Pure joy

I liked Kate. She had good Yankee common sense, she had high cheek bones, and she wore pants – just like my grandmother, who was similarly name. She was Kay for Kathryn instead of Kate for Katharine. Kate Hepburn reminded me of my grandmother – or more accurately, my step-grandmother. She’d married Granddad Barlow seventeen months after my natural grandmother died.

Nanny (as we liked to call her) was my favorite person growing up. I loved her best, better than Mom, better than Dad, and better than Gary and Jeff. I always looked forward to Nanny and Granddad coming over for a visit. She fought rheumatoid arthritis for more than twenty years and never failed to have a smile on her face when we went to see her at home or in the hospital. She adored it when I played the piano. Mom told me once that when she came into the living room, Nanny’s face was glowing as I played a Mozart piece she’d given me for my birthday.

I remember the night she died. I was a sophomore in college. Mom had called me that afternoon, warning me that the end was near. So soon, too, after Granddad had died, just seven months earlier. So I called the nursing home, and after a while, a nurse came on the phone and said, I’m sorry Mr. Wood but your grandmother died five minutes ago. I was the first person to hear the terrible news.

Alone in my dorm room that Sunday night, I hung up the phone and attacked the bed in a sob of tears. That was February 1983. The only other time I cried in the 1980s was when Ronald Reagan was elected president.

Another country

I shrugged my shoulders when I dropped David off at the airport. He deserved it, getting me into this mess. I went outside to the parking garage and got in the car. Screw it, I said, I’m putting the top down and I’m driving down to Lauderdale. I went to Georgie’s Alibi. That’d be the best place to hook up with someone on a late Sunday afternoon. Tomorrow would be my first day of work, but this evening I could have some fun, if I could get myself a solid piece of muscle meat.

It didn’t take long to drive down from Palm Beach to Lauderdale. The heat permeated every pore and I walked into the Alibi in a sweat. Maybe that’d enhance my chances, but probably not here – not at a preppy bar like Georgie’s. I’d have to go to the Ramrod for that kind of fetish. Man scent, it would probably attract just the kind of guy I didn’t want, an overweight fifty year old with pockmarked skin and an HIV belly. No, I wanted someone like me – a clean-cut guy with lean muscles and a fondness for Diane Schur.

I met Glenn that night and we went to his Wilton Manors house for Sex Lite in his hot tub. I liked it but found myself straining for an elusive orgasm. So I shut my eyes and thought about Dino Peretti in that ‘70s porn movie – always worked for me when I had a hard time with someone.

I drove back to Boca Raton. I’d be staying at David’s parents’ condo until we got our own house and he moved down here. That’d be beginning of August, six weeks from now. I had six weeks to play. Screw David – he’d manipulated me into this mess. Now I had a job I didn’t really want to start, living in a place so superficial, it made Cher look like a model of authenticity. I’d be spending the next six weeks in Florida’s summer heat and humidity, all alone while David basked in the luminous beauty of a New Hope summer. I deserved to have some fun.

Black

Byron played dodge ball better than anyone I knew in the third grade, always the last man standing. Or boy, I suppose. He seemed like a man to me, tall and muscular for a ten-year old boy. He’d been kept back a year by his mother, so he was taller and more developed than any of us nine-year olds. Since his last name was White, Byron sat next to me.

We laughed when Mrs. Spence went over the grammar lesson, punching out prepositional phrases, adjectives, and adverbs like they were kittens in a box. I’d make funny noises with my hand under my armpits and he’d laugh. He’d turn up his nose and lower his eyelids to make goofy faces at me and I’d laugh. I liked Byron because he didn’t call me “Pecker” or “Woody” just like all the other kids did. And I liked him because he didn’t pick me last for the kickball team. He didn’t pick me first but he didn’t pick me last.

Half way through the year, Byron had to move and I cried. I cried because my friend was leaving the third grade and moving to East Liberty. Had to go to another school, he told me. After he left I felt very lonely. And the class wasn’t nearly as interesting. The only black boy had left and all that remained were thirty pasty-white boys and girls. Nowhere near as interesting without Byron.

