ants in my laundry

When I lived in OKC back in 2000, my sister and I rented a small house two bedroom house on the east side of the capital.  Our closest main street was Martin Luther King Blvd.  She was working full time and I was working part time and doing drag as much as I could around the city.  I had finally bought a car from a local garage.  I used my recent tax refund and paid 800 cash for the cart was over ten years old, but it ran great and looked good too. I wouldn't have to ride the bus anymore or walk to the store.  I had a car, a place to live and a job.  I was content.   I also bought a washer at a used appliance store. My goal was to buy a set, but only had money for one, so I just bought the washer for 50 bucks.  My mother had hung clothes on the line for years, so I was no stranger to carrying the basket outside.  It was summer and the sun would dry the clothes in no time.  My clothes line was between two trees.  And after a while, the ants were using it as a wire highway to get from one tree to the next.  I would have to shake the dry sheets to get the ants off.  Nobody likes ants in their clean laundry.  I would enjoy my days off, washing and hanging and watching TV in-between loads.  

Just a memory.

When I was a kid, My mom would always make us do chores. Every one did chores. Some time dishes, vacuuming, or laundry.  I always had to throw the trash. That meant taking the tall kitchen trash can room to room and collecting the trash including the bathroom trash. It was not fun. My mother didn't want us dragging the bag by itself, because it may rip and trash would have to be picked up again inside the house.  I remember that the upper rim of the can was about eye level with my 8 year old body.  And I remember how the can would stink when the bag came out.  Oh the stink of household trash, So gross.  Especially if it had been in there for a few days.  I would literally drag the can up the gravel driveway out to the dumpster.  It was a feat of strength to lift the can up and dump the trash in.  There were a few times the bag didn't slide out and the entire can would fall in. Crap!  Imagine me standing on a milk crate, trying to retrieve the tall kitchen can.  Mama would have been mad if I had returned with out it.  I also remember bring the can back empty, thinking my job was done.  Most time it was done but occasionally my mother would say, "get the broom and some Joy and scrub the trash can out in the yard.  And of course, I did it.  And would rinse it with the water hose.  
This memory came to me when I was recently in the yard, washing the trash can.

pics

Small gifts

We used to all get in the car and drive down town for Christmas shopping.  We had a few shops and a couple of department stores, so the selection was sometimes slim.  We would each take turns going in the store with my mom.  Everyone else would wait in the car.  She would give us each 20 dollars to spend.  Looking back now, that seems like nothing.  We had to use it to buy a small gift for each of our siblings.  So actually we spent about five dollars on each gift.  You couldn't get a lot for five dollars, even back then.  We only spent what we could afford on Christmas, which was not much.  My mom would bring us one at a time, back to the car with our bags.  She would warn us not to tell our siblings what we had picked out for them.  She would choose one of us to take our turn shopping with her.  Each time we would return with our purchases in a bag.  We would always try to guess and look through the opaque plastic Dollar Store bag to see what the others had.   I protected mine with my arms and held it against my chest so no one could see.  We would each go home and take turns wrapping our little presents. We would put them under the tree.   Usually they were small action figures, toys, or dolls for my sisters.  I remember once I got gloves.  They were simple kit gloves that would keep my hands warm when I walked to school.  There were many times we didn't have Christmas at all but when we did, those small gifts made Christmas special.  

College

I often went with my college buddies to the mall, movies and even a few night clubs.  We had fun together. It was me, my roommate James,  Jay and brothers Marc and Andrew.  I meet all these guys at MSU.  I was a freshman and did not have any classes with friends from high school.   I had to make all new friends.

James was the only one of us with a girlfriend so he didn’t always go place. He was usually busy spending time with his clingy girl friend to hang with the guys.   Lord knows how many times we would sneak Brandy into the dorms afterhours.  James sand I shared a room that was directly under the view of the security cameras.  It was like having a private entrance that only required you had to jump a three foot brink wall to get in.  Sometimes we opened the window for girls we didn’t even know but they wanted in to see their boyfriends on another floor.  Looking back now we should have charged five buck and used the money to buy beer on the weekends.  Imagine 19 year old me, barely out, enjoying the freedoms of college including clubs and my first taste of alcohol.  The word alcohol sounds too classy, really it was cheap beer.

My buddies and I would hang out in the dorm lounge together. We enjoyed watching Beevis and Butt-head on MTV.  They were cool.  Eventually we would gather together during meals in the student cafeteria. We would joke and carry on.  Every time I would show up later than the other guys, it was like an episode of Cheers.  Do you remember when one of the regular patrons would enter the bar….yep my buddies would holler out in unison “NORM!” Everyone in the place would turn and look.  Yep that was a nick name I secretly hated. I was “Norm”  But really, it was nice to be included in the group.  So I would just smile and laugh.   

James was my roommate.  We had been paired together by the housing department. He was from Burleson, just south of Fort Worth.   I had a sociology class with Jay.  So we became friends. He lived on the second floor of my building.   He was from Rockwall, east of Dallas.  Marc and Andrew were brothers from Austin area. I had seen them in marching band but did really know them until we all started hanging out in the dorms.  They lived down the hall from James and I. 

Once, the guys and I went to the strip club. It was not my idea, but I went along. There was a couple of clubs on the shady part of town. I had never been there.  I was barely out as a new gay person; therefore I had no interest in going.  My buddies did not know I was gay, so I played along and went with them.  We arrived about 10pm.  The parking was crowed and dimly lit. I felt unsafe in the neighborhood.  Woman walked up and down the sidewalk, I was pretty sure they were hooker or drug addict looking to make a few bucks for their next fix.  We parked and made our way inside.  We were stopped at the front door and had to show ID.  I got a big  X on both hand but was allowed entrance.  The X signified me being under age and was not allowed to drink. I was a good thing we had a few drinks before we left the dorms.

The music was loud and I felt awkward being there.  It felt like a pervert.  I guess I still don’t understand how a group of men can lust over the same thing and share their private fantasy in such a public place.  We took seats at a table near the stage.  A young Hispanic girl with rather large breasts finished up her dance and collected her small pile of money.  We ordered some drinks. The guys were mesmerized by the topless women who would shake and grind in front of them until they would give up their dollars.  The women were not very pretty, as a gay man,  was looking in their faces and wondering who they were.  It was not unusual to find girls from broken homes or troubled backgrounds. Some has “daddy/self-esteem” issues according to my sociology classes.  Sociology is the study of human social relationships.  These ladies made money by showing their bodies, dancing topless and some even gave lap dances and let men touch them.  Honestly these ladies sold themselves for a handful of dollars.  But to the men in the audience, and my friends it was just a cheap thrill.  I was a participating observer.  I laughed when they laughed and hooted when they hooted and cheered when they cheered.  But the awkward feeling never left the pit of my stomach.  This was a place where men could objectify women, and treat them without respect.  I tried not to show that it bothered me.  To me the most entertaining part was when a one armed woman came out to dance and strip.  I was not sure whether to laugh or not.  She danced mostly to the side so only her good arm faced the audience.  Her other arm was covered with a tube sock with triple bands of red.  Her white lace bra and panties seemed to glow purple under the black lights over the stage.  The guys and I could not believe our eyes when she turned.  A crudely marker drawn smiley face was on the foot of the dirty sock.  We tried to contain our laughter, but the audience of men, all howled.  I imagine the poor girl heard them too.  But still she removed her top and continued to grind on the pole like all the others. She was there to do her job and make her money.  I guess I felt sorry for her.  I had never seen anything so sad. 

