Letting It Fly

So, I am in what is often called Middle Age. If that is true and I am at midpoint in my earthly existence, then I should die at 110. This a happy thought, since it has only been three years since I came out and I would like to think that I have a long time left to enjoy my new sense of identity and freedom.

Now this 'coming out' event was not so much of a pronouncement (except to husband and kids) or even an event at all, as a gradual awareness dawning on most people I know. I, myself, knew it always to be true. There were many years that I thought a change of team was possible, but not really, if I am perfectly honest. Doing this sort of brave new thing at any point is hard, but factor in five kids, a (then) husband and 50-plus years of relationships with family and friends, I'd say it is positively heroic.

I look the same as always. I think. Well, I did cut my hair pretty short and I do favor sports bras over regular hook ones. I have a small bumper sticker that is a navy blue square with a yellow equal sign on my car. I can play 'Closer to Fine' by the Indigo Girls on the guitar and I think Jane Lynch is wonderfully funny. But I still believe in the importance of shaved legs and armpits (OMG!) and my main incarnation as mom has not changed.

My partner and I and our daughters went to the beach on a recent blazing hot day. We go regularly in the summer and sometimes like to walk up and down the shoreline holding hands. On this day, umbrellaed directly behind us on the sand was a group of four friends. These girls looked pretty gay, especially two who were obviously partners. One of the two was sunbathing on her stomach with her swimsuit top untied, like many girls do, usually careful to not prop up too much. This girl didn't care. She sat up, chatting with her friends and spooning with her girlfriend on the blanket, letting her womanhood out for the world to see.

Our daughters were amused and slightly scandalized by this and the event was the topic of much discussion as we sat there. They didn't think such exposure was acceptable behavior. We looked around. Several men of various shapes strutted the shore in tiny Speedos, their bulges clearly defined. How was this somehow okay? Oh, and a couple of them were sucking face with their girlfriends on the sand and in the water, their hands groping at will. No problems here, right?

I admire that young woman on the blanket - for her bravery and for her honesty. She was at the beach. It was hot. Womens' swimsuits are tight and uncomfortable. She was more covered up still than those men, and her public displays of affection toward her girlfriend were careful and G-rated. Okay, make that PG.

This later-in-life Rainbow Connection has many many benefits. My partner and I are slowly becoming more affectionate in public situations. We walk arm in arm and hand in hand on any street that is not right in our own town. Our kids see us hug and kiss each other hello and goodbye. Our friends, families, pastor and church people know we are a couple. Our kids refer to us as 'the moms'. I feel like the me I was born to be (pardon the dumb rhyme). I stand a little straighter. I wear two piece swimsuits for the first time in my life. I sing louder in church. I dance in the house and accept all ridicule happily. I fall asleep with and wake up to the person I love. I am learning to let my freak flag fly.

Make that my free flag.

A eulogy For My Father

My father was something of a stoic. When he sliced across the palm of his hand with his chainsaw while cutting up the big blue spruce which had come down in a storm, he did not panic or yell. Calmly, he wrapped his profusely bleeding hand in his jacket and stuck his head in the door (no further in order to not drip on the foyer floor) and said softly to mom, “Terry, I need for you to drive me to the emergency room now.”

This stoicism sprang from a number of places. He was one of two brothers, brought up in a small apartment in Brooklyn during the Depression,. It was a time where most everyone around had to suck it up and move on with things. The Patterson boys had no father around and were raised by two women – their mother (my magnificent grandmother) and HER mother. They called their grandmother ‘mom’ and their mother ‘mother’. Don’t ask me why. I believe they were protective of these two women’s emotions and were not inclined to accept much babying or sympathy.

My father’s father left his young wife and two tiny boys when my father was two years old. Saying he was headed out to California to find work and would send for them when he was established, he left and never returned. Both my dad and his brother Ed went on to have successful and long marriages. They did not repeat the abandonment trend despite not having any real fatherly presence in their lives from which to copy and fashion themselves.

Dad’s stoicism had a bit of a flip side. His outward strength could turn to anger and, although he loved my brothers and me, he could not show much affection beyond the occasional game of catch. And there were unbendable rules. No radio playing in the car. No twisting electrical cords. No slamming doors. No leaving the table until dinner was over. No talking back. Once I asked him something and he did not hear me. I repeated my question and he said “what?” mildly annoyed. “Oh, forget it,” I said. SLAM! His hand whacked my cheek so hard my head hit the wall. “Never say ‘Forget It’ to me!”

William Flynn Patterson was born on June 24th 1926, in Sacramento California. His mother followed her new husband out there where she had grand dreams of Hollywood success for herself. She had, on her lunch hour one day, tried out for the Ziegfield Follies. She got a callback, but did not go. I’m not sure why.