I wonder where Byron is today.

Too much

The bars sucked. Jim had set a rule that for every gin and tonic he drank, he’d have a club soda with lime. That’s how he’d started his evenings at the Holiday Bar. Until recently he’d done okay. Mom hadn’t figured out he’d been drinking when he got home late at night. But now, ever since Andy Warhol had died and they found a Warhol mural behind the paneling, the bar had been jam packed like a bunch of sardines. It hadn’t even been this crowded when he’d gone to ATO socials at Carnegie Mellon, and that’d been six years ago.

Tonight he’d found a really hot guy to go home with. Short, to be sure, a real fireplug. Albert. Bald with a full black beard, into science fiction and techo bands, and lots of chest hair. Jim loved chest hair on men. So they went to his place over in Point Breeze. Soon as they walked in, Albert took off his clothes. It wasn’t just chest hair, this man was the missing link. Hair everywhere and way too much of it.

Two huge dogs came up to him. “These are my wolves,” he said. They looked like big huskies, but at least they were nice. Wolves in Pittsburgh? Shit, he thought, what if they start beying at the moon? Albert wanted him to take off his clothes, but he wasn’t really ready. So Albert said to him, “Let me soothe you with herbal clay and a rock salt bath.”

Get me out of here, Jim thought. He faked a near-vomit experience and ran for the door. Soon as he got outside, he recognized St. Bede’s – that’s where Uncle John Enright was priest for how long? Forty years? Fifty years?

Red-gabled roof (Photo #1)

“Mommy, Mommy, can we go to Providence for vacation this summer, pretty please?”

Betty was scrubbing the Corning dish. They’d had a ham and scalloped potato casserole for dinner and the potatoes had hardened onto the dish. Had she greased the pan before putting it into the oven? She was sure of it. After all, she’d been preparing meals for this family for almost twenty years.

Gary tapped his hands under the dinner table. Ever since he’d joined Mr. Macuga’s jazz band at school, he’d been drumming the beat to his music on their table at dinnertime.

“Gary, please quiet down.”

When he quieted down, Jimmy knocked on the table. Heather darted to the front door and barked her head off. Gary and Jimmy laughed their heads off.

Allen smoked a cigarette, sipped his Manhattan, and read the evening paper. Betty didn’t know why her husband even wanted to read the paper these days. The only stories in the front section concerned Watergate this, Watergate that, Vietnam this, Vietnam that. Allen still supported Richard Nixon, but Betty knew the man was a crook. Any politician who says he’s not a crook … is a crook. Ever since the Checkers speech in ’52, Richard Nixon had nauseated her.

Jeff read his book – “Johnny Tremain.” Just like her in every way! Somehow her middle son was the only person in the family Betty could talk to. They saw eye to eye on everything from Martha Mitchell to William Shakespeare.

Betty continued scrubbing the Corning ware. It certainly was stubborn. But she was determined to get it cleaned tonight. And speaking of determined – her youngest son.

“What did you say, Jimmy? I wasn’t paying attention.”

I remember

I had a fondness for dirty feet that summer. Third night of our beach vacation, I couldn’t sleep in the slithering humidity of a Nags Head July. I tossed and turned and finally ejected myself from the bed. I walked on the sandy tile floors out to the living room. I hadn’t washed my feet since morning and could feel the gritty chalkiness of the floor. It was wonderful.

They were playing Probe. Mom, Mr. McCartney, Mrs. McCartney, and Jeff sat around the table. I don’t know what the others were doing. Gary, Cindy, and Karen, perhaps they went out for a walk with Dad. Paul and Jarilyn were probably already asleep. It was generally understood that the McCartneys had better sleeping habits than the Woods.

The only family members who slept equally well were Missy and Heather, the two shelties. Missy belonged to the McCartneys and Heather belonged to us. Missy was also Heather’s mother. Our Heather only had one mommy.