I submitted my art for this years Aviation day design contest.  I am a finalist for the second year in to row and really hope this is my year to win. It would be an honor to be recognized. It would be printed on T-shirts and sold on my company's aviation day event.  The proceeds would go to charity.

Friends

My mother used cook at several places around town.  She has spent years in local restaurants and in later years she cooked at the junior high in Electra.  She enjoyed her job and worked in the late eighties for the nursing home in Electra.  She had several coworkers and made friends with the residents there.  The small nursing home provided 24 hour care to seniors with varying levels of care needs. My mother had to prepare different menu items to meet the nutritional needs of the residents.  She had to cook, serve, and clean after every meal.  In fact I think my mother learned to make large meals, a skill that she used family parties.  My mother could feed a small army.

My mother always tried to get along with all her coworkers.  In fact my mother was well liked by most of them.  She would also help cover for the housekeeping and laundry staff when they needed someone.  My mother’s coworkers were also her friends.  I guess it was natural since she was with them 40 hours a week.  I remember many names of my mother’s friends.  Nancy was her boss. Pat a nurse aid.  And Kevin was part of the kitchen staff. 

Kevin was a gay man who lived in the country with his lover. His old house was between Electra and Burkburnett.  It was an old farm house in the middle of a field.   They enjoyed the privacy out there; gay men were not accepted by everyone in town.   I meet him a few times at my mom’s job.  He was a young white man, in his late twenties.  He had brown hair and feminine mannerisms.   He reminded me of John Ritter from Three’s Company.  My mom told me in the car after first meeting him, that he was different.  What she was trying to tell me was, he was gay.  I was not too sure what that meant.  But she explained that some men were gay, and they had attractions to other men.  I was not sure about my own sexuality at that point, but looked to my mother to know how to respond.  Did she think it is wrong, or gross?  I responded, “Is he your friend?”   She said, “yes, you can be friends with someone, no matter how different they are”.  I saw that as a true sign of who she was.

In the summer of 1989 the nursing home staff booked the public pool after hours for an employee cook out.  The pool was located in the city park so employees invited to bring their families. The adults grilled burgers while the kids enjoyed the pool.   The husbands gathered around the grill and drank beer out of red solo cups.  We kids were not supposed to know, but I knew the amber liquid was not apple juice.  I knew the smell well.  After all, beer was like water to my Dad and my uncles.  The mom’s monitored the children at play and hovered over the serving table.  My Dad was not there, he was not a social type.   But regardless, my mother enjoyed socializing her work friends. 

The party was in full swing and the children could be heard splashing and jumping and most of all laughing.  My mother’s coworker, Kevin was late to the party.  He wore a casual tank top, shorts and some worn rubber flip flops.  He was met at the entrance by some of the men.  It didn't take a genius to realize that the men were uncomfortable with him being there.  I assume they were threatened by his feminine mannerisms.  Electra was a small town and queers were not welcomed.  After a brief exchange, he walked past the men and inside to wear the woman were.  He talked to a few people. I overheard the conversation.  He told about how the men told him that he was not welcome, they called him faggot and queer.  They did not want him around the kids nor did they want him in the poor for fear he may give them AIDS.  He was obviously dress to enjoy the pool but never set foot past the lobby door.  He was upset and left.  The women chattered about what had just happened.   A couple of women went out front to get the truth about what the men had said to him.  It was true; they did not want him there.  That was the bottom the line. And they had gotten their way.

My mother was upset to see another person treated badly.  It only took a few jerks to ruin the party for her.  I can only imagine how Kevin felt.  My mom eventually had enough of the chatter and decided we should leave.  She said goodbyes but I could tell it was not heartfelt.  She was just being polite.  I asked her why we had to leave, the party was not over.  I’m not sure if she meant to tell me, but she did.  It was a conversation that was above my understanding.  She told me that Kevin was disliked because he was gay.  They didn't want him there because he might “hurt” one on the kids.  They felt he could not be trusted around young children.  Apparently they thought that being gay made you inclined to be attracted to children.  I know now that this is stupid.  But close minded people will make up excuses to justify their fear.
The conversation continued with my mother.  She told me that Kevin had AIDS.  I didn't really understand what that meant.  I knew it was a disease that many people in the country were dying from, mostly gay men.  I knew my mother cared about her friend but found it hard to speak out.  Kevin was a nice guy, but if you are gay, it seemed that people would hate you regardless.  And if you had a disease like AIDS, you will lose your friends.  That seemed sad to me. 

I remember when Kevin died after being sick for months.  My mother was one of the few coworkers to attend his service.  I overheard the conversation about how hard it was to find a funeral home who would handle the body.  Basically they would not even embalm him and only offered a direct cremation.  There was only a picture of him at the service. I am not sure if any of his family was there.  He great up in Nebraska but spent his final days in Wichita County.  He is buried in Clara Cemetery.  Clara is a small farming community between Electra and Burkburnett.  He was only 30 years old.  He was the first person I ever knew who had HIV and died of AIDS.  It left a deep impression about the need for understanding, compassion to those who are affected and about friendships.  There were no community outreach programs at that time.  There were not charitable organizations helping fund prevention and care for AIDS patients like there are today.   It was friends and family who cared for them until they died.   They are gone but are not forgotten. 

In memory of Kevin James Hull.  Born Sept 21, 1960- Died June 22, 1991.   Thank you for being my mother’s friend.  

Eureka Springs

Scott and I got engaged in December while in Eureka Springs.  It was such a great weekend.  I got to meet his good friend Michele, whom he calls his God Mother.  She invited us to stay with her the weekend of her graduation.  We drove to Springfield and it snowed.  It was beautiful.  And the city was very nice and Michele’s class mates were all friendly at the dinner after graduation.  The hotel we stayed in was spacious and quite nice too.  We then drove from Springfield to Eureka Springs.  Eureka Springs is where Michele lives.  The hour and forty five minute drive took us through the Ozark Mountains across Table Rock Lake.  It was magnificent to see the natural landscapes that differed so much from the plains of North Texas that I am used to.  The roads were slick in spots from the recent snow and a made me nervous for fear that we might slide over the mountain side.  You could sometimes feel the loss of traction when you crossed an icy patch.  I was glad Scott was driving, I had no idea where we were going nor what was around each bend.  Scott got us safely to Eureka Springs.   Scott had been there a month or so earlier for Thanksgiving.  I was in OKC with my family enjoying a slice or two of turkey.  Michele and Scott became friends when she lived in Dallas.  She had moved to the Eureka Springs area several years ago and worked for large Hospital system in the area. 

