Gay marriage? I'll be happy to survive gay puberty.

I'm really glad the tide is turning on national attitudes towards the gay comminuty. It will make Kit's life so much easier. But there will still be plenty of bumps along the road. This week he told a friend (a boy he might be interested in) that he didn't choose to be the way he is. The way he put it was pretty clear. "It's not like I decided who I was right out of my mother's womb." To which the boy responded, "Exactly. You had the choice to be gay." It caught Kit a bit off guard.

Anyone who knows him and seen what he's gone through in his 12 years would know there was no choice in who he is. The path was set so early that if it wasn't genetically predisposed, it was a damn good imitation. And he's still going through changes and pains over it. I helped him dye his hair a couple of weeks ago and last week, he wore a skirt out in public for the first time when he was at a party with his girlfriends. They all dolled up and walked around town. He told me that he felt great being one of the girls. At the same time, when a substitute teacher mistook him for a girl, he turned bright red (and so did she, according to another teacher).

It's a fascinating study in contradictions and breaking social barriers. I just wish my own grandson didn't have to go through it.

Leap of Faith

I took a big jump this week and hired Tio to manage my social media. He's 14, immature at times, and not always dependable (nothing unusual for the age). But we have been stuck in a rut trying to move past the usual "when will you grow up?" lecture and I want to break that cycle with something new. I handed over the passwords to my website, facebook, linkedin, twitter, crafthaus, pinterest, youtube, and younameit. He's of the generation who understands and likes these things more than I do and can intuitively figure out how to coordinate, cross reference and run them smoother. I'll continue to post and read stuff from friends and family but he'll operate the sites, update pictures and info, manage the fan pages and work to increase traffic for my flutes, glories and the new Irish whistle that I'm designing.

Besides - I hate doing that stuff. I like creating the pages but run quickly out of steam after that and don't keep it up. It takes way too much time to make it all work. I have this blog and will be starting another one on Crafthaus in a couple of weeks that will keep me plenty busy over and above all the other things I do every day.

My bigger motive is to bring him into a new business venture (the whistles) that he could have a stake in if he sticks with it. He could learn online social media design, advertising and marketing, and once I get set up, could be involved in manufacturing and learn a trade. If we're successful, there's a future in it on a lot of different levels that could give him experience in business and manufacturing here or elsewhere. He's smart, capable, and I think at a good age to get his feet wet in a serious endeavor. If he succeeds it could give him the courage and confidence to try other things, make some money, earn respect and connect outside his local world.

What do they say about never hiring family? We'll see...

"An Irishman walked out of a bar..." and other St. Patrick's Day non sequiturs.

Yesterday Doc, all of 7 years old, said to Grammo, "Tomorrow is St. Patrick's day. I want to go to a bar."

So we went to the pub this morning where they were having a special breakfast with live fiddle and guitar music. He was so excited. All five of us actually got a table in the crowded room and I shimmied him up to the bar so he could order a root beer straight from the bartender. Then they had a full Irish breakfast and I had a beer. The music was good, the food was good and we all had fun.

Fear and Loathing Across our Nation

I'm amazed at the gun violence debate in this country these days. Since the Newtown massacre, more people have been voicing their opinions and resolve to do something about this, which has made the gunz'n'ammo crowd cry all the louder about how we'll all be helpless and defenseless in the face of all the marauders out there if we don't have heavy firepower in our homes.

I've tried to counter this argument with the simple question "why do you need a semi- automatic military style, high round magazine weapon in your home?" to which there is no real answer except "why not?".

I grew up in Canada watching American television. There was a a common assumtion and palpable fear among Canadians that America was a dangerous and violent place. Even though my mother was American by birth, I worried every time I came across the border that I would be robbed or attacked or be witness to some form of violence. As recently as 10 years ago, my Canadian nephew expressed similar trepidation before he came here for a vacation. It is a common conception about life in The States (as we call it there). I moved here 30 some years ago and have long since dropped my fears of the common Perpetratori Violencia Americanus.

However, what I have come to realize is that there are a lot of Americans that are more afraid of this country than even the Canadians are. He is the rabid gun owner. The myth stokin', gun totin', NRA votin' "we gotta have all the guns we can get our hands on or we're doomed" extremist. These people are truly scared of strangers, their neighbors and local & national government. They expound that arming their homes with more firepower than a terrorist cell makes them safe and sound. How wrong can you possibly be? I'm not talking about folks that have rifles to hunt with or a pistol locked away. I mean the segment of Americans that have whole arsenals like the killer's mom in Newtown.

What are we afraid of? Each other? Is that any life to live? "Love thy neighbor, but better keep the safety off just in case."? How do we possibly walk back from that if we don't do something aggressive about limiting access to so many guns. The Newtown massacre showed us in plain language where this unfettered gun access is headed. Are we really so frightened by the overarmed extremists that we'd rather cower and point our weapons at our locked front door, or should we take the country back from them and say enough is enough?

How many more children will die before we wake up?

The more things change...

