall up to the year she died (at 86). She walked two blocks to the Kroger store for any groceries she needed. One year she got a pet rabbit. Or at least, I thought it was a pet... until she fried him up for supper one night.

Grannie always looked the same. She got her hair permed up at the beauty school once a month and often wore a hairnet. Her homemade dresses had seams removed in strategic locations, for ventilation or comfort. Her navy blue boat shoes were similarly adapted. She was never without hose, usually knotted tightly just above the knee, with sometimes huge runs here and there.

My earliest memories are of big family dinners prepared by Grannie at the house she lived in until she died. The grown-ups ate in the dining room, and the kids at a table in the kitchen. The menu was almost always the same: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, sliced tomatoes, corn, yeast rolls, and dessert. It was all wonderful and most of it fresh from her garden.

Dessert could be chocolate meringue pie, jam or applesauce cake with caramel icing, or fried apple pies. Around the holidays she made peanut butter pinwheels, fudge, divinity and turtles. When you got to Grannie's house you ran straight to the kitchen and looked on the little table next to the stove to see what was for dessert. When we were older she would hide dessert on the dresser in the back bedroom and act like she didn't make any. Nobody ever believed her.

Grannie put up a lot of stuff herself. She was always canning something. She made jams, jellies, preserves, pickles, and my favorite of all, green tomato catsup. She used whatever kind of jar she could put her hands on, and often sealed them with wax.  Between the lard in everything she made and her home canning techniques, it's a wonder she didn't kill us all.

I stopped to see Grannie on my way home from work when I worked and lived near campus. She would be sitting on the glider on her big front porch reading the afternoon newspaper and keeping an eye on things in the neighborhood. She took plates of food to every little old man on her street and to anyone within walking distance who was sick or otherwise in need of a hot meal. She knew everything about everyone.

Any time I stopped by she'd ask if I was hungry. Most of the time the answer was yes. In moments she could produce a meal seemingly from thin air you'd have to see to believe--without a microwave. Other than a spoiled turkey one Christmas, I can't recall a single thing she ever cooked that wasn't absolutely delicious.

Grannie never missed a funeral no matter how remote her connection to the deceased. She wore her prettiest new suit, run-less hose, sensible shoes and a hat and perched herself somewhere in the front few rows at the funeral home or church. She sat the same way she sat in the glider on her front porch--so she could see everything going on in any direction around her. She didn't miss a thing.

It didn't take long to wear out your welcome at Grannies. She was happy to see you come, and just as happy to see you go. Once she found out you were ok and any news you had to share, other people needed her attention. After a half hour or so, she'd run you out the door.

What I wouldn't give for another piece of her fried chicken, a jar of her green tomato catsup, a slice of her chocolate meringue pie, or a tin of her homemade candy.

Heartbreak and Betrayal

You know that I absolutely adore little Tico. He is a beautiful, well-behaved little dog with a very sweet disposition. But our relationship has changed rather dramatically with the arrival of Toodles.

Tico has been my partner's dog from the start. He was the one that really wanted a dog. After 20 years of cats and nearly a lifetime of tropical fish, I was thoroughly enjoying a pet-free existence.

Tico won me over pretty fast. It's hard to resist two pounds of 8-week-old chihuahua pup. I dare you to try.

I have always been #2 daddy for Tico. It's never been a problem because I was a very close #2. Was. Now that Toodles has entered the scene, Tico has been more than a little aloof. Before Toodles he was almost always next to me or at my feet if my partner wasn't home. Now he's often asleep in his crate. I poke my head in and he looks at me with those sad, chihuahua eyes and I know.

His little heart is broken. I betrayed him. I just hope it doesn't turn him into the chihuahua version of...

The Crotchety Old Man


But I don't care for him. Nope. That's my partner's job. It is, after all, his dog.

Toodles, on the other hand, is my dog. More accurately, given her obvious desire to rule the household, I am her daddy. We're still trying to figure out who really is in charge.

Meet the Lady of the House

We decided a couple of weeks ago that it was time to add another puppy to our family. Tico enjoys play dates with his best friend, Ennis, so much that adding another dog seemed to be the right thing to do.

From the start, Tico has been perfect in every way. At just under 9-months old, he is housebroken, well-behaved, and good with other dogs. His most striking feature, however, is that he almost never barks. He goes days at a time without making a sound--not what you expect from a chihuahua.

Given our experience with Tico, my preference was that our second dog be a long-haired chihuahua, too. We also decided on a little girl that we would call Toodles, after my favorite aunt. Then we started checking ads and searching online to see what was available.

Thursday night we agreed to expand our search to other toy breeds. There just weren't any long-haired chi's available anywhere in the area. Friday I was writing a post for the blog about our up-to-then futile search for the perfect companion for Tico when my partner messaged me with a link to a Craig's List ad for four pups--two boys and two girls--with photos. I knew we'd found Toodles as soon as I saw her picture (above).

I called the number to arrange to see the pups. Turns out, it's the same guy that sold us Tico. The pups have the same father as Tico. He remembered us and said we could have first pick of the four puppies. He's not a breeder--our chi's have no papers. Whether or not he's a puppy farmer we haven't been able to determine. It looks like the dogs are the family pets of country folk that live over on the GA/AL line.