From the get-go, little Billy was destined to become an engineer. He tinkered with crystal radio sets and salvaged old appliance motors from the trash. One such motor was so covered in tar, rendering it unworkable, that he had the bright idea to melt the tar out of it. He put the motor on the stovetop in a saucepan, added water, set it to cook and went to do his homework in the apartment living room. After a while, he noted that the fire engine sirens outside seemed awfully close. He looked out the living room window to see two scary things. One was firemen running into HIS building. The other was smoke pouring out of HIS kitchen window. The motor was no longer tarred, but Billy got the tarring of his life!


Bill and Terry met at Our Lady of Refuge, where both of them were parishoners. They were married there and I was baptized there. They moved to Long Island when I was a week old and never left. They were as devoted a couple as one might ever find and in many ways, typical of the times. Bill went off to work each day and Terry took care of house and children. They traveled to Europe on vacations and took a cruise to Alaska.

I like to think, in some ways. I was my father’s favorite, not so much because I was the only girl, as I was the one who liked working alongside him at his basement bench, hammering, drilling and sawing. We borrowed a cigarette from the neighbor to sodder a small piece of metal and he let me smoke the rest of it. He taught me how to mow a lawn, keeping even rows and overlapping just enough to get a clean carpet. He took me to the local liquor store where the eccentric owner had a large monkey cage in the middle of the floor. He took me to Carvel and taught me how to eat an entire cone without dripping a drop. He ran alongside me as I learned to ride my brother’s cast-off two wheeler. And later, he taught me to drive, clenching the armrest and gritting his teeth the whole time.

Eventually, we three grew up and out, heading off in different directions. I married and had five kids, dad’s only grandchildren. In his own dignified (some might say stiff) style, he relished this new role and, I believe, found a renewed sense of the joy of life in their growth and development. All five tell stories about happy times at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

Grandchildren grew up, and mom and dad slowed down. Mom was diagnosed with Altzheimer’s Disease and left us quite a while before she died. Dad lost his eyesight and became lethargic and depressed. Without Terry – even a sick Terry – he was lost and lonely. We visited him in his dark and quiet house where the ticking of the Grandfather clock seemed incessant and loud, but he was fading away from us.

It’s a strange thing. My mother died two years ago and I grieved. But it was only when my father died too, this past February, that I truly felt them both gone.

It is true, and thankfully so, that we remember mostly the good things in people. My mind re-visits times with the good mom and the fun dad. He never left us, even in his mind, my dad, unlike his own father, who abandoned his young family.

So now, I am an orphan. First in line at the pearly gates and sitting behind the desk where the buck stops. I walk through the empty house where I grew up and hear children's voices - mine and my brothers' - and those of my own children when they were young and running into the kitchen for Grandma's brownies. Thinking of the times I was home sick and my mother would buy me a Venus Paradise Coloring Set to work on in bed. Thinking of the times my dad would let us climb the ladder to the roof to hammer nails into the shed he was building onto the back. Thinking about learning to ride a bike and dad running alongside, letting go just at the right moment as I pedaled away.

And with that image as metaphor, I will close this entry. I am pedaling away. Dad has felt free to let go. I ride down the block and turn the corner until I can no longer see him waving.




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Riding Away

My father died in February. He was 84 years old. He had been ailing. He was blind and his kidneys were shutting down bit by bit. In the last few weeks of his life, his occasional dementia became full time. He was twitchy and agitated and did not want to eat or drink.

My sons got to visit with him shortly before he died. It was unclear whether he knew they were there or who they were. But I think somewhere he knew and let them know he knew. My youngest daughter also visited, as it turned out, the day before he died. He was unresponsive and did not seem to hear us as we spoke to him and held his hand. It is a hard honor to be present at the deathbed of someone you love. I want to believe he had already put one foot over the line in previous weeks, communicating with my mother, and, perhaps his own mother. I arrived at the nursing home a half hour after he passed away for good. I sat with him and stroked his cheek and head for a while as the warmth drained from him. It seemed like his soul left with the warmth. I felt him there . . . and then I didn't. He may have re-appeared during funeral services, just to see what we had arranged for him, and to make sure I sang the song he had requested I sing at his funeral mass, about six months ago.

Dad was stoic and proud. He was even a little bit of a despot, wanting things to go the way he wanted them to go and having little patience for anyone else's view. With the exception of my mom. It was a fearsome and wonderful thing to see how that tiny woman could control the heart of this big impatient man. In her final days, when Alzheimer's ravaged her brain and left us with a stranger, he showed his most patient and loving self as he gently steered her around the house to get dressed and eat.

It is true, and thankfully so, that we remember mostly the good things in people. My mind re-visits times with the good mom and the fun dad. He never left us, even in his mind, unlike his own father, who abandoned his young family when my dad was two.