Crescent Hotel Eureka Springs Arkansas

Eureka Springs was the oddest place I had ever been.  It really was a village. It had been built on the hillsides and hill tops. Each home cling to the hill sides and some looked like they might tumble down if you stomped your feet and made a vibration.  The downtown area was full of Victorian homes.  And on top of the hill was a Historic Hotel that I think was once a hospital then a college.  The Crescent Hotel is a historic hotel in Eureka Springs, Arkansas.  It was built in the late 1800’s.  And from the roof top you can see all of Eureka Springs down below.  The hotel is said to be haunted but the spirits of former patients, and visitors to the former health resort.  There were no real neighborhoods in Eureka, but homes were built along narrow roads from one hillside to the next and into the low valleys.  A few roads were too steep to navigate due to the snow.  The snow made the down town area look like Santa’s Village.  The seasonal decorations and lights made it even more like a winter wonderland.  The streets are parking lots were slick but we braved the elements to enjoy a Christmas Concert at the down town auditorium that night.  The local choir and high school put a very entertaining show.  Everyone seemed friendly; perhaps they were used to strangers since Eureka Springs was a popular tourist town.  There seemed to be a lot of artisan types and retirees in the local landscape of faces.  In fact there seemed to be an open minded attitude toward gay couples. 

Scott and I spent the night at Michele’s home.  It was cold and snowing but the sun came out the following morning.  We had even decided to browse the small shops in down town before leaving to head back to Dallas.  Scott was able to find a few Christmas gifts for friends and family.  I enjoyed our time shopping.  We had also found our way into a jewelry shop. We had talked about getting married but had put those plans on hold a few months before when we had some issues to work out in our relationship.  It was a tough time for us both but we worked hard to recover as a couple.  We were in a great place in our relationship again and the love again was growing stronger every day.  We had again revisited our former plan to get married.  We knew we were meant to be together.  We found two matching rings that were a woven pattern on the band.  They were a symbol of our lives combining into one.  I was so happy to be there at that moment with Scott.  We bought our rings and after a short walk to the car.  I finally put the ring on his finger.  And in return he put one on mine.  I was so happy that we had overcome so much but we were headed in a new direction.  We would spend the next few months planning our wedding and reception.  We were engaged in Eureka Springs. 

business lessons

We were not dirt poor growing up. We could afford dirt.  But not much else.  My mother would stretch every dollar and learned how to feed our small army of 8.  That included my parents and 6 children.  My parents worked, and the older kids worked too.  My older sister worked at a local Dairy Queen.  My brother and I worked on evenings and weekends with my dad salvaging scrap metal.  As we got older like fifteen or sixteen, my Dad would pay us from the money he got for each load of scrap that he sold at the recycling plant.  Most of what my Dad sold was scrap pipe and steel from old oil leases. We learned to use a cutting torch and how to work hard.  I still have scars on my hands from the work.  Texas had once been a high producer of oil in North Texas.  But the business had declined as the oil wells went dry.  Many oil leases had gone idle and some had shut down completely.  There was not enough oil to make it profitable.  The once needed line pipe, old storage tanks and rusting pump units were an eyesore and often times had been cited by the Railroad Commission.  The Texas Railroad Commission oversee the oil industry in Texas.  Local property owners would then hire my dad and other like him to clean up  and haul off the old equipment bring the oil leases in compliance with the RRC standards.  Sometimes, my Dad would work a deal with property owners to keep the profits from the salvage as his payment.  Most would agree to the terms.  They would benefit from the cleanup, and my Dad would benefit from the profits of the scrap steel.  Other times, My Dad would split the profits with property owner.  But her did not like this arrangement and avoid it when possible.  He would make less money this way.  My Dad’s small cash business was all about making money.  Money he would use for or family and reinvest in to keep the business going.  It reminds me a lot of my own sewing business.  It takes work to keep the customers coming back, the right balance of buying supplies, and you have to work had to be successful.  Most people don’t realize how much goes into each garment or that just because you sold a dress for 200 buck doesn’t mean you made 200 in profit.  You money is tied up in materials.  A 200 dollar dress is usually about 150 in materials in labor.  50 buck is how much I really made and then I have to reinvest in notions and supplies and buy more fabrics to create the next garment.  Plus it takes some work to “hook” a customer.  Sometimes I will not charge for consultation time, or linings materials or zippers or incorporating elements into the design so that the customers fall in love with my work.  They will want another dress and bring me repeat business.  That is the hook.  It’s all part of having a successful business.  I also pride my small business on fair pricing and never over change.  This keeps me honest and customer’s happy.  My Dad was not a businessman.  He did not wear a suit nor work in an office.  He had never even finished high school.  He was self-taught about business and did the best he could to make money for the family.  

I loved to draw

I enjoyed art class in junior high and high school.  I started to explore my love of art as a kid. I asked my mom if I could take a class. I took a ceramics class in town. My mom would pick me up and drop me off.   Nikki Eicker was a local ceramic artist who taught classes.  She was young, about 30, with a family.  I remember thinking that her husband was so handsome.  Nikki taught classes from her studio two days a week.  Her husband had converted their garage into a work shop and art studio. She even had an oven called a kiln to heat the clay body to temperatures ranging from 1800–2400°F (1000–1300°C), depending on the type of clay we were using.  There are different types of clays such as Earthenware on the lower end of the spectrum, and stone wares on the upper. The firing process gives permanency to our work; without it, the beautiful ceramic bowl you just made will turn back into mud as soon as water touches it. There were five of us in the class; the other four students were older woman.  I was just 13. But I enjoyed learned and being creative.   She had many molds in her studio. Some of the other advanced students made greenware molds themselves.  Greenware is the term given to clay objects when they have been shaped but have not yet been bisque fired, which converts them from clay to ceramic. Greenware may be in any of the stages of drying: wet, damp, soft leather-hard, leather-hard, stiff leather-hard, dry, and bone dry.  Greenware is very fragile, and must be very carefully loaded into the kiln for its first firing.
She taught color and painting techniques.  My favorite was learning to add shadow and highlight to my work. It really made the piece come to life. She was very patient after all I was only a kid.   I made several projects including a set of owls that I gave to my mother.  My mother liked owls and collected them.  She enjoyed my art. I enjoyed the classes and being able to do something on my own.  I didn’t get many opportunities to do things alone. It was always a group activity with my other siblings. 