Just as with Tico, we met him halfway--at the Waffle House in Tucker, GA for the exchange. We knew we'd found Toodles as soon as we saw the quartet. We were on the road and headed back to Athens in less than five minutes.

Tico and I went out the back door for a long walk as Toodles entered the front door for a badly-needed bath. Tico was covered with fleas when we got him and we knew Toodles would be, too. By the time we got back Toodles was clean, dry, free of fleas, and enjoying a romp in the front yard. The meeting went very well.

For Toodles, it was love at first sight. She follows Tico around everywhere he goes--as long as she is awake and he doesn't go too far, too fast. Tico didn't know what to think at first, and wouldn't let her out of his sight. Twenty-four hours later, he checks on her every few minutes when she's sleeping then goes back to playing with his toys. The first few times he just looks at her, but eventually he starts nudging her and trying to wake her up to play.

We did a great job raising Tico. With Toodles, we are much more experienced. I'm optimistic that she is going to turn out to be just as good as Tico. I have to admit, with all this adorable-ness in the house, it's not easy to be...

The Crotchety Old Man

The Thrill is Gone

Today marks my one-month anniversary on Facebook. Connecting with people from different periods of my life has been very cool. I'm glad to be part of the social networking phenomena, but I have to say that for me, the thrill is gone.

At first, Facebook is overwhelming. There is new lingo to learn, different ways of communicating with friends and rules about playing well with others. There are also countless ways to piss away tons and tons and tons of time. It can be all consuming.

I ignored the role-playing games from the start. I'm sure they are fun--I just don't need anything else that eats up that kind of time. Besides, I know how I can be...

After the first few days I started ignoring all the silly little quizzes, too. Having to "allow access" to my info and pics for unknown purposes increasingly made me uncomfortable. Most of the quizzes aren't very well done anyway. The questions don't make any sense, or only include choices that you'd never pick, ever. Too often the relationship between your answers and the Startrek/Sesame Street/Peanuts cartoon character you would be makes no sense.

And the results dominate Facebook "action". All you need are three or four Facebook friends that take every quiz they see and publish the results. Soon that's all you ever see. You can block the quizzes (or the friends) individually. But blocking friends isn't cool, and blocking quizzes becomes a never-ending task because there are so many of them.

That leaves you with your Facebook friends, and the search for old friends to become your new Facebook friends. I'm up to about 130 friends now. I've raised the bar a bit--I have to know who you are and have some kind of history with you in order to confirm you as a friend. I've stopped actively looking for friends because I've searched for every name I can think of, and have pretty thoroughly investigated the friends and friends of friends in my profile.

I've had at least a brief communication with most of my Facebook friends. In many instances this has been an e-mail exchange over several days. Some have just been comments on each others' walls or photos. The best involve a combination of comments, e-mail messages, and private chats that feel almost as real as face-to-face visits. But mostly it's one brief exchange and then back to the silence that defined the relationship before the connection on Facebook.

In the end, that's the way it works. You end up with the relationship you had before. I suppose there are cases where new links are established. No doubt there are also cases when the old connection no longer exists. But mostly, you just pick up where you left off before, no matter how long ago it may have been.

Big Families as a Status Symbol

I'm part of a huge family. Grannie always said she just had a knack for making babies. A big family made sense back in the 1920s and 30s. Infant mortality rates were high, and particularly among farm families, another pair of hands to help with chores was an asset.

In the 60s and 70s, birth control made it easier to control family size. Large families were less common, but not all that unusual. Rather than another set of hands, another baby was more often seen as another mouth to feed. Larger families became more of a liability when you had to buy rather than grow your food. Population growth became more of an issue for many, and smaller families became the norm.

Large families are back in vogue and appear to be something of a status symbol. I see big families all over the place--shopping malls, grocery stores, and community events. They roll out of the Esplanade in matching outfits as Mom & Dad unfold a stroller that's bigger than some RVs.

The media is all over a gianormous family. There's John & Kate Plus 8--their eight kids (sextuplets and twins). Then we have the Duggars who proudly proclaim 18 and counting. That's right--18 biological kids that dutifully line up for interviews on news and talks shows. And now we have Welfarjolina with her 14 kids in just two litters. You wait--as soon as those little pups can talk they'll be all over television.

For the life of me I can't understand how anyone would think it's OK to have more than 3 or 4 kids in this day and time. Frankly, that's being generous. The Chinese policy that limits couples to one child makes much more sense in this day and age. Does seem, however, that the policy is starting to create an entirely different set of problems. Oh well. At least they get it, and they tried.

Yeah I know. Couples have a right to have as many children as they want. Shoot. You don't even have to be a couple. Single parenthood is all the rage now. If a single mom wants to have 14 kids, who am I to object? Besides, it's immoral to have an abortion. Many believe it's immoral to practice any form of birth control, too. Those same people don't see anything the least bit immoral about a big family like the Duggars. I blame the new math.

We care more about dogs and cats. Thanks to Sarah McLachlan, most people would adopt pets from shelters rather than pet stores or puppy farms, and have those animals spayed or neutered. We're much less concerned about the plight of foster kids that grow up in group homes or bounce around from foster family to foster family without every really finding a home. Maybe the difference is the picture of an actual animal in a shelter that Sarah sends when you donate.

I say let everyone have two biological kids, then off to the spay/neuter clinic with your gonads. If you want more than two kids, you're going to have to adopt them. Hardly seems fair to bring more kids into the world when there are many perfectly good kids out there waiting for homes. Just ask Sally Struthers--and she'll send you a picture, too.

