Money well spent

Q: What’s the cost of getting old?

A: $30, at least this past weekend

I’ve been visiting Jones Family Farm in Shelton, CT, for almost ten years now; it’s where I go to cut a Christmas tree. Since we have high ceilings in the living room I usually get a 12-14 footer. That’s not the easiest thing to do and, at this particular tree farm, those tall ones tend to be a steep hike away. But each year I’ve toughed it out and brought home a dandy tree. When I started they charged $50 for any tree you cut; the price is now $69. Still a good deal for such a fresh tree.

(We’ll leave aside the issue or murdering a living thing).

This year we got about six inches of snow the morning of the tree hunt. My tree-killing companions, Vince and Rachel, braved the storm, driving from New York to Woodbridge in time for pastrami fortification at Katz’s Deli. Ransom joined us for lunch but opted out of the hunt. The snow was on my mind as I pictured the hill we had to climb. I knew that the Jones family also sold already-cut trees and I wondered if this was the year I’d settle for one of them.

It was. In fact though, “settling” is not accurate. It’s a beautiful Douglas fir, well-shaped and big enough at maybe 8.5 feet. Rachel is our Lighting Director and she did a great job stringing multi-colored lights. Vince added a couple sets of blues; the result is pictured below.

The trip to the farm was even more enjoyable than in past years. Without the hour spent finding out just what was wrong with each tree we climbed to, we had time to enjoy a hot cider and peruse the gift shop. Rachel and Vince bought me the chocolate (colored) moose, also pictured below.

Was it worth thirty extra bucks to have someone else do the heavy lifting? Absomerrylutely!

It's beginning to look . . .

A unique dining experience

Long before the London Eye was built the world already had an iconic Ferris wheel, the Wiener Riesenrad at the Prater amusement park in Vienna (above). You may recognize it from the 1949 film The Third Man, or from the James Bond movie The Living Daylights. When I visited in 2002 I took the photo below; I didn’t know that dining on the Wiener Riesenrad was a well-established way to celebrate a special evening. I thought it was the most interesting dining experience I had ever seen.

Until last night.

At the restaurant O.NOIR in Montreal patrons eat in the dark. The real dark. The pitch-black, I-can’t-see-my-hand-in-front-of-my-face dark. As their website puts it:

It’s a sensual dining experience like no other. When you eat without your sight, your remaining senses are heightened to savour the smell and taste of food. O.NOIR does more than just fire the imagination and stimulate the senses. After a while in complete darkness (that’s right, no flashlights, matches, cell phones, cigarette lighters or luminous watches), customers gain a better understanding of what it’s like to be blind – just like the restaurants’ entire wait staff. 

After our reservation was confirmed we were told the procedure and shown to a table in the lounge to await the second seating and to peruse the menu. A choice of two or three courses was available; each category – apps, mains and desserts – had maybe eight choices, one of which was a “surprise” – you wouldn’t know what it was until you ate it – if then. At 8:30 we were told to meet our server near the entrance to the dining room.

The adventure began. Julie, our blind waiter, introduced herself and told Ransom to put his hand on her shoulder and me to put mine on Ransom’s. A curtain was pulled aside and we walked slowly into a pitch-black room which Julie navigated easily. Trusting her, we kept up. She brought us to a table, telling us where the wall was and asking that we slide our chairs as far as we could under the table. She told us the location of everything that was on the table. From then on we were alone at a small table in total darkness; not for a moment could I see anything.

It was a fascinating experience. I had beef tartare, pork loin and a crème brulée; Ransom chose the surprise app, which tuned out to be a scallop ceviche, followed by a shrimp and rice dish and profiteroles for dessert. All the food was excellent and, to my knowledge, we finished every bit of it.

That was actually a bit tricky. Many times I lifted my fork to my mouth only to find it empty. Or I cut a piece of meat only to spear a different, too-large-to-eat piece. In the dark of course these things are easily covered. Without the visual cues it wasn’t always easy to know what I was eating. “Ah-hah, that’s a tomato, but what’s it stuffed with?”

The noise level went up and down and, at its loudest, was irritating. The couple next to us – a foot away? two feet? – were totally intelligible. Had I wanted to I could have followed their conversation entirely. Was that because my hearing was more sensitive in the dark? Maybe, but I’m guessing that kind of change would take time.