So now, I am an orphan. First in line at the pearly gates and sitting behind the desk where the buck stops. I walk through the empty house where I grew up and hear children's voices - mine and my brothers' - and those of my own children when they were young and running into the kitchen for Grandma's brownies. Thinking of the times I was home sick and my mother would buy me a Venus Paradise Coloring Set to work on in bed. Thinking of the times my dad would let us climb the ladder to the roof to hammer nails into the shed he was building onto the back. Thinking about learning to ride a bike and dad running alongside, letting go just at the right moment as I pedaled away.

And with that image as metaphor, I will close this entry. I am pedaling away. Dad has felt free to let go. I ride down the block and turn the corner until I can no longer see him waving.

The Great 'IM'

Many people across the globe and throughout human history have worshiped God. God has many names and at least a couple of genders. God has had a history of being schizophrenic - that is, alternately angry and punitive and lovingly forgiving. We have been His minions and Her beloved chick brood, held warm and safe under her wing. God has lived on Mount Olympus, in Heaven and has romped the Elysian Fields. God strikes down enemies and clothes the lilies of the field.

When I was a Catholic school first grader, we had to memorize the questions and answers in the Baltimore Catechism. The first question was: "Who is God?" The correct answer, as any good Catholic school child will tell you is, "God is the Supreme Being who made all things." Simple enough. Sometimes the school Principal, Sister Mary Sebastian, would pop in for a surprise visit and make us all stand up and answer the catechism's questions row by row. It was always better to be in one of the later rows, for there were more kids than questions (we had fifty in our class) and after a while, questions were repeated. If you had been listening, you would be given the answer sometime before your turn.

Robert Ruggles was in a middle row, and did not know the answers, but was listening intently. When Sister Mary Sebastian got to him, he was asked that central question, "WHO IS GOD?" Robert frowned and scratched his head. Suddenly he brightened. "God is the STRING BEAN who made all things!" he shouted triumphantly.

Silence. There is no laughing or snickering in front of Sister Mary Sebastian.

I think Robert's response was, at least partially true. If God created everything, animal, mineral and VEGETABLE, who are we to decide what incarnation He may choose to take at any time?
The Hebrews of the Old Testament feared and revered God so much that they would not even say His/Her name. "I AM WHO AM," G-d thundered to Moses. Okay. IAM sounds a little like a dog food brand and dog is god backwards anyway.

Nowadays, kids worship less at the church altar and more at the laptop altar. Facebooking, tweeting, instagramming, snap chatting and instant messaging are prayers, both sent and received. The Great IM.

Kid Justice

I believe it is good for kids to pitch in and help around the house. Not only does this make for a more harmonious household, but it trains them for adulthood when they will need such useful skills as vacuuming, loading the dishwasher, making beds, putting groceries away, sweeping, raking and, of course, doing laundry.
But kids do not want to do any of these things. No matter that they are the CAUSE for needing these things to be done on a daily basis. They are blind to this. I, as their mother have, in the past, failed them miserably, that is, let them get away with not doing chores, simply because it seemed easier to do said chores myself than fight with them.

"Pick up the clothes on the floor in your room," I would say to one daughter. "Aw, mom, why? Later, when I check, the floor is still littered with clothes, all except one small corner, that is clear. "I picked up MY stuff," she stated. All that other stuff is Jenny's. Jenny is a friend who she invited for a sleepover three nights previous.

"Clear the table and load the dishwasher," I say to my other daughter, after spending two hours cooking and serving her favorite dinner. "Aw, mom, why do I have to do ALL the work around here?" I leave the room. When I return in a half hour, there is exactly one fork, one knife, one plate and one glass in the dishwasher. The other dishes, pots, pans and flatware are strewn on the counter and dirty in the sink. "Why didn't you do as I asked," I barked. "I did," she said, not looking up from her Facebook page. "I loaded the things I used."

This is kid justice: "I am on the receiving end of countless thoughtful and caring deeds and yet I see none of it. I am forced into unfair child labor when required to lift any extra finger contributing to the welfare of the household of which I am so fortunate to be a part."

My 24-year-old son was home for Christmas. He cooked for us, cleaned up afterwards, folded my laundry before doing his own, walked the dogs and fed the cat without being asked. He got his siblings together to chip in on the expensive gift I had mentioned that I wanted and shoveled two feet of snow from the driveway so I could get my car out.

I like his version of kid justice better.

To Leap, Perchance to Die

Several times a week, my partner and I walk our four dogs together. The walk is lovely, down a rustic path that skirts a flowing stream on one side and fragrant woods on the other. We let the dogs off lead here. Watching them run at fill-tilt down the path and through the brush is such a joy. It seems at these moments that this is what they were born to do, and they love it.