“Quintuple the value of your first guess.” Mom took her turn, trying to guess the other words. Mrs. McCartney’s was already exposed. She’d chosen architecture. Mr. McCartney had three exposed letters – U, M, and T. Jeff had three exposed letters – P, A, and K.

“Hey everyone,” I announced, “Jeff and Mr. McCartney chose the same word. Supermarket.”

Even on vacation and even in front of friends, Mom scolded me. “Oh, Jimmy, be still. You’re only imagining that.”

“He’s right, Betty. I do have supermarket,” countered Mr. McCartney.

“And so do I,” added Jeff. “Mom, can you send Jimmy back to bed? He’s ruining the game for us.”

I remember that summer vacation of 1973 as if it were yesterday. The dogs, who’ve since gone to heaven, the gritty floors of our beach cottages, two weeks of swimming, sun, playing games, reading books. And the Nags Head traditions – the ice cream tent, climbing sand dunes, crabbing in the bay, building a campfire at night on the beach. How I’d like to do that again. How I’d like to be ten years old again, spending two weeks with dirty feet and no shoes.

On my desk

“Prove the circumference of a circle is pi times its radius,” Mr. Everett assigned us on Tuesday afternoon. He certainly made Tenth Grade Algebra a lot of fun, even if he was a perfect square. Forget about squares, I told myself. I was bound and determined to solve this proof. I knew I could do it.

Mom and Dad had separated in February (unfortunately, it was only temporary) so it was just me at home. Mom, Heather the D.O.G., and me. Gary and Jeff had already gone off to college. And let’s not forget about my raging hormones, they were there, too. I hadn’t yet discovered I was gay. But I sure had realized that masturbating was a lot easier if I thought about David Groh from the TV show “Rhoda” rather than Valerie Harper or Mary Tyler Moore. David Groh gave me an instant orgasm. Valerie and Mary produced a limp you-know-what (ladies might be reading). But oh, how I loved Valerie and Mary. What gives, I asked myself, what gives?

I always did my homework at my little desk (and now I work remotely on that same desk, got to get a new one). I’d come home from school and do my homework, first thing – so I could watch “Happy Days,” “Laverne and Shirley,” or some other late ‘70s brain-drain television. Algebra always came last, not because I hated it but because it was easiest. Always do the hard stuff first, Mom had told me.

So forty-five minutes later, I finished the proof. I got it! And I knew I’d be the only person in class who did it. This was the nice part about being really smart. The hard part was being called names by other boys and girls. The nice part was in getting it right.

And then I looked at myself. I looked pretty sexy in my short-sleeved salmon-colored G.P.S.C. t-shirt (that’s Greater Pitt Swim Club). I was a swimmer so I had a sleek body. And the biceps had started filling in. So I sat at my desk and beat off, my stiff you-know-what under the desk along with my left hand. All the while I was thinking about David Groh and his hairy chest.

Out the window

Little Boy Jimmy stared out the window from the living room of 106 Earlwood Road. Cars roared by! Cars roared by! One was a '63 Ford Thunderbird. Another was a '62 Chevy Nova. First one green, second one white. Oh, boy, is this exciting! Oh, boy, is this amazing! Little Boy Jimmy was so excited he could barely contain himself.

"Mommy, Mommy, I saw a Thunderbird! I saw a Nova!"

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Jimmy, how could you possibly know it's a Thunderbird? You're 3 years old!" laughed his mother.

"But I know it! I know it, Mommy! I've seen them lots and lots of times before!"

"Okay, son, if you say so."

"Can I go back to the window, pretty please Mommy?"

"Yes, Jimmy. I'm going back to 'Days of Our Lives' now. Let me know when Jeff comes home from school."

Little Boy Jimmy went back to the front window. He stared outside, watching the cars roll down Earlwood Road. There came the Andrews' Rambler. Next, the Jannson's Volkswagen Bug. It's a Bug, Jimmy said to himself. In the other direction, the Bixler's Oldsmobile Delta 88. Then came Mrs. Kinney and her big blue Pontiac Bonneville convertible. Oh, boy, said Jimmy to himself.