Raising kids seems like an endless stream of repetitions. "do this...stop that...didn't I tell you..." etc.. Sometimes I think it's a waste of time varying the routine. I mean, what's the point of customizing it for a particular kid when the final word are always "because I said so."

Tonight, Tish was wondering if was good to always serve the dog the same thing over and over. They don't care, I countered. But do they get the right variety of nutrients and grains and so forth if it's always the same? Good question. Same with the kids. Will they grow up fine and dandy if we just soak them in a generic bath of "do this...stop that...didn't I tell you..." or do they need the variations to survive? Of course, this is a silly hypothetical but it often feels that way.

For instance, I spent a couple of hours this weekend setting up a user account on my computer for Tio so he could manage and edit my facebook, twitter and other social media. It seemed like a good project and a way to build trust since his online experience in the past has been sketchy and had to be severely curtailed. He's 14 now and I want to move beyond past indiscretions that lost him online access months ago. So I gave him my passwords, told him what needed doing (creating a fan page, linking Twitter to Crafthaus, etc.), and left him to it.

I get back 2 hours later and, being the trusting soul that I am, check out the browser history. The kid was viewing porn sites! In the first hour back online in months, he goes straight to the porn. I know that boys and porn are like popcorn and butter but what the hell - you'd think he'd show enough restraint first tap out of the box to build some trust.

So we're back to square one yet again. The same food out of the same can served up cold to the same boy. It's been like this for 3 years. Is it total lack of self control? An inability to differentiate from one experience to the next? Simply doesn't care?

Maybe it doesn't matter and amounts to the same thing. I can't trust him with unrestricted computer access like I can't trust Doc near a freezer full of popcicles. But Doc is only 7. At twice that age, shouldn't Tio have moved the bar up just a little bit?

Frank & Val. A story straight from my sleep

Here's some fiction for your day. This story is almost word for word from a dream I had a little over a year ago. It probably says more about me than I suspect...

                                                        Frank & Val
One afternoon in a timeless part of my life where one day leaked into the next and didn’t really make a dent on whether it was a Thursday or a Sunday, I was working out in the back garden with Val. She often came over, kind of drifted over from her house to share the quiet hours of the summer. That day we were clearing away some weeds from around the stone garden near the pond.

She was wearing a print pattern summer cotton dress and I looked up as she leaned over to pull a fallen twig from the grass. Her dress was hanging down and she wasn’t wearing a bra. I just stared. I hadn’t thought about Val as being old, or particularly young, either. She was kind of ageless, locked in that twilight between time when you slip through the years without changing much. But this was definitely and old woman’s breast, swaying like the pendulum on a grandfather clock.

For some inexplicable reason I saw my hand reach out as though it belonged to someone else and slip through the gap of Val’s indiscretion to gently cup the bare breast up against her rib cage. The warm pouch of skin in my hand didn’t feel of any age either. It was the soft familiar feel of womanhood that I hadn’t held in a long time.

Val’s face suddenly came up and her eyes met mine. Not having the vaguest idea what I was doing, I half expected her to be enraged but she wasn’t. Just the opposite. Her hazel eyes were dancing with the mischief of a twenty year old girl who lifts her shirt just to shock the boys. She dropped the twig and her hand came up against mine, pressing my fingers further into her soft flesh. “Why Frank,” she said with playful innocence, “thank you for protecting my virtue.”

As we were frozen in the moment, her tone, and smile and bright eyes were of a young woman that had been hidden for a lot of years. As quickly as it came, it faded and she suddenly looked very old. The lines of her life re-creased her face and gave away her secrets. She stood up and I slipped my hand away realizing that it wasn’t just her age I was seeing but my own as well. Before me was a dry, wrinkled hand with brown spots on the back of it and knuckles that more resembled ball joints than fingers.

Val moved in close to me and I thought she might kiss me but she didn’t. Her eyes held me, mixed up with the faint aroma of skin cream and shampoo.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know why I did that.” I could feel my face heat up.

She patted me on the chest with the flat of her palm the same smile lingering on the corners of her mouth. “Come on, I’ll make us some tea to go with the cookies I bought this morning.”

In that moment I realized I would never again see myself through the love of a woman’s eyes. Never to see the look of hunger after returning from a trip like she’d been starved of me while I was gone, her eyes running over my face and chest to see what had changed during the few hours I’d been out of her world. It saddened me.

I had been a widower long enough now to have fallen into a quiet ritual of comfortable loneliness. I had gone out with a couple of women after Jenny died but nothing came of it. They never looked at me with anything more than need and I looked back with even less. The years spun on and I kept to my own. Except for Val. She had been a neighbor and friend all these years.

“I miss her, too, you know.” she said, as if everything I was thinking had been said out loud. “She would come over many nights when you were off on the road selling your patent medicines and we would read Walt Whitman or James Joyce to each other into the wee hours. Did you know that?”

I shook my head. It didn’t surprise me. She took my hand and led me towards the back gate, her fingers gently holding mine as though I were very fragile. Val had been, was still, a very beautiful woman. She’d been through several bad marriages. Men fell in love with her for all the wrong reasons and she let them. Then they would both be disappointed.

