I make no bones about it - I sleep with my teddy bear. Yep, the teddy bear that was given to me when I was a baby. Teddy is really great company! Every night we cuddle when I get into bed. Teddy is great because he never talks back to me, never turns over and won't talk to me. Teddy is always complimentary on everything and is so excited to see me when I get home every night. I have him sitting up in bed so he can look outside the window while I am away. Rarely do I leave him home by himself.
Ok, so you know that now - you can tease me all you want. I don't care! If I were running for Congress I'd let people know that I sleep with my Teddy Bear. After all, why shouldn't I? I've debated about whether or not to buy for my mother's new great-niece, who isn't born yet, a Teddy Bear of her own. I am sure that she may very well get one and the one I get for her may not be as sentimental as another one that might be gotten for her. In fact, I am not even sure I will ever meet the girl, for my cousin Greg I have not seen in years. He and his wife live in a suburb of Washington, DC and I have never been invited to go visit them and they never come out here to visit (if they do, it isn't to see his side of the family). Thus the dilemma, do I make the effort or do I just not make the effort. I think I should make the effort because this little girl will hopefully be delighted to grow up with a Teddy Bear.
I was informed that I need to make sure that I get a Teddy Bear who won't lose its eyes as that is very important. My Teddy Bear looks the same, other than a little wear of the fur, that he was when he was first presented to me. When I go to mom's I will often bring Teddy Bear with me and sleep with my Buddy Bear and Elephant. Yes, it is funny to imagine a 44 year old man, 6' 7" sleeping in a bed with three stuffed animals. But even my roommate has a Teddy Bear! So there we are, two men of adult age, over 40, sleeping in our apartment (separately) with Teddy Bears!
Most good writers will mention about their lives so that the reader can realize that the writer is in fact human. I am definitely human!
I am still not sure about the Teddy Bear. Reading about it makes one realize that nothing is easy. The Teddy Bear is delivered with a bow on it and a warning to remove the bow because it could be a choking hazard. When I was a child there weren't the preventative labels on everything as there is today. How did I ever learn to do anything without preventative labels? I am not sure how I was able to not fall into the canal on the way to or from school - when water was flowing in it, even? How did I know to stay out of the water? How did I know not to cross traffic when cars were oncoming? How did I know not to get in the car if a stranger stopped and offered me a ride? How did I know these things?
I knew them because I was taught right from wrong. Whether it was a teacher or my parents, I just knew! Do kids even know anymore? I'm amazed at how we coddle our children so much - because they can't learn anymore so the parents have to take over and do everything for those offspring they have produced! I don't get it.
Anyway, back to the Teddy Bear - I have to decide what to get her. I'm not sure because I want one just like my Teddy Bear, but not my Teddy Bear. I will keep Teddy for eternity and then when the end comes, I may very well request that Teddy goes with me!
As for other topics - I should be out walking right now instead of inside eating Sugar Babies. I wish they were a bit harder (more stale) but oh well. I blame the bad diet on Stephanie - her departure last week was cause celeb for eating desserts and this week being her first week not here is cause celeb for eating poorly. I will have to go back to the diet plan next week I think. I can't be eating like this always or I will need a wheel barrow to carry my stomach along. I also don't like how my inner-thighs rub each other as I walk. May be too much info for you - but it is my blog, dammit.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
My boss
Today is June 1, 2011. Two days from now my boss, Stephanie McDoulett, will retire from McKesson. In my 27 years of working for people this is the first time that I have had a boss who is retiring.
When we think of retiring most of us think of that age when we will be eligible for social security - that little private/public nest egg we have been paying into for many years - hoping that we will be able to not only reach the age that we are able to collect it, but hoping that we will live long enough to at least receive back what we paid into it plus interest. For me, the reality is that I probably won't be collecting social security until I am 67 - 22 years from two months from now.
I look at 22 years and realize that is shorter than the number of years I have been working for a paycheck. I look back and see that I have been working for 27 years, since I started working at the age of 17. Over those 27 years I have had a few bosses. Some bosses have been ok. Some have been not the greatest - that we can say for most of us.
I have been at McKesson for 10 years. In those 10 years I have had about 5 bosses, of which Stephanie was once a boss for a short period of time before she went into doing something else. I had my review today. Needless to say it was a very good review. My review of her would be to say that she has been what I would consider the best boss I have ever had. She also has become a good friend, and while I know that she is moving onto doing whatever she feels like, I can definitely say I will miss her. However, I am fortunate in that the person who will be my boss now is a person who is also very well respected and knows about being a boss.
Truth be told a lot of people tell me I am the boss - and to an extent that is true as well. I do wield more power than even I let on, but as I demonstrate time and again - I am able to provide the service that people want and need.
Stephanie - I will miss you. I know that Ron won't be around as much to take me to lunch. Everyone has asked me how I will get along, and I will get along alright, but I can tell you that I am starting to get emotional about it. For if it wasn't for her belief that I could come out of the stupor of drugs I wouldn't be here writing this at the moment. I have no idea where I would have ended up, but I am here, and I am happy to be here.
Thank you, Stephanie!
When we think of retiring most of us think of that age when we will be eligible for social security - that little private/public nest egg we have been paying into for many years - hoping that we will be able to not only reach the age that we are able to collect it, but hoping that we will live long enough to at least receive back what we paid into it plus interest. For me, the reality is that I probably won't be collecting social security until I am 67 - 22 years from two months from now.