Maybe Big Brother Jeff would come home from kindergarten soon. He liked Mrs. Langue. She was a good teacher even if she slapped Big Brother Jeff on the cheek that one day. Jimmy hoped Jeff would come home soon. He wanted to play blocks with his big brother. Jeff was really fun.

My mother

Mom's birthday is tomorrow and she'll be 79. I can remember her birthdays over the years. Goodness gracious, when she turned forty in 1972, I thought it was the coolest thing that I had a mother who'd lived four decades. Never mind that Dad had turned forty four months earlier. My world revolved around Mom and her pointy glasses.

"Jimmy," she'd yell from the top of the stairs, wagging her index finger at me, "don't drop that laundry or I'll come down those stairs and slap you!"

Of course I dropped the laundry and of course she marched down the stairs and slapped me. And of course I burst out in gay-boy sobs. And of course I worshipped the ground she walked on.

Three years earlier we'd celebrated her birthday on the screened porch of the new house on Crescent Hills Road -- well, new since we'd only lived there eight months. The house itself was built in 1932, same year as Mom was born. That year we watched TV all day long -- our brand-new black and white Zenith television. We had four channels. KDKA-TV on Channel 2, which was CBS. We watched "Here's Lucy" on Monday nights. WTAE-TV on Channel 2. That was "Bewitched" for Thursdays. WIIC-TV on Channel 11. "Bonanza," of course. Then we also had the really cool Channel 53 ... our UHF channel. I watched re-runs of "The Patty Duke Show" at 6:00 p.m. every night. Afterward I'd go upstairs and look in the mirror. I'd try to curl my hair outward and be Patty Lane. Then I'd curl it inward and be Cathy Lane.

In '69 we watched TV because Neil Armstrong landed on the moon. I can remember that day. So this year, we're getting Mom a TV ... a plasma TV in living color (see that peacock, Mr. NBC) and lots of cable channels -- if they've got them in the nursing home where she's now recovering from a stroke. Too bad she won't be able to use the remote.

Allow me to introduce myself

The 3-year old boy who'd grow up to be a 48-year old software engineer cried by the side of the street. Thirty, forty -- perhaps fifty neighbors stood on the grass, watching the tow truck pull the light blue 1964 Bel Air wagon out of the driveway, where it'd crashed into the stone wall. The boy sobbed and moaned. When Dad pulled him out of the driver's seat, he'd fallen onto the pebbled driveway as the car went by him, careening down the hill. Daddy was painting the garage and when the boy had released the brake, he let out a hollar heard all the way from Earlwood Road down to Hathaway Court. The boy cried because the burns from the pebbles hurt.

Daddy stood with his head in his hands, complaining about how much it would cost to have the Bel Air towed to A.Z. Chevrolet. Where was Mommy? The boy wanted his mother, but she was doing something with Jeff and Gary. But all the kids and all the adults in the neighborhood stood by, gawking. There was Jarilyn McCartney with her long red hair, Missy Andrews with her dark brown ponytails, even Eric Schramm had wandered over from Spring Grove Road.

Mrs. Rinn picked the boy up. "Come with me, Jimmy Wood. I'll wash you up and put a bandage on that knee. Everything's going to be okay."

I remember Mrs. Rinn, her long red bobbed hair, a nice smile, a wandering eye. They got a divorce not long after that, I remember. He got the Chevrolet Suburban and she got the kids and college educations to pay for. I grew up, or more accurately, my body grew up. The mind is still stuck somewhere between 7 and 85. I never know where. People don't know that about me, that I think of myself as a child at the same time I think of myself as a wise old sage. People also don't know that after I finish writing "Grace Notes for Agnes Limerick," I'm going to write my memoir, volume one: my life as a curious klutz growing up in suburban Pittsburgh. People also don't know that even though I'm a very, very happy person, I'm also a very, very unhappy person.