I drew this while at work.  TCF

 I continued my art classes in high school. I loved to draw and learn art techniques. I took two years of art instruction.    I had a great teacher, Mrs. Beebe.  She was older woman who loved the southwest culture and enjoyed wearing turquoise jewelry.  She was like a grandmother to all her students. She really enjoyed teaching art.  She taught many different mediums including carving linoleum tiles, watercolor, pencil, pastels, and collage /paper art.   My two favorite mediums are pen & ink and charcoal pencils. I spent my sophomore and junior years in Mrs. Beebe’s class.  I was able to complete several projects.  Many of the techniques I learned I still think about when I draw today.  I even submitted some of my class projects into the local art show.  I won first place for an ink drawing I did.  And the small scale miniature house I create received honorable mention.  My true love was drawing landscapes and trees.  I loved the range of light and shadow that you could create with a charcoal pencil drawing.  I still remember Mrs. Beebe’s voice every time I draw a tree. She would remind me to consider the squirrels; Is my tree pretty enough for the squirrels to climb?  And the space where to branches intersect need to be rounded so the squirrel needs a place to sit.  

Maybe I should take another art class.  

Im still here -updated

It’s been several months since I have written anything.  I took a step back from a lot of things including drag and friends. I had even created a simple Face book account using my middle name. I deactivated my drag account for over a month.   I wanted to distance myself from my drag persona.  I need to work on the real me,  I wanted to be a strong man not a weak queen hiding behind the makeup.   I used this time to work on myself self-esteem and mental health.  It was totally worth it.  I have to catch you up on my personal life.  It was hard to face the facts that Scott and I had broken up.  I was so lost and need to find myself again.  Well I am here today to tell you,  I am an amazing guy.  I am worth having and that there are other fish in the sea.  I even met a few.  Each one saw what I was discovering.  I am a great guy,  and the new found changes we shining through.  I was dating a great guy who seem to really care for me.   We would enjoy evenings together and dinner together.  He was super sweet and had even brought me flowers.  We had gone to dinner one Saturday and texted after I went back home.  I was not surprised when my phone rang late that evening.   But it was not him.  A number came up with out a name.  I was surprised and shocked.  It was Scott's number.  I had worked so hard to put all that drama behind me and  now he was calling me late at night.  I knew it had to be important.

I answered.  It was late, but Scott asked how I was.  I knew I was in a more solid state of mind and had really worked hard to get there.  I replied, “fine. How are you”  He said he was fine too.  I moment of confusion came over me.   He said I had been on his mind and he wanted to make sure I was doing ok.  I was more than Ok, I was whole again.  That was nice of him to ask,  but perhaps he was just easing his conscience about the way  he had broken my heart.  I kept my guard up.   I had just gotten home from a date, it was late and now my ex Scott was calling me.  A million things rolled through my mind.  We chatted for a few minutes.  Scott told me that I had been on his mind and he never stopped caring about me.  He also told me that he was glad to hear that I as doing so well.  He could tell from my voice that I had finally found my strength; something that he said was there all along.  He also was glad to hear that I had met someone new, although he seemed surprised.  I was glad that I was able to handle our conversation with our breaking into tears.  He also asked if I would be open to meeting, maybe we could talk and see if we could be friends again.  After all, we were friends for many years prior to becoming romantically involved.  I said yes, I could handle that at some point.  Scott interjected.  “I’d like to see you tonight”. He continued, “I’m on my way to your house now, I just exited on 183”.  I did not know that during our conversation, he was enroute to my apartment in Irving. Scott was only a few minutes I said yes to seeing him, but had no idea that it was happening that night.  I said ok and quickly wrapped up our conversation.  He would be there in minutes.  I threw on some shorts and a t-shirt.  I quickly moved the fresh flowers of the dining room table and put them in the lower kitchen cabinet.  I didn’t feel it was Scott’s business to he details of my current romantic interest.  That guy had given flowers before our date.  I heard a knock, it was Scott.  He quickly gave me a peck on the lips and a hug.  I invited him into the living room.  We stood chatting for a minute and then sat on the couch together.  It was a very awkward feeling. Scott was back in my apartment.  I really thought he hated me.  Or perhaps I was the worst mistake he had ever made.  Why would he want to by my friend?  There were so many issues between us. These Issues drove him to walk out of my life.  I had spent many counseling secessions trying to come to terms with our failed relationship and broken view of myself.  I was stronger by leaps and bounds. I knew it.  I was also happy just being myself again.  I was doing the things that make me happy and honestly I was dating two other guys.  None of them exclusively,  I was not looking to jump in the sack with anyone

either.  Scott seemed a little uncomfortable. I could tell he wanted to tell me something. 

He told me that he missed me, and that he was glad to see that I was stronger.  I missed him too.  I was reminded of the note in my wallet.  I had written it down and carried it with me. It simply said, “no matter how much I love you, you were not good for me”   I meant it when I wrote it.  I had faced the fact that the relationship we had was over, and It was not mentally healthy for me.  I knew I loved him. That was the bottom line. I had never stopped.  I had other interest with someone else.  I needed to sort this out for myself.  Scott stayed the night with me and we cuddled.  It was very special.  Apparently he still loved me too and  we both did not know what that meant.  I was unsure of what to do.  Scott and I spent Thanksgiving apart. He and I called and text that weekend.  I had plans to see one of the guys I had met.  I was honest and told Scott.  In fact I think he was understandably jealous.  But why?  After all he had walked out on me, I did not owe him another chance.    How could I reconcile with someone who hurt me so terribly.  I had forgiven him  after that and found myself again.  Other guys eager to date me and so was Scott.  I kept asking my self, what to do.  I wrestled with it for days.  Unfortunately I would have to hurt someone I cared about. I hated being the jerk.  But who would I choose.  How do I decide.  I felt it was best to spend a little time with each. And then eliminate someone.  So I did.  I tried to be as kind as possible to tell guy number one, that I could not see him anymore.  I really meant what I told him, that he was a great guy. And I hoped that some new would come his way.  I knew Scott was trying to patient.  I was now down to two guys.  Both had great qualities but my love for Scott, outweighed  everything else.  I had to call the other guy and let him down. I tried to be as honest as I could.  I also told him that our relationship had been great, and hoped someone new would be the man of his dreams.  I could never be that because I was still in love with my ex, Scott.  Yes, I had chosen to reconcile with Scott and I knew it would not be easy.  But Scott was who I always wanted. When I said I loved him the very first time, I knew I always would.  That is just how my heart works.  We had our issues and deep down were willing to work on it.  It took some time to see how much he had changed and how committed he was to making our relationship work.  I also used my new inner strength too.  I was finally seeing the man I love emerge.  I also tried hard to be the man who was strong enough to handle our new relationship.  Everything I been through had happened for a reason.  I accepted myself, I found my inner strength, and realized that I was worth having.  Scott also had grown as a person and his commitment to our relationship was evident.  We continue to had ups and down but have never been happier.  We also took an extended weekend trip to Springfield Mo and Eureka Springs AK.  It was a great time, and it snowed. Eureka Springs looked like Santa’s village.  We also did some shopping while we were there.  We found some rings and we discussed the idea of marriage.  We decided to honor our anniversary but getting married in April 2014.  We had a new lease on love and a new engagement to celebrate with our first Christmas together.  I was so happy to have him back in my life and even happier to see that no matter how rocky things may get, Scott was here to stay.  He told me that breaking up was not an option anymore.  I am looking forward to our ceremony and reception.  It will held in Dallas and then we will fly to New York City to be legally married.  PS...I threw that note away.  