I look at 22 years and realize that is shorter than the number of years I have been working for a paycheck. I look back and see that I have been working for 27 years, since I started working at the age of 17. Over those 27 years I have had a few bosses. Some bosses have been ok. Some have been not the greatest - that we can say for most of us.
I have been at McKesson for 10 years. In those 10 years I have had about 5 bosses, of which Stephanie was once a boss for a short period of time before she went into doing something else. I had my review today. Needless to say it was a very good review. My review of her would be to say that she has been what I would consider the best boss I have ever had. She also has become a good friend, and while I know that she is moving onto doing whatever she feels like, I can definitely say I will miss her. However, I am fortunate in that the person who will be my boss now is a person who is also very well respected and knows about being a boss.
Truth be told a lot of people tell me I am the boss - and to an extent that is true as well. I do wield more power than even I let on, but as I demonstrate time and again - I am able to provide the service that people want and need.
Stephanie - I will miss you. I know that Ron won't be around as much to take me to lunch. Everyone has asked me how I will get along, and I will get along alright, but I can tell you that I am starting to get emotional about it. For if it wasn't for her belief that I could come out of the stupor of drugs I wouldn't be here writing this at the moment. I have no idea where I would have ended up, but I am here, and I am happy to be here.
Thank you, Stephanie!
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Dried figs
I realize it is Wednesday of this week and nothing has been written by me for my loyal fans to read. I was looking at my Facebook page and saw that Larry Patten posted a picture of his dad holding him when he was a child and reading to him. This brought the moment of a tear to my tear ducts, though the tear didn't expose itself to my cheek, for it brings me to remembering my dad, again, and all of our dads.
I realize, too, that not everyone has a good relationship with their father. One person who will read this will know of who I refer, and that is too bad, but not for the child in this situation but for the father. Men just can't let go sometimes and they have to believe that WHAT they believe is the best and only way to go. Men can't let it go! I learned in the first rehab program I was in (i did go to two) that if I was holding a grudge that I should let it go. I can't remember if at the time I was holding any grudges, but I remember one co-patient who said on the way out of the program for that night "I've got to laugh at myself for I have been holding a grudge against someone who has been dead for three years!" Let it go!
I know that this friend of mine wishes things were different with his/her father, but dad just can't get it right, so they don't communicate. I can't imagine what it would have been like to not communicate with my father. Dad was pretty good at communicating with me, especially after he retired.
Like Larry who's father read to him, my father read to me, too. He also read to our friend Jill when Jill was little. I remember seeing Jill on his lap while he read to her, as he was good at doing this kind of thing. Dad was a good holder. He had a big enough lap and a big enough stomach to use as a pillow. He was always comfortable to be around.
On my desk I have dried black figs. I have four left, having just eaten three of them. I always liked dried figs. When I was a kid we would go to the fig orchard that was down the street (the trees long ago were torn out for - guess what - housing! Go figure!) and pick up the figs that had fallen on the ground and dried up. Yes, people, this is how figs are dried - they fall off the tree when too ripe to remain on the tree and lay on the ground until they are dry and then they are vacuumed up and sent off for cleaning where they are packaged in whatever manner they are packaged. We'd ride our bikes down and pick them off the ground, dust them off and eat them right there! Yes, it was stealing, but it was something that isn't done anymore because there aren't any fig trees around anymore in neighborhoods.
I grew up in the Fig Garden area of Fresno, so that meant fig trees. Ahhh, the good ol' days.
There is a place that mom and I go to in Fresno to buy dried figs, dried apricots, dried peaches, and other items throughout the year. It is a "stand" next to a house that is all built up around it with houses. Here you can buy what you want - on the honor system. Most of the time no one is around and ironically they can leave a box with money in it and people can go in and pay without having to worry about the money being stolen or the place closing down because of it. Amazing! Who would think that something like this could still exist?
I wonder how many people in my generation and the generations below were taught how to eat a fig? I know that people learned to party in the fig orchards - not me - i was too good to do anything like that - me, party? Please. I had to wait until my mid-30's to party.
So dad helped me to enjoy something that I wouldn't have been tempted to like otherwise. It's another thing that dad and I did together. Mom would get him a big bag of figs for Christmas and he would enjoy them - and he would say it helped in keeping him regular, too! Daddy was funny in that regard.
Getting back to what I say about our parents - at some point in time, if you haven't been getting along with mom and or dad, you need to ask yourself "would you rather love them of would you rather be right?" That question was posed to a family friend who's daughter was getting married and converting from Protestantism to Catholicism. Love ruled the day!
Today is Wednesday and I look out the window and see the world passing me by. I don't agree with everything that goes on out there - there will always be some disagreement. The day that I agree with everything is the day that I am laid to rest.
This is the View From Up Here!
I realize, too, that not everyone has a good relationship with their father. One person who will read this will know of who I refer, and that is too bad, but not for the child in this situation but for the father. Men just can't let go sometimes and they have to believe that WHAT they believe is the best and only way to go. Men can't let it go! I learned in the first rehab program I was in (i did go to two) that if I was holding a grudge that I should let it go. I can't remember if at the time I was holding any grudges, but I remember one co-patient who said on the way out of the program for that night "I've got to laugh at myself for I have been holding a grudge against someone who has been dead for three years!" Let it go!
I know that this friend of mine wishes things were different with his/her father, but dad just can't get it right, so they don't communicate. I can't imagine what it would have been like to not communicate with my father. Dad was pretty good at communicating with me, especially after he retired.
Like Larry who's father read to him, my father read to me, too. He also read to our friend Jill when Jill was little. I remember seeing Jill on his lap while he read to her, as he was good at doing this kind of thing. Dad was a good holder. He had a big enough lap and a big enough stomach to use as a pillow. He was always comfortable to be around.