Aunt Mary

Aunt Mary, from all reports, was the prettiest of the five girls that, along with three brothers, made up Momma's family. When I was growing up, Momma depended on Mary more than any of her other siblings, for everything. So much so that I don't know how we would have functioned without her.

Momma didn't get her driver's license until after Dad retired. Until then, we depended on Dad or the kindness of strangers to get where we needed to go. It was generally the strangers that came through first, typically in the form of one of my aunts or uncles. More often than not, it was Aunt Mary that showed up in her VW bus to take us wherever we needed to go. For years she took Momma to the grocery store every week.

Aunt Mary and Uncle Don had daughters the same age as me and my (younger) sister, along with a son older than us and another younger than us. We were in scouts together, went to the same church, and played on the same sports teams. We even went to the same schools--along with Uncle Deezer's three boys. Sounds quaint, but none of us were particularly thrilled about it.

If you are a regular reader, then you know that Dad worked overnight every third night, and Momma refused to stay by herself. We stayed at Aunt Mary's house a lot. Momma and Aunt Mary would stay up late chain-smoking cigarettes and playing games at the kitchen table. If a third or fourth was available, they played pinochle. More often than not, they played dice games--either Scribbage or Yahtzee.

I usually slept just off the kitchen and would hear the sound of dice being shaken in a cup and dumped on the Formica tabletop for hours on end. After each roll of the dice came the exclamation. "Shit--what am I going to do with that?" "Dammit I don't need any 3's!" "Where in the hell are all the vowels?"

Aunt Mary loved Bingo more than just about anything but Bridge and cigarettes. She smoked King Sano cigarettes and lead us all to believe they were healthy. She was a regular at the VFW Bingo night. She rarely went alone, and never came home empty-handed.

Aunt Mary was in poor health for most of my childhood, and died way before her time. The funeral was the first time most of us ever saw her with her hair done, make-up on, and teeth in. Everyone commented about how good she looked--not something one usually hears at a funeral. During visitation various friends and family members slipped playing cards, a bingo dauber, and a few bingo cards into the casket with her.

If there is an afterlife, Aunt Mary is in the middle of a cigarette and either Bingo or a good game of Bridge with Toodles, Peggy, and Betty. I just hope the good Lord turns a deaf ear to all the swearing and cussing!

The Passing of Santa

I believed in Santa Claus for a very long time. Nearly all of my cousins did, too. We all believed because for us, Santa Claus was real.

Santa kicked off the holiday season every year as the anchor of the annual Christmas Parade. His reindeer were artfully arranged in front of the sleigh on top of a big firetruck so that it looked like they were flying. Because Dad was a fireman, we often got to ride on the truck with Santa to wave and throw candy to kids along the parade route.

Santa always knew my name and more than a little about me. Same with my sister and all my cousins. He knew where we went to school, the grade we were in, whether or not we participated in any extra-curricular activities, and of course, if we'd been good or bad.

Santa hosted an afternoon show on a local television station. He read letters from area children in between cartoons. Our letters were read on air every year. At the end of every show, Santa would wave good-bye to various children by name (first name only). All the kids in our large, extended family received these personal greetings at the end of every show.

Santa dropped in to visit all the cousins at least once in the weeks leading up to Christmas every year. He would arrive in a red car from the fire department with his official photographer. We would sit in Santa's lap and whisper in his ear what we wanted for Christmas. Once in a while, pictures of Santa taken at our house appeared in the local newspaper. All the cousins have lots and lots of photographs taken with Santa over the years.

For a variety of reasons, the fire department provided the official Santa for the city of Lexington. Years later we learned that Uncle Gene, another fireman in the family, was the official Santa for most of our childhood. When I look at those old pictures today, I can tell it's him. But throughout my childhood I never had a clue. I even stumbled across a closet full of Santa suits at his house but never made the connection.

I have told him many many times how special it was to grow up in a family where Santa was real. He loved being Santa and looked forward to it every year. He told me that the home visits started out as bathroom breaks. He called our names out at the end of every television show because there were 16 of us, we all had different names, and it was a good way to cover a lot of possibilities. It tickled him that being Santa had made such an impression on me.

Uncle Gene passed away yesterday. He was a sweet, wonderful man that will be sorely missed by all of us who loved him. The loss of our beloved C-Sir leaves Momma as the sole survivor of eight siblings. I have many, many fond memories of time spent with Uncle Gene. The last time I saw him, he told me he wanted to share with me two important lessons he had learned. With Santa's sparkle in his eye, he told me not to trust my farts, and to pee any time a facility was available because you never knew when you'd have another chance. Truer words I've seldom heard...

The Summer They Drained the Pay Lake

When I was in second grade, we moved to a house my parents built in a new neighborhood on the southern edge of Lexington, Kentucky. The house was only the third or fourth to be built in a neighborhood that had recently been just the corn field next to the pasture behind the pay lake. It was really more of a pond than a lake, with more big carp in it than anything else.

Back then there were more horses in the area than kids. The summer between fourth and fifth grade (give or take a year), they sold the farm and drained the pay lake to put in a shopping center. We were pretty excited because one of those newfangled twin screen movie theaters just like the new one at the mall on the other side of town would be the anchor.