The evening ended a tad disappointingly as we were kept waiting far too long for our dessert and then again to be escorted out of the room. But the overall experience remains a highly positive, and totally fascinating, one. After settling the bill in the (comfortably lit) front room we walked back to our hotel, glad of our sight and perhaps a bit more sympathetic to those without it.

-->

You CAN go home again – just be careful

Faithful readers know that I returned to Richmond, Virginia, last week for my 50th high school reunion. It was truly exciting and I spent some quality time with several people from the day. Since returning I’ve started a new email exchange with a former teacher and continued email conversations with old friends. It’s all been good and positive.

Until Wednesday.

For the first time ever I’ve experienced a lack of love and support over my sexuality from someone I called a friend. I hadn’t seen her since graduation but my memories are strong and positive. Her first email was upbeat and chatty, telling me of her husband, her four kids and her house in the country. I responded in kind.

Then the bomb dropped. She told me of her church and her belief in the bible and its homophobia. She mentioned a gay family member she claims to love but whose homosexuality she doesn’t support or “agree with.”

Agree with? Sexuality is not something to agree or disagree with; it simply is a fact of a person’s life.

As much as I was saddened to receive her message I take heart in the overwhelming love and support I’ve received all my life from everyone else – everyone else – who’s ever learned I’m gay. Living in the New York area it’s easy to think that Americans are open-minded and supportive; it’s sad to remember that homophobia and hatred are alive and well in the heartland.

Fifty years on

Counting by the old method, where grammar school lasted through eighth grade and high school was nine through twelve, I went to three different high schools. My ninth grade year was my last at Zama American High school in Japan; it was a wonderful year and I was sad to leave. I still remember well friends I haven’t seen since June of 1963, fifty-three years ago.

Sophomore year was at St. Joseph’s Catholic HS in Atlanta. It was the only year of my school life that I was often unhappy. Most of the kids had been going to school together for nine or ten years and they didn’t welcome an intruder. When I started dating the best looking girl in the class the boys were NOT pleased. I’ve been in two fist fights in my life; they were both that year. In both cases I was jumped by a sophomore boy.

Luckily, dad was transferred back to Richmond in 1964 and I attended JR Tucker my junior and senior year. They were two wonderful years and I was immensely happy. I had lots of friends, held several positions in student groups and generally led a carefree teenage existence. After graduation in 1966 my group of friends scattered; I went to Notre Dame, my girlfriend Tina headed to Ohio State, Ellen went to the University of Wisconsin, Chuck, Frank and the Friedman twins all went to UVA. Sadly, I quickly lost touch with all of them except Tina; we continued to date through the sixties.

Last May I received an email about the fiftieth reunion of our class and had a wonderful ninety-minute conversation with Art Friedman, my best friend from senior year. It was likely the first time we had talked in forty-eight years!

Last night I saw Art, his brother Ed and lots of other friends from my graduating class. It was the first Tucker reunion I’d ever gone to and it was brilliant. It was far better than I expected and totally stress-free, unlike I anticipated. As Art had said to me during that long phone conversation, none of us have anything to prove anymore. Worries of being too fat or too gray or not successful enough were banished, replaced by the joy of seeing people who had once meant an awful lot to me. Some folks I didn’t remember – most folks I didn’t recognize – but it was an exciting evening filled with unexpected memories, hugs and handshakes and a lot of great music, both live and canned.

Twenty-five years ago I went to Richmond for the twenty-fifth reunion but then decided not to go. I was embarrassed by my lack of professional success. I should have gone then; I am so glad I went this time.

Art on my right, Ed on my left

Photo by Sally San Soucie

-->

Family matters

Along with the excitement of the 40th anniversary of the GAS lawsuit there was another equally wonderful thing that happened in Richmond this week. I had a long overdue reunion with my nephew Jeremy; not once, not twice, but three times we got together to visit.

Jeremy is the son of Ransom’s brother Evan and I hadn’t seen him for perhaps eight years. Unfortunately, there has been some bad blood between some of the senior members of the family and the kids have been caught in the turmoil. Jeremy and his brother Elliot pretty much became men in my absence and I am sorry to have missed those years.

Jeremy has lived in Richmond for quite a while but this is the first time I’ve seen him there. He’s a successful artist – following in his Dad’s footsteps. We had a great time eating in a local hotspot (Lulu’s), having a drink at Richmond’s hippest hotel, the Quirk, and, taking a trip down memory lane, eating chicken livers at Joe’s Inn (not very good). To the left is one of Jeremy's works that I particularly like.