On my desk I have dried black figs. I have four left, having just eaten three of them. I always liked dried figs. When I was a kid we would go to the fig orchard that was down the street (the trees long ago were torn out for - guess what - housing! Go figure!) and pick up the figs that had fallen on the ground and dried up. Yes, people, this is how figs are dried - they fall off the tree when too ripe to remain on the tree and lay on the ground until they are dry and then they are vacuumed up and sent off for cleaning where they are packaged in whatever manner they are packaged. We'd ride our bikes down and pick them off the ground, dust them off and eat them right there! Yes, it was stealing, but it was something that isn't done anymore because there aren't any fig trees around anymore in neighborhoods.
I grew up in the Fig Garden area of Fresno, so that meant fig trees. Ahhh, the good ol' days.
There is a place that mom and I go to in Fresno to buy dried figs, dried apricots, dried peaches, and other items throughout the year. It is a "stand" next to a house that is all built up around it with houses. Here you can buy what you want - on the honor system. Most of the time no one is around and ironically they can leave a box with money in it and people can go in and pay without having to worry about the money being stolen or the place closing down because of it. Amazing! Who would think that something like this could still exist?
I wonder how many people in my generation and the generations below were taught how to eat a fig? I know that people learned to party in the fig orchards - not me - i was too good to do anything like that - me, party? Please. I had to wait until my mid-30's to party.
So dad helped me to enjoy something that I wouldn't have been tempted to like otherwise. It's another thing that dad and I did together. Mom would get him a big bag of figs for Christmas and he would enjoy them - and he would say it helped in keeping him regular, too! Daddy was funny in that regard.
Getting back to what I say about our parents - at some point in time, if you haven't been getting along with mom and or dad, you need to ask yourself "would you rather love them of would you rather be right?" That question was posed to a family friend who's daughter was getting married and converting from Protestantism to Catholicism. Love ruled the day!
Today is Wednesday and I look out the window and see the world passing me by. I don't agree with everything that goes on out there - there will always be some disagreement. The day that I agree with everything is the day that I am laid to rest.
This is the View From Up Here!
Friday, May 6, 2011
Can you spare a quarter?
I lied. I said I didn't have a quarter. The fact is I had three rolls of quarters in my pocket. I admit I am not a good liar, but I can lie like the best of them to some person on the street asking for a quarter. The fact is that in San Francisco we are faced every day on the street people begging for money. Some people are in the same spot daily and they get to know the people who pass them by. Each person has their own set-up for asking for money. The best one I saw was a few weeks ago two guys are walking down Market Street with a Golden Lab walking behind them. In the mouth of the dog is a cardboard sign reading "Fuck you. Give me the money." The dog was just as happy as if it was carrying a tennis ball in its mouth.
So I lied. And I felt somewhat bad about it. I usually feel somewhat bad about it because I know it would take a lot for me to go up to anyone and ask for money. I work at a job, which I am fortunate to have. I have a roof over my head and I am able to entertain myself the way I like to be entertained. I have a car, granted an older one, but I don't care because a car doesn't define who I am. I pay my bills. I invest my money in retirement savings and try to have enough so that I don't get behind. Unlike others I know who live paycheck to paycheck, I too feel like I live paycheck to paycheck. I do know that I am not destitute and have no plans to become destitute.
What about these people who are destitute? I keep thinking that the best thing we can do for the rest of the country who don't see these people is to put them on a bus and ship them where people don't see them normally so that they will know what it's like to see homeless people on the street or mentally ill people wandering all over the place.
Anyway, getting back to the topic of sparing a quarter - I said "No" and kept walking. I could have stopped and given him a quarter. I could have given him the whole roll and been ok with it, but I said "No." So I looked up on the Federal Reserve Bank of Minneapolis's web site (they have a calculator of what something is worth today compared to what is was worth in the past). I've wondered why these people who are begging for money are bidding so low. A quarter today doesn't buy but a gumball - a gumball that will have no flavor three minutes after chewing it. Why a quarter? In 1932 - 25 cents is the equivalent of $4.08 today. $4.08 is about what it would cost to get the cheapest meal at McDonald's. In 1932 not as many quarters were in circulation as they are today, but if someone flipped you a quarter that was good enough to get a good meal! A quarter today won't buy anything to eat and it will take 20 quarters to get you $5 to get a meal. So why are people not asking for a dollar? I don't know. I'd have to ask that question. Maybe because to get a dollar means opening a wallet and that takes too much time to get to, so a quarter, which is in your pocket can be obtained quicker? If I were out on the street asking people for money I'd be asking for a dollar or five dollars or something because then I could get a meal better than by asking for a quarter.
I wonder if the next time you think of giving change to someone you decide "i'm going to give this person a dollar instead" then maybe that will mean more for that person who is getting the money and for you the giver because it will mean that you are really helping out.
I helped a lady out a few months ago by giving her a $20. She came up to me in the parking lot of Trader Joe's in Alameda. Now, I will admit because she was dressed nice and appeared nice and gave me a story of how much she really needed I gave her more than if she had been really down and out. I gave her $20 and she gave me a hug and I watched her walk away. I watched her walk through the parking lot and later saw her asking someone else for money. I suspected that she really didn't need to get to Vallejo, but who am I to judge. Maybe she really needed the money, maybe she had a drug problem, maybe she has lots of money and for kicks goes out to see what sap she can get to give her money. I do know that she was approaching men and not women. I think women are less likely to give money than men because men carry money in their pockets and not in a wallet in their purse since men don't carry a purse.