A little creek ran through the bottom of the neighborhood. To drain the pay lake, they came in with a back hoe, deepened the creek bed up close to the pond, and then allowed the pond to drain out the channel. All summer long we positioned ourselves at various points of the channel with window screens lifted from houses being built in the neighborhood. We'd lay the screen in the trench, toss dirt clods in the water above the screens, then pull the screens and their squirming contents out for sorting.

There were huge carp, especially toward the end of the draining process. Most of them died, trapped on the rocks in shallow creeks in several back yards. The stench from rotting fish was overpowering for a few weeks. We also hauled in snakes, frogs, turtles, crawdads, tadpoles, mud puppies and several kinds of fish. These were immediately sorted with desirable specimens placed in one of several containers brought along just for that purpose.

I had about a dozen cracked aquariums of various sizes that I rescued from the dumpster at the elementary school. We patched these up as best we could, and arranged them on the patio in the backyard to hold our bounty. At one point I know we had about a dozen snakes, no telling how many frogs and turtles, and tanks full of tadpoles. We sorted them by developmental stage--no legs, two legs, and four-legs--so we could monitor progress. Crawdads were sorted by size. If I knew then what I know now, some of these would have ended up in the steamer. Eventually all those critters escaped, died, or were released.

All in all, we had a blast. It was a great summer. I can hardly believe that I ever handled snakes--much less ever reached in to muddy water to grab one. My most recent encounter with a snake--a large black snake--ended with me screaming like a girl and running into the house. Wish we caught it on tape because I'm sure it would have been a big hit on YouTube.

Just another reason I'm...

The Crotchety Old Man

Betty & Walter

Betty was the oldest of the five girls in Momma's family. She was an x-ray technician when I was very young, then moved into administration and something to do with insurance for a private hospital for children. Work was always a big part of who she was. She was a career woman in an era when everyone was a stay-at-home mom.

She married Walter when I was in first grade. I remember because everyone came to school--the Catholic church next door to school to be exact. It was a big deal to see my aunts and uncles all dressed up. Some of my older cousins got to skip class to attend the ceremony.

Walter is a postcard from the late 40s and early 50s. He smoked a pipe, sported thick glasses, and always wore a white shirt, short-sleeved or long depending on the season, pleated pants, wingtips, and a skinny tie. He was a higher up in the county tax commissioner's office--a career bureaucrat. He had a amazing train track set-up with mountains, bodies of water, small towns, and farms. When we were very young, he would sometimes put on his conductor cap and run the trains for us. He also fed the ducks and other water birds that hung out at a city pond in the park behind their house.

Betty and Walter never had children. As the oldest girl in single-parent family with eight kids, Betty probably had her fill of raising children well before she married. Betty was the typical oldest sister--a bit bossy and quick to point out to her siblings the error of their ways. She was also the one everybody ran to anytime they needed anything. She always helped, and rarely said a word about it--to anyone.

Betty and Walter often hosted potluck picnics, especially around Memorial Day or Labor Day. These were much more sedate than the big Fourth of July blow-outs, but similar in that the aunts and some of my uncles would sit at card tables in the shade playing bridge. It was not unusual to have as many as three tables going at one of these family picnics. From time to time they'd call out for one of us to come sit in for them while they took a break from the game. Most of the cousins know the fundamentals of bridge.

These bridge games were often loud and boisterous, especially as time went on. None of the aunts was ever wrong about anything. Consequently, arguments would break out about proper bidding, what somebody should have done, and the best way to play the hand. The language would be enough on occasion to make a sailor blush. Everybody smoked. Given that the get together was associated with a holiday, alcohol flowed freely, too.

Betty was an avid supporter of University of Kentucky basketball and football. She was thrilled to have nieces and nephews with UK degrees. She praised us for our accomplishments and was quick to offer support to anyone that was struggling for whatever reason. She bought more interview, funeral, and wedding suits for various cousins than you could count.

I don't recall Betty or Walter ever saying a word about me being gay. They knew. Everyone did. My partner and I hosted the annual Fourth of July blow-out at our house for several years. They always came, and they always treated my partner like he was one of the family. Actions speak louder than words. They died, fairly close together, of cancer and were very well cared for--by my cousins--up to the very end.

Momma's Family

Being born in to Momma's family was about the best thing that ever happened to me. Growing up in this huge clan of close-knit people meant I was surrounded by tons of people who loved me like a brother or son. The relationships I had with each and every one of the members of the clan left an impression on me. With so many of them gone, I've decided that I want to devote a future posting to each one. This is the introduction to those stories.

Momma is the baby of eight kids. Her father, a son-of-a-bitch in her view, died at 38 when she was still young. Her mother died while Momma was pregnant with me. Becoming an alcoholic if she wasn't one already seemed a rational choice for a single mother with eight kids to raise in the 1940s. All eight kids adored her. Most of them believe she died trying to dry out so she could stay with Momma for a while after I was born.

Grandma sent the kids away to boarding school. All five girls attended Cardome--a boarding school for Roman Catholic girls run by a group of cloistered nuns. The three oldest girls (Betty, Mary and Peggy--all now deceased) graduated from Cardome in the 1940s. Momma graduated from the Catholic High School in Lexington, KY in 1956. Toodles (also deceased) never finished high school, though details about that are fuzzy, by design.