“Did you ever have an affair during all the long trips you were away?” she asked, still reading my thoughts.

“No. Never,” I said with a tone that only comes from honesty.

“I didn’t think so. Neither did Jenny.”

“Think so or have an affair?”

“Both.” She spoke into the air in front of us and we walked through her words like walking through the mist of a perfume spray where a hint of the memory sticks to your skin and the rest dissipates into history.

 “Although, there was one time when I wondered about you, when you looked like you were drifting apart.” Val added.

I named the year. She repeated it in confirmation.

“I had a hankering for you that year,” I said, this time the playful smile was on my lips. “It was during a time in my marriage that... I don’t know... I suppose every marriage has squalls that you simply have to shutter up the windows and wait through.”

“I got more than squalls than calm in my life,” she said. “That was when I was on the verge of divorce from Lars. I would come over to your house to get away from his bickering and there was a look in your face that should have made me blush to the bone.”

I could feel an awkward grin spread across my stupid face. All I could do was fess up. “I would fantasize about you, wonder what undressing you, touching you, having you want me would feel like. Jenny was so aloof right then, in her own world, as, I suppose was I. It was a palpable need, or so it seemed. But it passed.”

She clicked the gate that joined a path connecting several back yards. I looked up at the swirling cirrus clouds that were telling me they would force me to pile on a spare blanket that night no matter how warm it felt now.

“I lived for that look. It kept me sane. The idea that there was a man out there that found me attractive...” she admitted and held the gate open for me to walk through. “I dreamt the same thing. It wasn’t love or anything just a safe place during a bad time. It helped me survive a dreadful breakup that was inevitable anyway.”

“For me, too.” Her words could have been my own. I didn’t want to have an affair with Val. The imagined assignation was enough: a raft to float on while Jenny and I got our footing again. “Isn’t it strange how our mutual need helped each other out without a word or touch between us. Do you suppose it was any sort of love?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Probably not that uncommon. People spark for each other. Simple as that. I don't suppose sexual energy is always meant to be spent like a fiver that’s burning a hole in your wallet.”

Her hand touched my back as she gently propelled me through the gate and down the path. Her fingers lingered there as we walked on, like a blind person keeping contact to make sure of their footing. A moment later, she linked her arm in mine. We walked in silence the three doors down to her back fence.

As she lifted the rusty wrought iron latch, she said, “I want to read you a passage from Ulysses I think you’ll like.”

Chaos Theory

My local, the "Salt Hill Pub" in Newport

The curtain has officially come down on my vacation. The kids got home late last night. By 5 this aftenoon, I bailed. I told Buddy to apologize to Tish for my skulking off before she got home from work. I'm down at the pub amid the noise where my thoughts can be quiet. I'm glad to have the kids back home (if not quite ready to face it). I loved the break but I love the grandsons, too.

It's there where the chaos starts but not where it ends. With Tish retiring, the kids starting a new term, introducing a new line of Irish pennywhistles this spring, and still worried about health concerns - everything is up in the air.

Chaos Theory suggests that out of the mess comes order, that the subtle movement of events in one part of reality can impact and create a tidal wave in others - for good or bad. That's what's so great about being a risk taker and embracing change. If you don't shuffle the cards or throw them in the air once in a while, every hand you deal will be the same. But after a good shuffle, while the cards are being dealt, the new hand has infinite promise. It's exciting.

Taking risks is not a gamble. Gambling is playing short term against specific odds on the chance that you will win something. Taking a risk comes when you build something without knowing the outcome but have a decided advantage against the odds. The risk involved is how well you handle the twists and turns along the way.

Being an artist, is by its very nature a chaotic risk. We risk failure and rejection every step up the learning ladder in the hopes that we'll get it right and speak to our audience. Commercially, the odds are against us and creatively our choices are constantly scrutinized. But the road I've travelled has been a real trip.

At Home Together Again for the First Time

The kids are away on vacation for the whole week and I haven't left the house in 4 days. I'm living in my pjs (yes - I have showered and brushed my teeth) and losing track of time being a cycle of someone else's schedule. I used to live like this all the time. I'd forgotten how liberating a completely fluid schedule can be. My sleep pattern, eating and work all fall into a natural cycle that has little to do with 9 to 5.

A lot of people would love to work at home but it's not easy. Too many incidental things just clutter up the day and  compromise level of work you can get done for the hours spent and a lot of people get lonely because it can get damn quiet. I don't mind admitting I talk to the dogs (and am happy to report they don't talk back). I've been at it for so many years now (I've only spent 2 of my almost 40 working years at an outside office/shop) that I know how to get work done and procrastinate all at the same time. I generally work 5-6 hours a day all 7 days a week.

The big change comes next week when my wife starts her official 'retirement'.We spent 10 years working and running a business together many years ago and it had it's ups and downs. Now we'll be together for the first time in almost 15 years. We're looking forward to it but it is a big change and a challenge for us both. We'll have more time to spend together and still have to find our ownmar space. It's all part of a new beginning that we don't quite know where we're headed.

Anyone who works at home with their partner always there want to share how they manage?