Why did I give her $20 and I couldn't give the guy a quarter? Good question. I am not sure there is an answer. But I lied to him. He didn't know if I was lying or not. He probably assumed as I would that I was lying, for people usually have cash on them. Someday I should decide to take $20 one dollar bills and pick a point and see how far I will be able to go before I am out of money giving one dollar at a time to the first people I either see or who ask needing money. In San Francisco I am willing to bet I don't go two blocks. In Fresno I will get further, but at the major intersections there will be someone asking for money. I do know that if the person(s) are smoking I tend to figure they are spending the money they have on cigarettes, so why perpetuate the addiction? And do these people really want to get money to get on a better footing? Some would argue "No" and others would argue "Yes." Each situation is different.
I am glad I could have this conversation with you today. This blog business is pretty good because I know people read what I write, but for me it gives me something to write about that is all about what I am thinking - for this is The View From Up Here!
So I lied. And I felt somewhat bad about it. I usually feel somewhat bad about it because I know it would take a lot for me to go up to anyone and ask for money. I work at a job, which I am fortunate to have. I have a roof over my head and I am able to entertain myself the way I like to be entertained. I have a car, granted an older one, but I don't care because a car doesn't define who I am. I pay my bills. I invest my money in retirement savings and try to have enough so that I don't get behind. Unlike others I know who live paycheck to paycheck, I too feel like I live paycheck to paycheck. I do know that I am not destitute and have no plans to become destitute.
What about these people who are destitute? I keep thinking that the best thing we can do for the rest of the country who don't see these people is to put them on a bus and ship them where people don't see them normally so that they will know what it's like to see homeless people on the street or mentally ill people wandering all over the place.
Anyway, getting back to the topic of sparing a quarter - I said "No" and kept walking. I could have stopped and given him a quarter. I could have given him the whole roll and been ok with it, but I said "No." So I looked up on the Federal Reserve Bank of Minneapolis's web site (they have a calculator of what something is worth today compared to what is was worth in the past). I've wondered why these people who are begging for money are bidding so low. A quarter today doesn't buy but a gumball - a gumball that will have no flavor three minutes after chewing it. Why a quarter? In 1932 - 25 cents is the equivalent of $4.08 today. $4.08 is about what it would cost to get the cheapest meal at McDonald's. In 1932 not as many quarters were in circulation as they are today, but if someone flipped you a quarter that was good enough to get a good meal! A quarter today won't buy anything to eat and it will take 20 quarters to get you $5 to get a meal. So why are people not asking for a dollar? I don't know. I'd have to ask that question. Maybe because to get a dollar means opening a wallet and that takes too much time to get to, so a quarter, which is in your pocket can be obtained quicker? If I were out on the street asking people for money I'd be asking for a dollar or five dollars or something because then I could get a meal better than by asking for a quarter.
I wonder if the next time you think of giving change to someone you decide "i'm going to give this person a dollar instead" then maybe that will mean more for that person who is getting the money and for you the giver because it will mean that you are really helping out.
I helped a lady out a few months ago by giving her a $20. She came up to me in the parking lot of Trader Joe's in Alameda. Now, I will admit because she was dressed nice and appeared nice and gave me a story of how much she really needed I gave her more than if she had been really down and out. I gave her $20 and she gave me a hug and I watched her walk away. I watched her walk through the parking lot and later saw her asking someone else for money. I suspected that she really didn't need to get to Vallejo, but who am I to judge. Maybe she really needed the money, maybe she had a drug problem, maybe she has lots of money and for kicks goes out to see what sap she can get to give her money. I do know that she was approaching men and not women. I think women are less likely to give money than men because men carry money in their pockets and not in a wallet in their purse since men don't carry a purse.
Why did I give her $20 and I couldn't give the guy a quarter? Good question. I am not sure there is an answer. But I lied to him. He didn't know if I was lying or not. He probably assumed as I would that I was lying, for people usually have cash on them. Someday I should decide to take $20 one dollar bills and pick a point and see how far I will be able to go before I am out of money giving one dollar at a time to the first people I either see or who ask needing money. In San Francisco I am willing to bet I don't go two blocks. In Fresno I will get further, but at the major intersections there will be someone asking for money. I do know that if the person(s) are smoking I tend to figure they are spending the money they have on cigarettes, so why perpetuate the addiction? And do these people really want to get money to get on a better footing? Some would argue "No" and others would argue "Yes." Each situation is different.
I am glad I could have this conversation with you today. This blog business is pretty good because I know people read what I write, but for me it gives me something to write about that is all about what I am thinking - for this is The View From Up Here!
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
May 4, 2011
Last night I was sitting at home watching television when I thought of something for which I might write about. What that was I couldn't tell you this morning because I can't remember. That is why it is important to write down what I am thinking at the time that I am thinking whatever "it" is.
I dreamed last night about my friend Denise. Denise is a woman with whom I worked back in the 1990's. She is an upbeat, wonderful person. An artist, a mom, a wife, a friend, a friend of animals. She is someone that everyone wants to be around because she is definitely a very upbeat woman. It is hard to imagine that she is older than me because she never has seemed to be anything but my age. She has had her share of pitfalls and pratfalls, but for her she has always had a smile on her face and words of encouragement.