The three boys attended military school, where they joined a cousin with the same last name. Throughout their years at the military school they were A-sir (the cousin), B-sir (Bobby--the oldest), C-sir (Gene) and D-sir (Ervil Melvin). Bobby died in the Korean War. Uncle Gene is in poor health now, and with Momma, the only ones still living. Uncle Deezer (derived from D-sir and a big improvement over Ervil Melvin) died of cancer many years ago.

Growing up, Momma spent hours and hours on the telephone each day catching up with each of her four sisters and via their wives, her two brothers. Everyone knew everything about everyone else--instantly. It was that way my whole life and remains more or less that way today thanks in no small part to Momma.

Mostly because she could get by with it, Momma was afraid to stay by herself overnight. When Dad got a job as a firefighter, he worked 24 hours and was off for 48. So every third night for all of my life to age 18, we either packed our bags and stayed with one of the aunts (or my godmother--Momma's best friend from high school) or one of them came and stayed with us. Momma didn't start driving until long after me and my sister left the nest. We spent a lot of time waiting for rides to get us home, to school, or to wherever we were spending the night.

Like that wasn't enough, all the cousins were forever being herded together to celebrate various and sundry holidays, birthdays, weddings, and an unfortunate number of early funerals. Fourth of July was the single biggest family blow-out of the year. Deezer hosted a potluck cook-out at his house with plenty of room for the kids to play, an above-ground swimming pool, and a row of tall shady trees at the back of the lot. Between all the cousins and guests, Uncle James (Peggy's husband) could always pull teams together for any sport. Each kid was assigned to the various teams based on his or her strengths which Uncle James was always able to identify. We were all stars.

Christmas varied from family to family. With Momma's fear of staying alone, we got to experience Christmas Eve and Christmas Day at the home of each of our many aunts and uncles. We even had our own Santa--Uncle Gene, another firefighter in the family--was the official Santa Claus for Lexington, KY from before I was born until long after I no longer believed. I and my cousins all believed much longer than was the norm. After all, we had home visits from Santa ever year, were waved good-bye to at the end of his letter-reading show on TV (and he always read our letters), and he knew if we'd been naughty or nice and could cite examples.

It was a crazy way to grow up. We had a blast. But it also made it almost impossible to participate in any extracurricular activities. For years I swore I'd never forgive Momma for subjecting us to it. I've since had reason not only to forgive her, but to thank her for what turned out to be an incredible gift. My sister and I spent so much time with our aunts and uncles that they know us as well as they know their own kids. I love them like they were my own parents, and I want to share them with those of you who maybe haven't been so blessed.

That's my gift to you this Christmas and for 2009. I hope you'll enjoy reading as much as I'll enjoy the writing and reminiscing. You'll find, if you haven't figured it out already, that there's absolutely no reason for me to be....

The Crotchety Old Man
Merry Christmas

Our Inquisitive Toddler

Our little baby long-haired Chihuahua is 11 weeks old today. He went to the vet this morning and he's gained a full half a pound since we got him. Now he weighs in at a whopping 2.4 pounds.

His training--of us--is progressing fairly well. He was regressing on his housebreaking. We evaluated our behavior and determined he needed to be taken outside more frequently. Now as long as we remember to take him out every hour or so, there are no accidents. Well--let's just say the accidents are fewer and further between. It's all about progress.

He doesn't have any problems getting in his crate when it's time to go to bed or when we leave the house. He makes it through the night without crying now, but is definitely an early riser. That's OK. We are too, rarely sleeping past 7.

Now he's at the age where he is very inquisitive with a tendency to get in to everything. Keeping him out of the Christmas tree hasn't been too bad. Keeping him out of the presents proved impossible--we've now placed them under a small tree on a table where they are out of his reach. He adores the felt tree skirt, however, and would love to rip the felt appliques from it. He completely ignores "no" when he's attacking the tree skirt which caused us to pull out a new discipline tool--the time out. The first time we put him in time out, we opened the crate after about 3 minutes but he didn't come out for more than two hours. I think his feelings were hurt.

He's a smart little pup. My partner is click training him. You click the clicker during the training practice when he does what you want him to do. This is supposed to make it easy to teach him difficult tricks when he gets older. Seems to be working as he's already got "sit" and "lay down" mastered. Now we're working on roll-over. You can see how he's doing here. You can also see the aforementioned tree skirt.

He definitely adds a lot to life around here. When he's at his playful best, it's awfully hard to even pretend like I am...

The Crotchety Old Man

Guaranteed Delivery

I got my Christmas shopping done early this year. Don't judge me--I'm not one of those people who always have their shopping done weeks or months ahead of time. In fact, I kind of enjoy getting out in all that mess just days before the holiday.

This year I've dramatically pared down my list. No, it's not about the economy. It's due primarily to a lack of gratitude from the recipients. My niece (8) and nephew (10) are the primary beneficiaries of my holiday largess. He called me twice this year, and sent me several e-mails, including two expressing his desire for me to get well after my surgery and another procedure. Sweet kid. She called once to confirm that we had in fact got a dog. I threatened to send her a lump of coal a few years ago. She informed me that if I did, she'd send me a rotten potato.

I sat down on Thanksgiving Day and ordered most of the gifts I'm giving this year online. I sent a lot of gift baskets. My parents don't need anything, so food or spa gifts are always appreciated. I ended up canceling quite a few orders when I got to the screen where the delivery charges showed up. I don't support highway robbers. Period.