A drive to the country

I tried to relax this weekend in effort to clear my head about recent events in my life. My counseling continues and I am noticing small changes in myself.  They are slow but happening.  I have also tried to be more spontaneous recently.  I have given myself permission to be. Saturday was a prime example. I was getting dressed to go to the store and suddenly it hit me. I need to go the cemetery. So I grabbed my wallet and keys. I had no plans that day.  I filled up the tank. I put in a CD and hit the road. I drove the hour to Vashti Cemetery where GW is buried.  Vashti is a small farm community, about 12 miles outside of Bowie Texas. I needed to go see the one person who always loved me, gave great advise and always thought I was amazing, in good times and bad.  Even though he is not physically in my life, GW has served as my guardian angel and many times I feel his presence I was in a fair mood and look forward to quiet time at this scared place.  This place has become my sanctuary too. It is a sad place but yet I feel safe enough to let go of the feelings that plague me over the years. If I had anything thing pulling at my heart, I could go there and let it all go. 

I was chatting with a friend on the phone while driving.  My friend Jenn has always very friendly on the phone.  She just seeing how my day was and I told her I was driving out of town. We talked for a few minutes and she invited me to come to a charity show that was being held in Fort Worth.  I thought it might be nice. So I said yes.  I could go hang out with her and have girl talk and not have to actually participate in the show. I have not done drag in almost three months.  I hung up with her and turned up the music. 

Then the phone rang again.  Quickly I picked up the phone. Alonso.  A guy I had gone out with twice. We had a great lunch a few days before. We found a restaurant near our individual jobs and met for meditterain food. It was very good. Alonso was very polite, friendly and easy to talk to.  I turned the radio back down when the phone rang again.  Alonso was a nice guy, a few years younger than me. We had gone out the night before for dinner and movie.  I had a great time and he seemed to as well.  I asked how his day was because he had to work that morning.  I had not talked to him since we said good night after our movie date. He said an uneasy “fine”.  I first thought about our last.  He had come over to my place and we rode together for our evening together.  While at my place he noticed one of my drag pictures. He said is that you?  I reluctantly said, yes. I was hoping he would get to know me better before telling him. But his observation beat me to the punch.  

Yep you guessed it.  He started talked.  It was the phone call that all drag queens dread.  Alonso broke up with me on the phone. Why?  Because he was not comfortable dating a drag queen. I did not matter that I had not pending shows, or had an empty calendar for the last few months.  He seemed confused because he thought I was genuine and really great.  I was stunned. He didn’t understand how I could be just a regular guy and do” that’. I  assured him,  I am not a “that”. He tried to explain himself.  I tried to polite but my mouth took over before my brain could senor it. I told him that was too bad. His feelings were valid, but it seemed a shame that he could not accept everything about me.  Drag had been important to me though out my adult life.   I would not change who I am.  And any man who would be in my life would need to understand and support me if they expected me to understand and support who they are in return.  I also follo9wed up with I am a great guy, too bad his limited mind could not see that.  I was not mad. I was wounded. Alonso suggested that we might be friends. I told him, no thank you. I was looking for the man of my dreams…..I deserve to be happy.  Good bye.  Call ended.

My trip to visit my late partner turned out to be a release of emotions that had just erupted from my conversation with Alonso.  I called my friend Jenn back, we talked and cried for a while on the phone.  I eventually pulled into the parking lot of the Bowie Walmart.  Jenn was so sweet and reassured me that this was just  part of life. Not everyone is “the one” and it will be ok. She also kindly reassured me that someone better would come along.  That is what friends are for. They tell you to smile, it will be ok.  Even though they know you are hurting.  I stopped at the Walmart to get some new silk flowers to take to the cemetery.  I always feel out of place among the small town shoppers.    But I picked out some yellow flowers. I thought the color would bright my mood and be a symbolic gesture to   show how much I missed my late partner. Yellow is a happy color.  I got back in the car, turned my music back up and drove out the cemetery.  No sooner had I turned off the car, my eyes began to cry.  My trip to the country cemetery quickly became an opportunity to let all my emotions out.  I knew it was more than a coincidence; my inner voice had guided me to this place for a reason.  During emotional moments this is the place I always imagine that I am. And today during my pain of rejection I felt I was in the right place at the right time. I got out of the car, and walked to the far end of the cemetery.  I whispered as I walked.  I clutched the flowers against me chest. I looked down to avoid stepping on some of the faded head stones in the old cemetery. The weather was nice and the wind and sun felt warm on my face.  I saw the layer of dust covering the face of the head stone.  I dusted it off with the heel of my hand. I plucked the weeds.  I started to talk.  And of course I continued to cry. Here I was again, single and feeling alone.  The last time I was there, Scott and I visited together. Since then so much had happened.  And now all the weight of the world is back on my shoulders.  I put out the new flowers.  I sat down on the grass.  It was so quiet and the only noise was my own ramblings and the thoughts chasing me in my head.  I continued to talk to GW.  I asked him, why I was still here?  And why no one saw the way he did? He was always loving and accepting of me. I lay on the ground to get as close to him as possible. I sobbed while the wind rushed over me. He once made me feel special.  He loved me unconditionally.  I miss that. He knew my flaws were just part of me.  The painful scars of my life had healed, but were still part of me. He accepted them.  This feeling of self-worth and value is something that have lost recently and struggle to keep trying to find.  The years have beat me down and bad relationships have left a dent in my sense of wellbeing.  I know this is where I am emotionally, but this is not where I am going to remain. This part of my journey because  I deserve to be happy and I am holding on the thread of hope that someday I will have someone to share my happiness with…someone who thinks I am worth it.  I walked back the car after a long good bye.  I had made up my mind that once I was back on the road, I would continue to take control of my own life.  It was ok to revisit my sorrow, but I need to keep going.  I dried my tears and headed back home.

roller coasters are not fun

Where do I begin
To tell the story of how great a love can be
The sweet love story that is older than the sea
The simple truth about the love she brings to me
Where do I start

The last two months have been a roller coaster.  My relationship with Scott has ended.  I try not to portray him in negative light.  After all, I still love him. And I am sure it will take some time to get over this break up.  No matter how much I love him, he was not good for me.  I felt like I was compromising me self for the sake of a relationship.  I also felt that we had a different definition of love.  We obviously care about one another, but sometimes love is not enough. In the end, Scott was not happy and chose to move out.  He broke my heart and I let him go. 
Then I wrecked my car and I called him.  He was there for me. I really appreciated him.  We started to explore the possibility of a relationship again.  Then we broke up... again!  Apparently he was still not happy and so he dumped me again.  That is hard to admit because it hurts. He shredded my heart into a million pieces.  I never claimed to be perfect, but hoped he would over look my imperfections and realize how much I loved him.  I wanted to make him happy and thought it would be a long term relationship.  I feel foolish for opening my heart and having hopes. The future plans will never come to be now.  When I said I loved him, I meant forever.  I had kissed enough frogs in my life, and Scott was supposed to be my prince.  But once again, I need to let him go. 