When I met her she was a director at the Fresno Chamber of Commerce. I didn't work directly for her, but around her and she was definitely what the Chamber of Commerce needed - a manager with a smile who could put that smile forward and say "No" to someone but leave that person feeling ok with being told "No." She was able to get a lot done and for the time was important to the cause of keeping the Chamber momentum going forward even though the Executive Director was an ass. I spent time with her. I got to know her and her kids. She was in a marriage that sucked and eventually ended in divorce - a good thing for her.
Denise met and fell in love with a man who really has taken good care of her - who has loved her and provided her with a life that most women would want to live. Most men would want to live it, too. She lost her mom to death many years ago, and while her father is still alive and happy in his 90's, she admitted to me recently that she has had a good life.
My dream last night was because I am concerned about her. A couple years or so ago Denise had a stroke. It was debilitating, but she has recovered most of her bodily abilities back. However, when I spoke with her the other night she told me that she had been to the doctor and that blood is not getting to a part of her brain and that is why she has been stumbling and falling down. The doctor put her on medication that will eliminate her platelets so that she can't ride her horse because if she falls internal bleeding won't be able to stop. If she cuts her finger while cooking she won't stop bleeding.
It is possible that this medical condition can't be reversed and Denise will have another stroke or whatever. It was interesting talking to her because she told me that she has had a great life. She has great kids and grand kids. She has a great husband. And while her horse - Sky - is what helped her recover from the stroke it isn't necessarily going to help her with the situation as it is now.
I dreamed last night wondering how she is doing. I am going to have to call her again because I want to know - for Denise is special in my life - she is the first person I told of my being gay. I remember the moment when I told her - fearful for her reaction - and relieved when she said "So what?" She helped me to realize that it was ok that I am gay.
My telling her came about because I had met a guy and I wanted to call him. I asked if I could use her phone (this was before cell phones were common) and she said "Who are you going to call?" I replied that I couldn't tell her and she said, "You can't use my phone unless you tell me who you are calling." I then took a deep breath and wondered how I was going to get out of this one - then having figured it out told her "I am gay and I want to call a man I met." After that she let me use the phone.
She let me know that they knew I was gay or had figured out I was - "they" being those at work. It was refreshing to know that I wasn't being looked down upon for being gay. It wouldn't be much longer before I'd tell my mom, but knowing that Denise was there for me at that time and supportive was a great help.
I tossed and turned a lot last night. Maybe it was because I slept with the sliding glass door open and I heard more of the noises than I hear when it is shut, but I know that in between bouts of sleeping I was dreaming about Denise and being concerned about Larry, her husband, who will be there for her as long as she is around. Denise knows that if there is no return that life will come to an end, even if she brings it on herself. No matter what I am ever so grateful to Denise for making my life a bit easier, and for having an effect on me which lasts to this day.
Friends are like this - There are friends who are with you from the moment they meet you and decide they are your friend. Friends can be friends for a long time - until death. I know that there are people with whom I am friends that I will probably never see again, but that doesn't diminish the friendship.
I look back and in my life friends have come and gone - school friends, church friends, neighborhood friends - in my adult working life here I have only lost really a few friends. I lost two people who were my best friends at the time I was using drugs and probably another person or two can be added to that list. People leave for different reasons. I am sorry that I may have caused a problem for them to be associated with me - but it is realistic that some people don't want to be around people with issues. It is easier to diss them than it is to be around them when the chips are down - especially when drugs or alcohol are involved.
My mom recently asked me if I have heard from these ex-best friends. We have friends in common, so I know a little of what they are up to. I admit that I do miss them, but it was their decision to part ways and I have to respect their decision. There have been attempts to reunite, mostly because my mother tried to push it, but it never happened. It is easier to be away from someone than it is to get back together because how do you make up for that lost time, do you say anything about what caused the rift? I figure they are happier without me and I am happier without them. I have great friends that I do stuff with now and I don't feel like I am being taken advantage of by my friends, which I came to believe was the case with those friends, anyway. That said, I harbor no grudges against them for their decision.
Just remember that we are all unique and in time there will be issues that you may need to confront with yourself or with friends - but don't hide. I know that I'm guilty of this even to this day - I met a guy online and when I talked with him and discovered that he does have issues with his speech I haven't returned his call or even communicated to him online - why, because he is different and do I want to be with someone who isn't "normal?" Anyway, that is for another time to talk about - but I know that we tend to run when something happens to someone else and that isn't fair to ourselves and especially not to that person.
In conclusion - the moral to the story is to start being the way we want to be to others as we want others to be to us. Easier said than done, unfortunately!
I dreamed last night about my friend Denise. Denise is a woman with whom I worked back in the 1990's. She is an upbeat, wonderful person. An artist, a mom, a wife, a friend, a friend of animals. She is someone that everyone wants to be around because she is definitely a very upbeat woman. It is hard to imagine that she is older than me because she never has seemed to be anything but my age. She has had her share of pitfalls and pratfalls, but for her she has always had a smile on her face and words of encouragement.
When I met her she was a director at the Fresno Chamber of Commerce. I didn't work directly for her, but around her and she was definitely what the Chamber of Commerce needed - a manager with a smile who could put that smile forward and say "No" to someone but leave that person feeling ok with being told "No." She was able to get a lot done and for the time was important to the cause of keeping the Chamber momentum going forward even though the Executive Director was an ass. I spent time with her. I got to know her and her kids. She was in a marriage that sucked and eventually ended in divorce - a good thing for her.
Denise met and fell in love with a man who really has taken good care of her - who has loved her and provided her with a life that most women would want to live. Most men would want to live it, too. She lost her mom to death many years ago, and while her father is still alive and happy in his 90's, she admitted to me recently that she has had a good life.