My mother had several Christmas Cacti before she moved to Virginia and was thrilled when they spontaneously bloomed each winter. So being the thoughtful son that I am, I decided it would be nice to send her one for the holidays. Jackson & Perkins had exactly what I was looking for--for $39. I bought two lovely specimens from Lowe's for $5 each a few days earlier, but was willing to pay 8 times as much to have it shipped properly. Then I discovered it was going to cost $15 more for shipping. No thanks. I'll send her $10 and tell her to go to Lowe's.

My nephew is a Pokemon freak. He's been obsessed with all things Pokemon for more than three years. I really don't understand the attraction, but it has made shopping for him for Christmas and birthdays fairly easy. Last year I had a hard time finding Pokemon crap, so when I ran into a new display of all things Pokemon at Kmart a few weeks ago, I loaded up. My niece got a load of crap from American Girl. That stuff never goes on sale, but at least they offer free shipping.

I got all the Pokemon stuff wrapped last weekend--no easy task as it all comes in odd-sized packages. Took it to The UPS Store on Monday. The sales girl was sweet and other than the stud in her nose, a pretty little girl. I can say that because I'm old and gay. She informed me that UPS no longer guarantees regular deliveries to arrive before Christmas. Guaranteed delivery cost twice as much. Given that it was December 8, I told her I'd take regular delivery and if it didn't arrive by Christmas, I wouldn't be using UPS any longer. He got it yesterday.

Sometimes, it's downright fun to be...

The Crotchety Old Man

Personalized Electronic Greetings

Yesterday I wrote about holiday greeting cards. You'll see in the comments some claptrap about saving the environment and sending personalized electronic greetings. Let me address the environmental crap first.

There are plenty of opportunities to purchase cards made from recycled materials. And at the end of the season, any cards you don't want to save for sentimental reasons can be returned to one of many programs that recycle them for various purposes. Yeah, the postman drives a truck and that uses gasoline and pollutes the air. So sue me.

Nothing says "I'm a cheap and lazy bastard" louder than a personalized electronic greeting. Jesus. It's Christmas. A box of cards is $5 or less. Yeah, stamps are kinda pricey at 42 cents each. If you can afford your high speed Internet access, you can afford a few stamps.

"Personalized electronic greetings" is an oxymoron. There's nothing the least bit personal about an electronic greeting--even one containing naked pictures. Anyone that thinks otherwise has a thing or two to learn about what is and isn't personal.

There's something very precious about Christmas and other greeting cards in my possession from friends and family members that are no longer living. Maybe you have to have lost someone to appreciate the value of a greeting that is truly personal. The value isn't in the words. It comes from knowing that this card was selected, signed, and mailed by the person I knew and loved.

The cards I have from my grandmother contain one word: Grannie. There are no notes, no "I love you's" or other embellishments. Just that one word, written in her distinct hand-writing. I have an entire collection of them and I wouldn't trade them for anything--especially any personalized electronic greeting.

I have a big stack of cards from my Aunt Toodles. She frequently wrote little notes of appreciation, encouragement, and/or support, and usually included some witty or clever remark to make me laugh. I can't read them today without tears in my eyes. If my house was on fire, I would grab them first.

You can keep your personalized electronic greetings, thank you very much. I'll keep my ungreen archaic greeting cards. That's just another reason they call me...

The Crotchety Old Man

Holiday Greeting Cards

I send a ton of Christmas cards out every year. It's something I've done for as long as I can remember. Not only do I send cards, but for years and years I typically wrote long letters in each and every one. Throw in all my friends and former coworkers, and at one point my Christmas card list was bigger than the phone book of some small towns.

Most of my cards go to family. Both of my parents have (or had) eight brothers and sisters. Nearly all married, had kids, and lived in and around Lexington, KY. Not only do I have a very large extended family, but we saw each other very frequently. I practically grew up with my mother's siblings and their children. I'm closer to many of my cousins than most people are to their siblings.

Before I left Lexington for greener pastures in 1996, my long letters went mostly to friends and family that lived out of town. Once I left town, I needed to write a letter in every card. My annual Christmas card became my only contact with many of the aunts, uncles, and cousins that I grew up with. These annual letters were something that I enjoyed writing, and I've heard from many of the recipients that they looked forward to receiving them.

I stopped writing letters in every card several years ago. Those that send me a card are more likely to get one of my letters in return than those who never send cards. Some of my cousins that never send cards have been dropped from my list all together. Friends and family that simply sign their names to a card without even a "hope you are well" are less likely to get a letter from me than those who write at least a sentence or two. One must have standards.

My card list is much shorter now. I've lost touch with some of the friends and former coworkers that once received cards from me. My gay friends are so bad about sending cards that I gave up sending them cards years ago and stay in touch via e-mail and the occasional phone call--if at all. Frankly, with very few exceptions the gay people I've encountered in 30+ years of being out haven't been very good friends--especially when you or they move away. Out of sight, out of mind. With only two exceptions (2 guys that were in the circle of friends I had when I first came out), I get tired of doing all the work to maintain those connections.

In Mom's family, all my aunts and all but one of my uncles have passed away, along with two of my cousins. Most of Dad's siblings left Lexington long before I did. All but one are still living though they are getting really old now--the youngest is in his late 60s. I haven't seen or heard from some of my cousins for decades, and it's been a couple of years since I've seen most of the rest. Time marches on.