There are a few problems, however. Three out of four of our pooches are not the best at coming when called. And they have become more and more brazen in their exploration lately. Sammy tends to walk too close to the railroad tracks off in the distance. Charlie likes to run up the hill and inspect a few private backyards while up there. But Percy takes the cake. Somewhere around mid-walk, we come to a big duck pond. Here we see an idyllic scene, complete with waterfowl and small mammals scampering about. Lurking beneath the mirrored surface, however are snapping turtles and piranha (okay, maybe none of the latter). We have had a few close calls with them. On the far side, the pond pours over a ledge in a 20-foot waterfall, down to a shallow pool below, filled with jutting rocks and debris. Percy loves this ledge.

The ledge itself is about 18 inches wide and runs the width of the pond, breaking open only for the waterfall itself. The ledge has a 2-foot step-down at one point. Percy usually just scares us by trotting out halfway or so, and coming back. Last week, she got braver. She went out far. My partner called to her, getting very nervous. Percy hopped down the 2-foot step and walked a little close to the falls. "Percy!, get back here," my partner yelled, some desperation now in her voice. She decided to go out on the ledge herself to rescue her, knowing the silly little dog could not scoot back UP those two feet. Now I was afraid. As I made my way to the edge, I heard my partner scream. "NO!!! She JUMPED!"

I ran down to the bottom of the shallow pool, waded in and scanned the water for what I thought MUST be a limp fur ball. I was ready for a November swim. Fortunately (for me!) Sammy located her on the edge and began barking. I ran to the edge, leaned way over and pulled her out. She looked like a drowned rat. I took off my jacket (just like in the movies!) and we wrapped our shivering daredevil up. My partner was crying. We carried Percy a ways back home, setting her down after a while to make sure she had not been injured. She was fine and said in dog body language, "Hey! That was fun! Let's do it again!". We said no.

We came home, made a fire and sat around eating dinner. The dogs, tired out from their excellent adventure, slept peacefully by the hearth. We re-capped, noting the similarity of the leap to the dramatic one taken by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid in that movie classic from the sixties. "I can't swim," Sundance says sullenly. Butch bursts out laughing. "Are you kidding?", he asks. "The FALL will kill you!"
They leap, shouting as they drop, survive and go on to further adventures.

Percy must have seen the movie.

The Winter of the Goose

On the mornings I go walking without my dogs, I often pass Baxter Pond. Baxter Pond is man-made, I think, but lovely and natural-looking. There are weeping trees and hearty indigenous plantings all along its banks. A small bump of land in the middle is homebase to several clans - mallard ducks, sea gulls (visitors from the bay next door) and, especially, Canada Geese.

These geese are a lot of fun. They are not afraid of people, either pedestrian or automotive. In the spring, when goslings have hatched and the gaggles are especially close-knit, it is common to see those geese families crossing the road to get to the bay where, I assume, the menu selection is better. With one parent in front and one in the back, the geese babies walk carefully in a straight line across four lanes of stopped traffic. Most of the time people are very good and patient. They stop, roll down their windows and smile affectionately as the geese waddle their way across. Some crabby people try to weave around them or, even worse, try to muscle the geese out of their way by driving real close and honking their own horns. We don't like these impatient, heartless people.

Usually, the waterfowl of Baxter Pond keeps to itself. But one winter, a few years back, there was an odd bird (sorry, had to) living in the pond. He was a goose, but not a Canada Goose. He was brownish-gray and had one of those bumps over his orange bill. He was extremely friendly and openly solicited snacks from passersby.

I named him Harry. Since I was walking nearly every day at that time, I saw Harry quite often. It got to the point where I would stroll by, call his name and wait, knowing he would appear out of the rushes momentarily. And he did, honking and flapping. I fed him cracked corn (I know I shouldn't have) and talked to him for a few minutes before continuing on my way. Harry ate from my hand. He didn't seem to have any friends among the others. He was the only gray-brown goose and all the other birds pretty much kept to their own kind. I felt sorry about that. Such a friendly fellow deserved a few buddies.

These visits continued into the spring, until, after several straight days of not seeing a trace of Harry, I decided he was really gone. I never saw him again. It is interesting how powerful an impact even small interactions with other living things can have on us. I can still see Harry popping through the reedy grass upon hearing his name called. I can still hear his insistent honk when I took too long getting his snacks out of my pocket and how he would try to help himself, nosing in and sometimes getting my fingertip instead of corn.

A friend later suggested Harry may have been someone's pet at one time. That would explain his lack of shyness and his only-ness at the pond. Part of me wished I had taken him home, however impractical that would have been. I wonder and worry about him, even now. Does he know this? Can he remember these moments in his life? I wish I knew.