Having been involved in my own strained family relationships I recognize both the pain and the futility. It was great to experience the love also.

Thanks, Elliot (and Aly) for a great visit.

Continuing the family theme, I’m at the Dallas Fort Worth airport as I write this, sitting with Ransom in the Admiral’s Club – you know, pretending to be one percenters, hiding from the rabble. Ransom’s premiere concert with the Redlands Symphony was Saturday night and it was a stunner. An all Czech program with music by three of the four great Czech composers: Bedřich Smetana, Bohuslav Martinů and Antonín Dvořák. (Who’s the fourth? That would be Leoš Janáček). It was a thrilling evening, ending with the dynamic eighth symphony of Dvořák; most people know his ninth, From the New World. This one is every bit as powerful and moving.

The orchestra sounded great, my husband was his usual magnificent self and the audience loved it. The hall, pictured below, is quite spectacular in a Southern California monumental churchy way. I’m so glad I was there.

Time now to return to work.

Yuck!

Memorial Chapel on the grounds of the University of Redlands

VCU welcomes us -- for the first time

On November 20, 1975, I was sent a letter by Wyndham Blanton, Rector of the Board of Visitors of Virginia Commonwealth University (VCU). As a spokesperson for the Gay Alliance of Students I had written the board to ask them to reconsider their decision not to recognize our group as a student organization; I also asked for the chance to meet with the board to discuss the situation. Blanton’s letter to me was exactly one sentence long: “At a meeting of the Board of Visitors today it was decided to decline your invitation to meet together and to deny your request to alter our decision regarding the registration of your group.”

No, we will not change our minds and no, we will not talk to you!

That was one of the more poignant moments in GAS’s two year struggle to gain recognition, a fight we eventually won completely, setting precedent in five Southern states.

You can imagine then the immense satisfaction I took from sitting in the front row at the VCU Burnside Watstein Award Ceremony yesterday, waiting to receive an award for my work forty some years ago. On my right were my fellow recipients and on my immediately left was the brilliant VCU President, Michael Rao. He and I had had a nice chat over lunch and continued to visit while waiting for the ceremony to begin.

Rao is all the things a university official should be: warm, welcoming, open to new learning, supportive and loving. In fact “love” was the central theme of his brief remarks after each of us had spoken. He is a far, and welcome, cry from the VCU leadership of old.

It was a glorious day that started with a panel where the four of us faced hundreds of assembled students, faculty, staff and onlookers. We were introduced with an oral history that told the story of the GAS lawsuit and after the formal questions from the presenters we tried our best to answer the sometimes very direct questions from the especially engaged students. It was remarkable.

In 1975 and 1976 Brenda, Frances, Sharon and I were just doing what we thought was right. We didn’t give any thought to history or precedent. We wanted to be in a student group and we were outraged that the university said no. We enlisted the aid of the ACLU, Lambda Legal Defense and the National Gay Task Force to fight for our rights. When we won the case we were thrilled but I was happy to go back to being a private citizen and to get on with my life. It’s only been in the last few years that I’ve come to appreciate how important was the work we did and to feel thankful for being in the right place at the the right time.

Several people weren’t in attendance yesterday who fully deserved to be there. Number one on that list is Stephen Lenton who was my mentor and the faculty advisor to the Gay Alliance of Students. His gentle guiding hand and abundant wisdom supported all of us and made our victory possible. He died in 2001. (You can read more about him here).

Steve Pierce was my boyfriend at the time and worked tirelessly to promote a fund-raiser to pay our legal costs. He was so happy when we won the appeal that he memorized part of the court’s decision and thirty years later was still able to quote it to me. He too died of AIDS.

Don Dale was the the news director of the CBS TV affiliate in Richmond and of course, my best friend. He made sure the story got all the coverage it deserved. He died last December; had he lived I know he would have been cheering us on yesterday.

I accepted my award in Steve’s name and I dedicated it to the Trevor Project, telling the audience that as much as we accomplished there was still much more work to do. We will not have finished until all LGBTQIA youth feel safe and free to be who they are. We joined the fight forty-two years ago; I invite those of you reading these words to continue that fight today.

I also invite you to read more about this chapter of my life by following these two links. The first article is pretty long, I know, but I think it’s a good read. The second is coverage of yesterday’s events.

Poster at the entrance to the hall.

Detail of poster; note the hottie on the left.

Visiting with VCU president Michael Rao