The day will come when my card list will be short enough that I'll be able to write my cards in an afternoon. While I have sometimes felt overwhelmed by the quantity of cards that I had to do, it's always been more a labor of love than a chore. Maybe I should reconsider some of those I've crossed off because I am, as always...

The Crotchety Old Man

And Baby Makes Three...

Regular readers (both of you) may have noticed that I haven't been posting as much for the last couple of weeks. The reason is that we added a third member to our household two weeks ago. After much deliberation, debate, and research, we decided it was time.

All the research helped. In the end we opted for a long-haired Chihuahua. He's teeny tiny and about the cutest thing I've ever seen. At 9 weeks old, he weighs just under two pounds. He's got two modes: full on, or sound asleep.

Having a baby in the household changes everything. Our well-established routines are in a shambles. There just aren't enough hours in the day to get everything done that needs doing. In addition to all the standard chores and responsibilities, along with getting ready for Christmas, we're now doing tons of additional research. We know the formative weeks are important, and we're trying to raise him to be well-mannered and well-behaved.

We learned right away that socialization is important. The more people, places, and things he's exposed to now, the more mellow he'll be when he grows up. So we take him just about everywhere with us. All of our coworkers are crazy about him (at least to our faces!). He's perfectly content to be carried around--especially if he can burrow down into a coat or something so that only his nose and ears are showing.

If you want to see him, check him out on YouTube

Maybe one of these days I'll figure out how to get that to show up on here! Until then, I'm still...

The Crotchety Old Man

Aunt Toodles

Everyone should have an Aunt Toodles. My mother (now 70) was the baby of 8. Toodles was the next youngest and four years older. She was fiercely protective of my mother, and from the time I was born, loved me more than just about anything else in the world. At least she always made me feel that way. I can certainly say that I love her more than anyone I have ever known.

Toodles was a large woman. Obese, really, but also pretty and outgoing. She was larger than life in just about every way. She always wore gigantic jewelry and carried huge purses because she felt like it made her look smaller than she was. Especially when I was kid, she usually wore flattering skirts and heels. She also wore Tabu perfume. If you've never caught a whiff of Tabu, it's not the least bit subtle. It hits your nose like a prize fighter.

My earliest memories are scented with Tabu. It's loud and obnoxious I know, but for me it's the sweet smell of love. Toodles was around a lot when I was small. She lived with us for a short time, and spent the night at our house often--into my teen years. She was single, 24 when I was born, and the kind of woman that tended to make a party wherever she was. I swear she lived with us for years, but Mom says it was only for a few months sometime before my sister was born.

I had my own room with twin beds until age four when my sister was born. Toodles always slept in the other bed when she spent the night. She told me about creeping in drunk trying not to make any noise, and of course, waking toddler me up. She'd fall in to bed and wake up with me beside her, and a wet washcloth neatly folded across her forehead. Eventually she found out I was dipping the washcloth in the toilet to get it wet.

For years before she died, we talked on the phone for an hour or so, two or three times a week. Man I miss those conversations! A sample.... Toodles knew that I enjoyed gay chat rooms. I told her it was a good way to meet people. She didn't like the idea of a chat room--couldn't see why anyone would ever want to do that. Now Toodles was about the most social animal I have ever encountered. So I just couldn't imagine why she was so cool toward chat rooms.

So one day I asked her what she thought a chat room was. Toodles explained that you went to chat rooms to sit around naked with other people to watch porn on the Internet. Even with that image of a chat room, she never in any way suggested or even hinted that going to a chat room was something I shouldn't do.

She thought my first ex, Tom, was someone I took on as a project. She felt sorry for him, but was never wild about us being together. I doubt he ever even suspected in the 12 years we were together that she was other than thrilled. She hated my second ex--though Kevin never knew it either. Turns out, she saw right away what it took me five years to figure out about Kevin. With #3--my current main squeeze, she was opposed at first because she was sure this guy half my age was just using me. Didn't take her long to come around. Before she died she told me how happy she was that I had finally found someone I deserved. Now that she's gone, I'm so glad that he got to meet her.

Everyone should have an Aunt Toodles. She loved me absolutely and unconditionally. I don't know what I would have done without her during the early years of coming out. In fact, I really can't conceive of how different I would be without this enormous love in my life. I'll have to blog about her again. There are a million wild Toodles tales to tell. She always wanted me to write a book. She would be thrilled to know I blog--if I could ever get her to understand what that means!

Oxymorons and Religious Zealots

I was reading about Elisabeth Hasselbeck of The View on Joe.My.God--one of my favorite blogs. The posting refers to her as a not-very-well-informed conservative. I don't know about you, but based on my experience, I'd say that "well-informed conservative" is an oxymoron.

Back when I was a kid, there were intelligent and well-informed conservatives. The focus then was on fiscal and monetary policy--not society and culture. They're spinning in their graves I'm sure about the crap being put forth as conservative today. But I digress....

Then I read on another of my favorite blogs (Margaret and Helen) that the Republicans have become the party of money, sex, and guns since that's all they seem to care about. I'm inclined to agree. And something about that post made me think of my first ex, Tom.