My dream last night was because I am concerned about her. A couple years or so ago Denise had a stroke. It was debilitating, but she has recovered most of her bodily abilities back. However, when I spoke with her the other night she told me that she had been to the doctor and that blood is not getting to a part of her brain and that is why she has been stumbling and falling down. The doctor put her on medication that will eliminate her platelets so that she can't ride her horse because if she falls internal bleeding won't be able to stop. If she cuts her finger while cooking she won't stop bleeding.
It is possible that this medical condition can't be reversed and Denise will have another stroke or whatever. It was interesting talking to her because she told me that she has had a great life. She has great kids and grand kids. She has a great husband. And while her horse - Sky - is what helped her recover from the stroke it isn't necessarily going to help her with the situation as it is now.
I dreamed last night wondering how she is doing. I am going to have to call her again because I want to know - for Denise is special in my life - she is the first person I told of my being gay. I remember the moment when I told her - fearful for her reaction - and relieved when she said "So what?" She helped me to realize that it was ok that I am gay.
My telling her came about because I had met a guy and I wanted to call him. I asked if I could use her phone (this was before cell phones were common) and she said "Who are you going to call?" I replied that I couldn't tell her and she said, "You can't use my phone unless you tell me who you are calling." I then took a deep breath and wondered how I was going to get out of this one - then having figured it out told her "I am gay and I want to call a man I met." After that she let me use the phone.
She let me know that they knew I was gay or had figured out I was - "they" being those at work. It was refreshing to know that I wasn't being looked down upon for being gay. It wouldn't be much longer before I'd tell my mom, but knowing that Denise was there for me at that time and supportive was a great help.
I tossed and turned a lot last night. Maybe it was because I slept with the sliding glass door open and I heard more of the noises than I hear when it is shut, but I know that in between bouts of sleeping I was dreaming about Denise and being concerned about Larry, her husband, who will be there for her as long as she is around. Denise knows that if there is no return that life will come to an end, even if she brings it on herself. No matter what I am ever so grateful to Denise for making my life a bit easier, and for having an effect on me which lasts to this day.
Friends are like this - There are friends who are with you from the moment they meet you and decide they are your friend. Friends can be friends for a long time - until death. I know that there are people with whom I am friends that I will probably never see again, but that doesn't diminish the friendship.
I look back and in my life friends have come and gone - school friends, church friends, neighborhood friends - in my adult working life here I have only lost really a few friends. I lost two people who were my best friends at the time I was using drugs and probably another person or two can be added to that list. People leave for different reasons. I am sorry that I may have caused a problem for them to be associated with me - but it is realistic that some people don't want to be around people with issues. It is easier to diss them than it is to be around them when the chips are down - especially when drugs or alcohol are involved.
My mom recently asked me if I have heard from these ex-best friends. We have friends in common, so I know a little of what they are up to. I admit that I do miss them, but it was their decision to part ways and I have to respect their decision. There have been attempts to reunite, mostly because my mother tried to push it, but it never happened. It is easier to be away from someone than it is to get back together because how do you make up for that lost time, do you say anything about what caused the rift? I figure they are happier without me and I am happier without them. I have great friends that I do stuff with now and I don't feel like I am being taken advantage of by my friends, which I came to believe was the case with those friends, anyway. That said, I harbor no grudges against them for their decision.
Just remember that we are all unique and in time there will be issues that you may need to confront with yourself or with friends - but don't hide. I know that I'm guilty of this even to this day - I met a guy online and when I talked with him and discovered that he does have issues with his speech I haven't returned his call or even communicated to him online - why, because he is different and do I want to be with someone who isn't "normal?" Anyway, that is for another time to talk about - but I know that we tend to run when something happens to someone else and that isn't fair to ourselves and especially not to that person.
In conclusion - the moral to the story is to start being the way we want to be to others as we want others to be to us. Easier said than done, unfortunately!
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Dad
Two days ago was the one year anniversary of my father's death. A lot can be written about one's father, but just because it was the anniversary of his death I wasn't convinced that I should or needed to write about him, for a father should be thought of and written about at any time. I could write a lot about him, but let me sum it up like this - my father loved me - and I know this because he told me a lot. In the two weeks he was in the hospital before he died mom and I would leave his room and on the way out we would give him a kiss and tell him "I love you." He would reply, even in his drugged or lost state of mind by pursing his lips and saying back to us "I love you." A man I grew up with who I can't say that I ever remember him telling me "I love you" made up for it in the years of my adulthood.
I don't recall that until I told him I was gay that there was the love expressions that I received after telling him. I am sure that as a child he told me, and he was one to show me his love without telling it to me verbally. But for a long time I don't ever recall him saying to me that he loved me. I had my mom telling me that she loved me regularly, but that my dad did tell me and even showed it more than I could have ever imagined is a great help.
Scared - I was scared to tell dad I am gay. I thought that my dad was a conservative man who would hate me. I think that is what a lot of people think about their fathers. But this wasn't true. He was a compassionate man. A man who cared very much for his family, his friends and for the life that he was living. He is a man that I will say will endure in my heart for eternity and not just because he was my "father" but because he espoused what it meant to be a father.