I have had such a tough year.  Emotionally and physically the stress has been too much.  I have been seeing a therapist.  This is something I have never done before.  I am grieving the loss of my partner Scott and it had brought back the emotions of losing my first partner GW.  The circumstances are different but losing someone who I love has been overwhelming. I am going once a week and I am hoping that I will be able to cope with this loss and learn from the experience.  I feel broken and lost.  I need to find peace and sense of well-being.

1851 Club Arlington

I used to work shows in Arlington.  It was a fun little bar, but the biggest draw back as the physical building and lack of parking.  The bar in Arlington had been through a few different name changes, but had remained basically unchanged inside for well over ten years.  It was once called the 651 club, and then the six and most recently called the 1851 Club.  I was located at 1851 Division Street in Arlington.  I moved to Arlington in the fall of 2002 but really did not get involved in local shows until 2006.  I was recovering from my grief after the loss of GW.  And drag filled void in my life and gave me a hobby to focus on.  Up until that point I had only done guest “spotlight” appearances at the 1851 Club.  I had time to become a regular cast member and worked as part of the rotating weekend cast.  Each performer was unique with varying degree of experience. Each Friday or Saturday show consisted of three “gurls” plus the host of the show.  The four entertainers each did two numbers in the first set and then two more in the second set.  I could really express my range of talent at the 1851Club. I also learned a lot back stage.  I had four costume changes and each creative look pushed me to dress myself and style my own hair.  I notices most of the less experienced queen often wore the same wig, jewelry and even same shoes for every number.  I think part of this was due to economic limitations for these up and coming queens.  I could relate.  When I had first started years before, I too, had limited means and limited wardrobe. I knew what it was like to only have one pair of black shoes.  At the time I was working in Arlington, I had an extensive wardrobe and also the ability and with time to sew new costumes.  The shows gave me a place to fine tune my craft.  I was also to meet new people and some nights just laugh and party. That was what I needed in my life.  There were also many friends that I made at the bar in Arlington.  The MC of the shows was a big man, Called Stella.  Stella who wore short black curly wigs and she apparently painted in the dark.   He was not pretty and really it did not mater the audience. He was funny and very played the role of the comedian.  His character was not about looking good, or being real. It was about the farce of dressing up as a woman.  He spoke with a deep voice and walked like a dude.  This was his niche and it worked.  The audience never seemed to mind the fact that he always did the same songs and looked like someone’s dad in a dress.  I would joke back stage with him and often called him Uncle-Dad.  It was a reference to life in Arkansas, where some families are interbred.  Someone’s father could also be they’re uncle.  It was not uncommon for Stella to tease me about my hair or costumes.  It would bother me when Stella would just start talking to the crowd on the mic while I was performing my number.  I would walk over and tell her to politely “shut the fuck up”   It was never serious. It was funny banter.   After all she ran the shows and you should never piss of the “lady” in charge.  

Some of the friendship I made at 1851 have last for years.  Also winning Miss 1851 Club in 2006 was also helpful. I got to know a lot of people.  In fact they have not had the pageant since. So technically I am still Miss 1851.  I stopped booking there in 2009.  One friend Kiana  is now the host of the shows in Arlington.   Stella is no longer there.  I heard she has had some personal issues and does not perform anymore. Another friend, Caress Riata still continues to perform there.  She just won her place in drag history by becoming our new Miss Gay Texas State at large 2014.  We are now friends, and  now we are sisters.  I was so happy to see her enjoy her crowing moment in a pageant system that I hold dear to my heart.  The pageant system has already embraced her and I know she will do a great job this year. 

I have been thinking about going back to the 1851 club.  I was there recently to watch Caress in her show there.   It was great to know the staff there still knew me and the new MC, Kiana asked me if I would be interested in joining the cast again.  I was flattered and very interested.  It would be like starting all over again.  The crowd has changed and they are now in a larger building.  Actually they have a good location and more parking too. You don’t have to worry about hitting your head on the low ceilings like at the old bar.  I am confident that being a part of a show would be a boost in my confidence, and I would naturally win over the crowd in no time.  The last few months have been so tough for me. I have had so many issues in my personal life.    The hardest part about returning to Arlington is making myself do it.

new thoughts

When I was a kid it was very tough.  I grew up poor and it was obvious that I was different.  I grew up thinking that somehow that was all I was gonna be.  I was convinced that this was true.  My Dad would resent me and treated me like I was not his son. To a kid that was so sensitive, it hurt. As I entered college, that relationship became strained. I was discovering my life as a gay man, and realized that there were more people out there that have similar backgrounds.  My goal today is let stop letting those limited views affect me and my future.  I want to stop letting the “they’s”  rule my life.  I want to stop valuing the “they” that are such a big part of my past.  I was so used to saying, thinking and remember how “they” used to affect me.  “they” hurt me; “They” used to say …”they” used to treat me like…”they” made me feel bad.  I have come to a place in my life where I need to realize that “they” do not exist in my life anymore.  The people who once hurt me as a child are gone.  They cannot control me nor do they even care what my life is about now.  “They” do not have a place in my life or thoughts.  If I mailed them my bills, they would not care enough about me to pay any of them.  So they have no power over me.  They are gone, I am here and my life will be what I make of it.