At the time (and I haven't seen or heard from Tom in at least 15 years so much has probably changed), his dad was the minister of one of those tiny little Baptist churches you find scattered across the south. The congregation, by and large, were other members of his family. Tom had 2 sisters, a brother who shot himself in his early 20s, and more stepbrothers and stepsisters than you could count.

The old man had a house full of guns and a swimming pool in his back yard. I was stunned when I found out that no matter their age, boys and girls were not allowed to be in the back yard in swim suits at the same time. Wasn't proper. Can you say pedophile?

Sex was not talked about, period. Abstinence was the family policy. Every girl in that household got knocked up before her 18th birthday. Sounds like the Palins.

At the time I thought it mighty strange that so much emphasis was placed on sex with so little real information. It occurred to me that the old man must be thinking about sex all the time. Much later I found out that every kid in that household was sexually abused by him. Praise Jesus.

Beware of these religious conservatives that get all bent out of shape about sex. I'd be willing to bet that like Jimmy Carter, they've "committed adultery in [their] heart[s] many times." I'd also venture to say that in many cases, the adultery wasn't confined to their hearts. Unfortunately, there are probably quite a few Tom's dads out there who acted out with children.

That probably explains all the hellfire and brimstone. If I had ever engaged in that kind of behavior, I'd be preoccupied with hell, too. I'd also want lots of guns around--just in case some whacko sex-crazed freak decided to molest me. I doubt Tom's dad believes in karma, but I do, and I hope he got exactly what he deserves.

On Turning 50

For as long as I can remember, folks in my family have said that life begins at 50. By then you're financially secure (or never will be and have accepted it), wise enough to avoid a lot of the crap younger folks step in, and more or less comfortable with who you are. Rather than being depressed, I was excited about turning 50 earlier this year.

The first big gift comes by mail. At long last, I'm finally eligible to become a member of AARP. That used to stand for the American Association of Retired Persons, but now it doesn't stand for anything. It just is. The fun part was requesting a card for my partner who hasn't hit 30 yet, just so he could show it off to all his friends. I've yet to get a discount but carry my card, just in case.

The next big gift, if your smart, is the colonoscopic exam. Let me tell you, I was VERY apprehensive. My mother told me what to expect--only she's a little prone to the dramatic. So my apprehension was way out of proportion to the event, including the day before which by all reports, is the worst part. The main thing you need to know about a colonoscopic is that you want someone with you that you really trust. Turns out, they fill you full of air as part of the procedure. So when it's over, you fart like there is no tomorrow. Interestingly enough, you tend not to remember that part thanks to the drugs they give you.

During my colonoscopic, they removed a polyp and biopsied a lesion. The lesion turned out to be cause for concern, so I had surgery about a month ago to remove it. Found out last week that the lesion was cancerous. That's the bad news. The good news is that they got it all, and I don't have to go through chemotherapy or radiation treatments.

Since then, I ask everyone I know that's over 50 if they have had their colonoscopic exam. I'm frankly amazed by the number who have not. I let them know about my experience, and how if I was their age, I'd either be dead or on chemo. I'm proud to report that several have scheduled their exams. If you're over 50 and have not yet had a colonoscopic, I hope you'll call your doctor today to set one up. It's not that big a deal, and it could save your life.

Because I did, I can keep blogging as...

The Crotchety Old Man

Parents of the Year

The people that live up the street from me have to be the worst parents I've ever encountered. They are not abusive or neglectful. It's kind of hard to explain exactly what the problem is. Let me recount for you some of the things we've seen from them since they went forth and multiplied.

The first time I saw them was at a neighborhood association picnic several years ago. The little darling was maybe two, and running hither and yon with his sippy cup. At some point, Dad asked the little tyke if he wanted more beer in his sippy cup. There wasn't any beer in the cup--this was just Dad being cute and letting the little darling feel like they were kindred spirits. Start em young I say.

Several weeks later, they had junior out while they were working in the yard. It was fall clean-up time and they were stuffing leaves down a chipper shredder. Junior was playing in the outflow like it was falling snow.

Starting to get the picture?

A year or two later, Mom and Junior would ride their bicycles to the bottom of the street. As Junior was not really able to ride back up the hill to the house, Dad would follow along in the family auto. Once they reached the bottom of the hill, Junior would put his bike in the car and hop in Dad's lap for the ride back home. Like that's not enough, they would race Mom, with Junior hanging out the driver's side window yelling that he was going to win. Yup. Real winners. This was a daily occurrence for weeks on end.

I came home from work several weeks ago and found Mom and Junior camped out in my next door neighbor's yard. They were sitting under a tree on a blanket, and Mom was reading a book to him. How sweet!

A few weeks later, I came home and found Mom, Junior, and a herd of little children tromping through my garden. Not my lawn, my garden. So being the Crotchety Old Man that I am, I went out to see what was going on. Mom-of-the-Year informed me that they were just collecting caterpillars from the parsley plants in my garden. Interestingly, the parsley plants are not visible from the road. But what really chapped my ass was when she told me that she'd given them permission to collect caterpillars from the parsley plants in my yard. I was shocked speechless--which isn't something that happens to me very often.

That kid is in for a rude awakening. He's going to grow up believing the world is his oyster, and any pearls he finds are his for the taking. They have a dog now, and of course, they don't pick up after it. I guess they're entitled to leave dog poop wherever they like, too. It's people like them that keep this blog alive...

The Crotchety Old Man