I look at today's children and their parents and because I am not a parent I am somewhat appalled at how parents have become obssessed with their child's activities. Parents are being run ragged by having to take their kids to ball games, practices, dance lessons, piano lessons or the like. When is their time for the parent? When does a parent really get to play what they want to play? My father would take me down on Saturday mornings to get a bag of candy (the candy probably cost a dollar or two at most). Saturday afternoon dad would take me back to 7-11 for a Slurpee. The candy would come first, then home to do yard work and then to get a Slurpee for me in the afternoon. That was the routine for years, and it was wonderful. I didn't play sports until I was in high school and then my parents would come to the games, but it wasn't anything that if they didn't show I was disappointed about. I wonder today what children will do when all of the sudden mom and dad aren't at a practice or a game - they will probably end up in a Psych ward somewhere.
Dad was dad. He wasn't a conservative zealot after all. He was real. He hated George W. Bush. Said he was the worst President ever - and when my dad was born Warren Harding was President. That's a lot of men in that position and W was the worst one? Dad was a Democrat. Mom was the Republican. Go figure! (Mom isn't a Republican any more.) I found out that dad wasn't what I thought he was. He was tender and loving. My coming out surprised him. He never said a thing to me about it. Treated me no differently the next day as he did the previous day. When he found out I was using drugs he didn't tell me how stupid that was. He loved me the same the day before as he did the day after. He supported me and wanted to be there as much as possible. He didn't drive, so mom had to drive and up they came to support me when I was in rehab. He was there when I got out. He was there before I went in. Dad also never got on me like mom did about me chewing my fingernails. I'm not sure why, but I want to think that he figured mom did enough nagging that he didn't need to add insult to injury.
Yes, it isn't the same going home to Fresno without him. I know that he is buried in the cemetery and that his body will remain there until the great flood brings it up and floats it somewhere or that it stays there forever. I know that his soul is a part of me and will always be around me. I haven't felt his presence, in the ghost-like type of presence, but I wouldn't be surprised if someday I do feel him. I just know that he is always a part of me because of who he was - he was for me a father! Donald George Seibert will always be MY father and I will always be HIS son. For that I am grateful. More I could write. More I will write. But for now, the memory of my father and his life - his life up until the end - is what is important for me. It is different for my mom because he was her husband, but if it wasn't for him I wouldn't be here to write this blog about him. I love you dad! I love you very very much! Thank YOU for me and thank YOU for YOU!
I don't recall that until I told him I was gay that there was the love expressions that I received after telling him. I am sure that as a child he told me, and he was one to show me his love without telling it to me verbally. But for a long time I don't ever recall him saying to me that he loved me. I had my mom telling me that she loved me regularly, but that my dad did tell me and even showed it more than I could have ever imagined is a great help.
Scared - I was scared to tell dad I am gay. I thought that my dad was a conservative man who would hate me. I think that is what a lot of people think about their fathers. But this wasn't true. He was a compassionate man. A man who cared very much for his family, his friends and for the life that he was living. He is a man that I will say will endure in my heart for eternity and not just because he was my "father" but because he espoused what it meant to be a father.
I look at today's children and their parents and because I am not a parent I am somewhat appalled at how parents have become obssessed with their child's activities. Parents are being run ragged by having to take their kids to ball games, practices, dance lessons, piano lessons or the like. When is their time for the parent? When does a parent really get to play what they want to play? My father would take me down on Saturday mornings to get a bag of candy (the candy probably cost a dollar or two at most). Saturday afternoon dad would take me back to 7-11 for a Slurpee. The candy would come first, then home to do yard work and then to get a Slurpee for me in the afternoon. That was the routine for years, and it was wonderful. I didn't play sports until I was in high school and then my parents would come to the games, but it wasn't anything that if they didn't show I was disappointed about. I wonder today what children will do when all of the sudden mom and dad aren't at a practice or a game - they will probably end up in a Psych ward somewhere.
Dad was dad. He wasn't a conservative zealot after all. He was real. He hated George W. Bush. Said he was the worst President ever - and when my dad was born Warren Harding was President. That's a lot of men in that position and W was the worst one? Dad was a Democrat. Mom was the Republican. Go figure! (Mom isn't a Republican any more.) I found out that dad wasn't what I thought he was. He was tender and loving. My coming out surprised him. He never said a thing to me about it. Treated me no differently the next day as he did the previous day. When he found out I was using drugs he didn't tell me how stupid that was. He loved me the same the day before as he did the day after. He supported me and wanted to be there as much as possible. He didn't drive, so mom had to drive and up they came to support me when I was in rehab. He was there when I got out. He was there before I went in. Dad also never got on me like mom did about me chewing my fingernails. I'm not sure why, but I want to think that he figured mom did enough nagging that he didn't need to add insult to injury.
Yes, it isn't the same going home to Fresno without him. I know that he is buried in the cemetery and that his body will remain there until the great flood brings it up and floats it somewhere or that it stays there forever. I know that his soul is a part of me and will always be around me. I haven't felt his presence, in the ghost-like type of presence, but I wouldn't be surprised if someday I do feel him. I just know that he is always a part of me because of who he was - he was for me a father! Donald George Seibert will always be MY father and I will always be HIS son. For that I am grateful. More I could write. More I will write. But for now, the memory of my father and his life - his life up until the end - is what is important for me. It is different for my mom because he was her husband, but if it wasn't for him I wouldn't be here to write this blog about him. I love you dad! I love you very very much! Thank YOU for me and thank YOU for YOU!
Friday, April 22, 2011
Graffiti
Walking to and from BART each day I encounter a myriad of things with the sight of my eyes. The one thing that is most prominent is graffiti. I have mixed emotions about taggers: on one hand I would like to see them caught and handcuffed to a pole with their pants pulled down (assuming they are male) and their crotch spray painted with the paint from the spray can or have them cuffed around a pole no matter whether they are male or female with a sandwich board sign around them telling they are graffiti taggers; on the other side I see art. The people doing the tagging who are just writing words that are probably gang inspired isn't necessarily art, though it could be, but just a way of letting other gangs know who is around - like a cat spraying its territory. Today, I saw that a new display was created on the Oakland Museum. I am sure it wasn't there yesterday, and it spells out something but in such large letters that I can't make out what it says.