Motorola

I worked at Motorola for four years. I liked the job and was one of 300 new employees that started on the day the facility officially opened. I had just moved to Arlington with GW in fall of 2002 and my job at Motorola has finally begun after many weeks of waiting for a start date. I think they had some inventory issues that set back the opening date for the new facility just North of Fort Worth. It was a huge undertaking to move an entire warehouse from Chicago to Texas. The plan was to get Fort Worth up and running, and as our warehouse ramped up production over the next few months Chicago production geared down. It would eventually close after about a year of transition. The facility in Fort Worth would assume the role of main production for all cell phone kits. The parts would be manufactured in other places and shipped into Fort Worth. Then warehoused and packed into the kits that are sold to retailers. Each kit was inspected to verify contents, serial numbers and ensure it meet customer standards. Standard items in each kit included the phone, battery, manual, charger, and back cover. All were packed in to glossy retail boxes that all had the large Motorola symbol on them. Rule number one at Motorola was never cover part of the symbol. The company took pride in symbols and brand name. My new job role was to pick and process orders for bulk distribution to the retailers. I did not have to work on the pack lines. That was a good thing. Standing in one place was not easy and hard on your back. Our smaller group ran only one shift and shipped bulk items such as phone chargers to stores like Best Buy and Walmart. I had no idea why Walmart would want 1000 car changers, but we just filled the order. I learned fast and took a great interest in meeting the expectations of our retailers. Ann was the lead for our group. She was from Chicago and was in Texas for three months to train new employees and help the new distribution center take off. She was an older white woman with long blonde hair. She spoke with a northern accent. She was friendly and she and I had a friendship right away. She was a great trainer. The very first day, she took a group of 15 new people, explained the process and defined goals. She put us to work and we had a fairly productive first day. It was impressive. I could see why she had been with the company for 20 years and worked her way up to lead. She would answer questions in a way that was understandable. Ann led our group for a few months. Then when it was time return back to Chicago, she talked to me in private. She shared with me that the lead job was going to be passed to someone in our work group. Ann was in Texas only temporally. She was going to suggest me. I was happily surprised. She recognized my ability to learn and had observed good work habits that could be developed in to a solid Group lead. She made her recommendation and the next week I started one-on-one training with Ann. I would become the Group lead for the next two years at Motorola. I had 15 people working for me and was responsible for training, daily work assignments and meeting production goals set our supervisor. I also learned a lot about warehouse logistics, and inventory management. These are two skills that have helped me in my career path. I was promoted to customer order expeditor in for the entire warehouse while at Motorola. The position had come open I and I applied. I did not get it. I was so crushed that I was ready to walk. But I chose to stay because I needed to keep my benefits. The woman they gave the job to, was a total bitch. And they felt that he would be more demanding and controlling when it came to pushing order through the warehouse. Actually it just made everyone hate her. My approach to working in the warehouse was one of cooperation, and team work, not by being an overbearing bitch. “The bitch” eventually got fired for talking down to the wrong people. She was too abrasive to be affective. So after a few months the job came open again. I did not apply. Why would I want a job working for the same manager who didn’t want me before? I knew they had made a mistake with the other woman. But they would never admit it. I was approached by another manager. Apparently he was replacing the existing and he wanted me to come work for him one he was officially in the leadership role. This was great news, I could finally work for someone who really wanted me and appreciated my skills. I applied and went to work as the new Expeditor for the warehouse. My new job was tracking orders, contacting customers, and serving a liaison between operations team and the retail customer. Finally I had what I wanted, advancement. I used my considerable operations knowledge to my advantage and was able to address issue directly with the inventory teams, because I knew them by name. I liked my new role at Motorola. I tried very hard and it paid off. But sadly the company had some setbacks. They were always in competition with Nokia and Apple was emerging as a lead in phone technology. Blackberry was always right in the middle. The last big hit was the Motorola Razr phone, but it could not complete with the apple products which hit the market in 2007. So in 2008, I was laid off by Motorola. The operations of the facility would be taken over by a third party company who felt they could undercut over head by using all temp workers. Motorola executives went for it and left their employees without jobs. I hear they got bonuses for saving the company money with this new scheme. So I finished out my term and left the company with a small severance based on my service time. It really was not much. I felt like a slap in the face from the company where I worked for four years. I turned in my badge on my last day, signed my paperwork in HR and never looked back.

Rascal's

I used to do shows in a bar called Rascal’s. I was much younger then. Many people referred to it as “little Rascals” in Wichita Falls. It was the only bar in town and the first one I had ever step foot in. I was 19 and a freshman in college. The social group on campus has arranged for a college night. The arrangement had been made with Rick and Carlos the owners. They were partners and opened this bar on Indiana Street. I was told it was once a restaurant. It had parquet wood floors and black walls. There was a front entrance and a back entrance that was used on the week nights. It was a good bar set up with a large front dance floor and back bar/lounge area. There was a game room in the middle of this down town building. There was a paved parking lot on the side of the building so a queen would not mess up her shoes on gravel or mud. I remember the night we all went to college night. We had met at MAC’s house. She was a lesbian who was the head of our student lead group. M.A.C. was her initials so every one called her Mac. She looked like a short man with boyish features and a mullet under her rainbow pride ball cap. She was out and proud. She was instrumental in allowing us new kids to be out and proud too. Sometimes the best way to lead is by example. MAC kicked down the closet door and said “follow me I know the way”. We all carpooled to the bar. I had only seen the outside, but had never actually been inside. The group arrived and made our way to the front entrance. We were met inside by a man in a wheel chair. I later found out his name was “Blue”. He was the door man who checked ID’s and took money. He had a white beard and wore a white shirt, black leather vest and a black cowboy hat. He seemed odd but spoke with a soft friendly voice. He sent someone to get the owner, when we walked in. Our group was very young and innocent looking. It was a dead giveaway that we were under age. The owner, Rick, made is way to the front. He advised “Blue” the door man, to give us all wrist bands. They knew we were coming and wanted to be sure that no one under age would be served alcohol. If anyone was caught, our group would not be welcome again and I am sure MAC would have kicked our ass. We finally made our way to a large party table that was set up on the corner of the dance floor. I admit it was very uncomfortable. Regular patrons just stared at us like we were on a field trip. I looked around a saw people laughing and sipping drinks. The music was provided by the DJ, Carlos. He was the other owner. From his perch in the DJ booth, he could keep an eye on the place and jump down to break up a fight when necessary. He played a mix of hip hop, pop and country. After all it was the only bar in town and catered to a diverse clientele. The hip hop people would quickly leave the floor when a two-step country song came on. Most of us college students sip our non-alcoholic sodas and watched people dance. We only ventured a few times to visit the restroom. I just sat there with my jacket in my lap while male couples spun around the floor in pairs I had never seen before. It was the first time I had ever seen men dancing together. I had never danced with a man or held a man’s hand. I had never thought I would. Secretly, I wanted to know what that would be like, but it would be a few more years before I would have anyone ask me. I was a virgin in several ways. I had no sexual experience, had never been to a bar, had never drank a beer and never danced with a man. I was shy and hardly spoke, unless directly spoken too. I was observing a whole new world that I knew nothing about. We ended our night at 1 am and I drove back to the dorms on campus. I didn’t I sleep much. I could not help but reflect on the people I had seen at Rascal’s. Who were they? What kind of people were they? Do they have real lives? Are they out? Are they accepted? I had a million questions and no one to talk with about my experience. Our college night was just a one-time adventure, but eventually I would return. Within a year, I had met my cousin’s friends who were dressing in drag. I soon started too and realized that being in drag was a great disguise for going to the gay bar. I was just one of the girls. Eventually I became a regular contestant in the open talent night shows at Rascals. They made us get dressed in the bar office. It was little more than a big closet. I would try to mimic the performances of the other girls. I tried to move like they did. I wanted be emotional like they did. I also tried to gesture in a way that would win the audiences approval. I didn’t always win. It was good practice and allowed me to learn. We were raw but it was fun. I probably looked like a boy in a dress, but really, that is what I was. For the first year I didn’t even have a bra. I had two Nerf foam ball stuffed in to a tube top under my clothes. We would sometimes go around the corner to the straight bar. We only went in groups. We were pushing our limits of what would be tolerated. No one would bother a herd of drag queens as long as you didn’t try to use the bathroom. We were not crazy, after all. We would stand and sip our cocktails and talk. Then leave without making any waves. Sometimes a straight boy would smile. But that was as far as it went. Sometimes we would lie and say we were from Dallas when actually we were from Rascal’s around the corner. My drag mother pictures of me from back then and maybe one day I will share them. The first night a Rascal’s changed my life and made me wonder what the world could be if I was gay and did drag.

stop and smell the tomatoes

Tomatoes have a distinct smell when you grow them. It’s an earthy, plant smell. And when I smell tomatoes still on the vine in the produce aisle, I remember growing them as a child. I guess certain smells can bring back memories of places we have been, or things we remember. I was four years old. My parents lived on Ave B in a large two story house. We always referred to it as the Old House. It was old but cheap and we called it home. I wish this house still existed, so I could go back and see it. In my mind it was large, with cracked windows and yellow peeling paint. The only flowers that grew were the honeysuckle along the side of the house and a spray of purple iris at the corner of the house. In the spring the bees loved exploring the blossoms. We had space beside the house that was grass with a few small bushes. But one spring my mother was motivated to plant a garden there. It was the sunny side of the house too. Plants could get plenty of the warm Texas sun. I don’t know the exact reason, but my mother just started digging and turning the soil. She told me to follow behind and break up the clumps of grass and release the dirt from their roots. The dirt would fall and the grass would be raked up and disposed in the far corner of the lot. We did not have a motorized gas tiller, so the digging and clearing was done with a shovel and a hoe. She would purchase seeds and seedlings at the feed store in town. It was not a big plot, but it would be enough space to grow some okra, squash, cucumbers and tomatoes. We planted the seeds and placed the tomato seedlings in rows. My mom would cut the bottom of old milk jugs to use to cover the plants and help hold in the warmth around the plant at night. I remember sitting on a bucket while watching my mom water and weed her little garden. I would walk in the warm wet dirt and then have to rinse my feet with the hose before going back inside the house. The plant needs sunshine and water, but began to show visible growth. Eventually wire cages would be used to help support the growing tomato plants. The smell of tomatoes plants would soon be infused with the smell of okra and squash. Once the tomatoes starting to grow, my mother would pick them and let them ripen on the window sill. I remember red natural luster of the fruit. She even had some extras to share with friends and neighbors. It was a lesson in life that if you can turn a small plot of nothing into a home garden I think of that small garden every time I see vegetables in the grocery store. I always stop to smell the tomatoes.

wash away the gray

I was talking with Scott the other day about my mom. She would have liked him I have no doubt. But sadly they will never meet because she died more than ten years ago. I still talk about her and see a lot of my own characteristics directly related to the type of person my mother was. I am my mother’s child. I also see similarities in my sisters as well. One of the last true memories I have of my mother happened when she was undergoing dialysis treatment. She had been in and out of the hospital for months and going to dialysis three times a week. It was a treatment that would prolong her life, but could not save it. The hospital had put a port in her neck that looked like tubes coming out. Each one capped and taped to keep them clean. This would allow them to clean her blood when she was hooked to the dialysis machine. For dialysis, a catheter is inserted into a large vein in either the neck or chest. A catheter is usually a short-term option; however, in some cases a catheter is used as a permanent access. With most dialysis catheters, a cuff is placed under the skin to help hold the catheter in place. Catheters have a greater tendency to become infected than the other access types because the device is both inside and outside of the body. A catheter must always be kept clean and dry. Even getting dressed was a challenge so as not to disturb the catheter at the exit site. Each session would last for hours and my mom had a special bag with a blanket, snacks and sometimes books or magazines to read while she was hooked to life sustaining machine. I remember taking her to treatment when I was in town and seeing firsthand the suffering of my mother and others like her. I was affected by the ill people I saw there. Each one had their own struggles. It was difficult to see my mother so dependent. My mother had a habit of talking to strangers. I remember her making friends at the center and she trying to comfort others with her smile and friendly conversation. My mother hated having those ports in her neck. It looked awful and was easily noticed by others. She would try to hide them with her hair or sometimes a scarf. My mother had them capped and taped to her neck at all times. She could not shower completely and had to wash her hair with a damp rag every day. The doctor advised her not to get the ports wet. The opening in the skin was held closed with sutures and tape. The doctor had tried to put a fistula into her arm as a more permanent means of accessing her blood for dialysis. A fistula used for hemodialysis is a direct connection of an artery to a vein. Once the fistula is created it is a natural part of the body. This is the preferred type of access because once the fistula properly matures and gets bigger and stronger. After the fistula is surgically created, it can take weeks to months before the fistula matures, it is ready to be used. My mother had one, but it never matured and left her arm virtually useless and drawn up. She lost all strength in it and could not even pick up a glass to drink. It was tough to see my mother turning into an old lady right in front of my eyes. Luckily one of my sisters was there to provide assistance to my mother on a daily basis. I came to visit her for the weekend. I had driven from Dallas back to Wichita Falls. My mother lived outside of the city in a small community called Kamay. She had moved there when she and my Dad separated. He remained in Electra. My mom was great at pretending she was not sick, even though I could tell she was faking happy. She still wanted to cook for me when I visited, and tried to do lighthouse work even though she was physically limited. My goal was to enjoy time with her, and I didn’t care if she played hostess. I was not a guest. I love her cooking, but that was not my reason for coming to visit. We sat at the kitchen table to talk. She updated me about her treatment and we did a quick run down of the local gossip. I think she missed me not being there all the time, moving to Dallas just a few months before she got sick really made her miss me. To be honest, it tore me up inside, not being closer to her too. I noticed the white in her hair had grown out round her temples. I was used to seeing her hair colored in a brownish red color. Even though like me, her natural color was dark brown. She told that it made her feel old to look in the mirror at gray hair. She couldn’t wash it nor color it. I knew exactly what to do. I pulled the hair color from the bathroom cabinet, and mixed up a batch. Put it on would be the easy part, but rising it out might be more challenging. I put on gloves and told my mother to put on an old shirt and grab the old towels. I applied the color cream all over her head and we waited for it to set. When it was time to wash it out, we wrapped two towels around her neck to guard the ports and keep them dry. We placed pillows on the floor in front of the tub. My mother kneeled down over the tub. I used a large plastic cup to dip warm water over her head to rinse the color down the drain. Imagine me, coloring my mother’s hair and her loving every minute of it. The best reward was blow drying it and her smiling when she saw the gray was gone. She was so happy to be looking like her old self. It lifted her spirits and it made me happy to see her smile again. It was also a story that she could share with her new friends the dialysis center.