In Fresno there was a program to stop taggers - graffiti was everywhere and when there was money the effort was placed in arresting taggers and sending them to jail. The money isn't there now, so the effort has been reduced to practically nothing and there is no room in the jail for them anyway. It was a model program - stress on the word "was." Now they can't keep up with removing graffiti. The cost to taxpayers is a lot higher than we want to admit, but the problem is NOT going to go away. Graffiti has been around for as long as humans have been around - it just takes different forms.
One could argue that hieroglyphics is a form of graffiti. Who gave the right to any living creature to write on a wall what was going on in the life of people hundreds to thousands of years ago? Today we look on it as a sign of a great thing - "Thank goodness they wrote on these walls to help us explain what was going on way back when." Why isn't writing on a wall now with a pen or a spray can taken the same way? Why can't we see that some of these taggers are really pretty good artists? I would encourage the art community to do something about this - to spend the time watching at night the walls where the taggers are focusing and arrest their minds and ask them to consider using their skills for the betterment of a wall.
Every object that is produced has a color to it. Let's take the Oakland Museum. Its entire border is cement! Cement is gray! Granted, the intention is for it to be that color, but do we really need to have another gray building in an area that is so diverse and multi-cultural? Why can't the art community - the painters of the area either use their talents to create a better looking facade - enlist the taggers to create a mural of what they feel represents their needs and achievements. Rather than painting over what the taggers do, let the taggers paint the walls! I have noticed that when a wall is tagged, generally, the tagged area isn't painted over, so why can't we take and make art in that manner?
We could fill our jails with taggers, but they will get out of jail and go back to doing what they have been doing. I really think that it is their way of expressing whatever it is they need to express - whether because they are told to express it or because they want the world to see it and hopefully understand it. Some of what these people do is really not bad in the eyes of an artist. The general public thinks it is disgusting and terrible - but if Picasso went out and painted his artwork on a building there would be people to find that distasteful. I think that community leaders need to take a different tact in their efforts to make graffiti more acceptable. You will notice that graffiti isn't painted on courthouses or police stations - but everywhere else it is painted. We could go after the spray paint can business, but I can see where that won't get us anywhere because it hasn't gotten us anywhere in the past and there will be those people who are regular users of spray paint for non-graffiti reasons that won't want it taken away from them. We could go after the marking pen industry, but we know that won't work. Graffiti will never go away until we are all dead! Animals marking their spot is a form of graffiti, so until Earth blows up we will have taggers and it all depends on how tagging is viewed in the eyes of the beholder and the beholdee.
I could write more, but the point is made in The View From Up Here.
In Fresno there was a program to stop taggers - graffiti was everywhere and when there was money the effort was placed in arresting taggers and sending them to jail. The money isn't there now, so the effort has been reduced to practically nothing and there is no room in the jail for them anyway. It was a model program - stress on the word "was." Now they can't keep up with removing graffiti. The cost to taxpayers is a lot higher than we want to admit, but the problem is NOT going to go away. Graffiti has been around for as long as humans have been around - it just takes different forms.
One could argue that hieroglyphics is a form of graffiti. Who gave the right to any living creature to write on a wall what was going on in the life of people hundreds to thousands of years ago? Today we look on it as a sign of a great thing - "Thank goodness they wrote on these walls to help us explain what was going on way back when." Why isn't writing on a wall now with a pen or a spray can taken the same way? Why can't we see that some of these taggers are really pretty good artists? I would encourage the art community to do something about this - to spend the time watching at night the walls where the taggers are focusing and arrest their minds and ask them to consider using their skills for the betterment of a wall.
Every object that is produced has a color to it. Let's take the Oakland Museum. Its entire border is cement! Cement is gray! Granted, the intention is for it to be that color, but do we really need to have another gray building in an area that is so diverse and multi-cultural? Why can't the art community - the painters of the area either use their talents to create a better looking facade - enlist the taggers to create a mural of what they feel represents their needs and achievements. Rather than painting over what the taggers do, let the taggers paint the walls! I have noticed that when a wall is tagged, generally, the tagged area isn't painted over, so why can't we take and make art in that manner?
We could fill our jails with taggers, but they will get out of jail and go back to doing what they have been doing. I really think that it is their way of expressing whatever it is they need to express - whether because they are told to express it or because they want the world to see it and hopefully understand it. Some of what these people do is really not bad in the eyes of an artist. The general public thinks it is disgusting and terrible - but if Picasso went out and painted his artwork on a building there would be people to find that distasteful. I think that community leaders need to take a different tact in their efforts to make graffiti more acceptable. You will notice that graffiti isn't painted on courthouses or police stations - but everywhere else it is painted. We could go after the spray paint can business, but I can see where that won't get us anywhere because it hasn't gotten us anywhere in the past and there will be those people who are regular users of spray paint for non-graffiti reasons that won't want it taken away from them. We could go after the marking pen industry, but we know that won't work. Graffiti will never go away until we are all dead! Animals marking their spot is a form of graffiti, so until Earth blows up we will have taggers and it all depends on how tagging is viewed in the eyes of the beholder and the beholdee.
I could write more, but the point is made in The View From Up Here.
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