The Life of Henry

"Dogs are our link to paradise. They don't know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring--it was peace."

-- Milan Kundera

On one blustery, bustling Saturday afternoon in December 1994, I braved the madding crowd at the mall to buy a few gifts for my family. I dashed into the pet store to pick up some rawhide treats for Barksdale and Ditto, the two Basset Hounds that lived with my partner Charles and me. I spotted a puppy cowering in the corner of a cage, unnerved by the din created by the other animals in the shop. I tried to ignore him, but something kept bringing me back to look at him. The more I stared, the more interest he showed in me. There were other people around, but he stared at me and tentatively wagged his tail. I asked the attendant to remove him from the cage so I could meet him. The moment I cradled him in my lap I knew I belonged to him.
Charles and I had had a difficult summer and autumn dealing with his diagnosis of lymphoma and the subsequent chemotherapy and radiation. He was depressed. I was stressed as I continued to teach eighth grade science in an inner-city school while tending to his medical and emotional needs. All I needed was another dog to be responsible for. But we welcomed this beautiful animal to our home nonetheless. We named him O. Henry Horatio and he made it so abundantly clear to the other dogs that he was in charge that Charles nicknamed him Henny Bo Barracuda.

Fast-forward to March 1996: I had a funeral to-do list from Charles and there was one task I hadn't been able to complete. There was an African-American lady named Alfreda who was named for Charles' mother. He had heard her sing when he was a child and had always remembered her angelic voice. He wanted her to sing "The Lord's Prayer" at his funeral, but I had no way of finding her. For weeks and weeks I called friends and churches in Yazoo City asking if anyone knew her...but I was met with only dead ends.
Charles lay in a hospital bed in our bedroom drifting in and out of consciousness. I was sitting in a chair watching dappled sunlight dance across his waxen, yet peaceful, face. The phone rang. The caller cheerfully asked to speak to Mr. North. I told her he wasn't available. She responded, "This is Alfreda Johnson from Yazoo City. I was a friend of his momma's and have been thinking about him a lot lately. You think he would mind if I stop by for a visit?" I explained his illness and told her he would love to see her, even if he couldn't see her.
The next morning Alfreda arrived at the same time as our priest. And, of course, with all the activity, Henry, Barksdale and Ditto were dashing around the yard barking at the interlopers. Father Bill, Alfreda and I gathered around the bed and Charles stirred, opening his eyes. Alfreda held his hand and stroked his hair as Bill administered the last rites. As soon as he began reciting the liturgy, the Bassets were suddenly quiet as they sat just outside the bedroom window. Afterwards, Charles whispered to Alfreda, "Will you sing for me?" She put down her purse, cleared her throat and began... "Our Father, which are in heaven..." As though Alfreda's softly booming voice needed accompaniment, Henry began the most mournful baying and was soon joined by Barksdale and Ditto. Charles died two weeks later and I was alone with my hounds.

Almost fourteen years later, I sit here at a different dining table, in a different city reflecting on my life. Barksdale and Ditto died 4 years ago and my Henry is 15 1/2 years old. His eyes are clouded with cataracts, his body weakened by congestive heart failure. Tumors are growing in his bladder. He has no appetite and is slowly wasting away.
I went to see Dr. Ken today and made the appointment for tomorrow at 10:45 a.m. My little dog who has tagged along with me through my roller coaster life will be leaving me. Where he'll go, I don't know. But I 'd like to think that there's a man somewhere sitting on a Victorian wire bench with a Heineken in his hand waiting to see the Barracuda again. And that makes losing him seem almost joyful.

I have shared my life with many pets and have grieved when they've died. This is different. Saying goodbye to Henry will be saying goodbye to Charles and Barksdale and Ditto. For good.

Grace

Christianity teaches us that grace is unmerited favor from God. Other religions view grace in slightly different ways. But I'm not interested in preaching or proselytizing.

One of my most favorite books is "The Unmistakable Touch of Grace" by Cheryl Richardson. I haven't read it in a while, but one of the key points I took from the book is that grace is abundant in our lives if only we are open to seeing it. In the darkest, most difficult moments in my life, I make a conscience effort to look for grace in my daily life. Witnessing grace makes me smile, it warms me, it gives me hope. You see, grace is simply unmerited love...regardless from whence it comes.

Grace to me is not a Christian tenet. It's a philosophy. Grace is indeed God speaking to us, teaching us a lesson...though not verbally. Grace avails itself to everyone, whatever their belief system. Does the atheist see the news footage of the dog in New York traffic standing fearlessly beside his canine friend who's been struck by a car and not feel anything? If he does, that's grace. If he doesn't, he's just emotionally stunted.

As I left a client's house today, exiting through the garage, I thought to myself, "Now, that's grace." Carolyn and I worked together two years ago planning and producing her twin boys' bar mitzvahs and became fast friends in the process. I've seen her only occasionally since then, so we had some catching up to do. She is a widow, having lost her husband to cancer when the boys were young. After Jerry's death, she took over his business and it prospered. In August 2008 she sold the business. We all know what happened two months later--the bottom fell out of the market and businesses began to suffer. Her decision to sell the business is grace. Some may be inclined to call it luck, credit it to savvy CPA's, attribute it to coincidence. I call it grace. She then began working as a medical sales rep and has created, through grace, a successful career.

Now, the logical question is...how did I find grace in hearing her story? You see, my business has suffered because of the recession. I filed bankruptcy in August and am in the process of closing the business. It has been a punch to the gut for me...my pride has been wounded...my friendships and my faith have been tested. Carolyn called me yesterday (out of the blue--my translation: grace) and said she needed some help decorating her house for Christmas. Yeah, you caught that earlier reference to her sons' bar mitzvahs, right? Grace.

Hearing Carolyn's journey gave me hope that, through trials, through dark, dark days and nights, I will be fine.

Throughout my ordeal, I have actively sought grace and I have found it in the strangest of places. I found it on Twitter. I could tune out my problems and just be my usual silly self without having to talk about the difficulties I am having to deal with. One of the first people I met on Twitter was Jeff. I don't remember who began following whom. He and his partner and his Lily are a part of my family and I cherish them. (Strange concept for the non-Tweeters, I know, but like I said earlier, grace manifests itself in strange ways.)

Mary is another of my Twitter friends. Mary was in town last summer for a class reunion and we scheduled a Tweet-up. (Again, for you non-Tweeters, that's an in-real-life meeting.) I pulled up to the hotel to pick her up for dinner and was met by a retinue of her former classmates who demanded to know where we were going, when we would be back. Mary made me laugh and continues to be a special part of my life.

There are more Twitter friends...Pam, Ted, Carole, Tony, Stephanie, Chassidy, Susan, Nadia, Laura and more...all of whom are special to me for very specific reasons. I would give anything to be at a cocktail party with all of them.

In-real-life friends are the ones who keep me grounded. Kathie makes me homemade pretzels, shares my love of animals and snarkiness, and inspires me with her faith. Dalton, who invites me over for gin and tonics though she can't imbibe because of the chemo and radiation she's having to endure after her double mastectomy, is worried about me. Grace is Dalton's worrying about ME. Christi is my oldest friend (sadly, her reading this post will be her first knowledge of my business failure) who knows me best. Just knowing her is grace. Sherrye knows all my warts and I hers. Sara Emma and Cathy I love for their gentleness, snarkiness, and unwavering solidarity. My parents are my heroes--their faith, their lives, their support, their unconditional love are grace.

And I'm not so self-absorbed to see grace as a gift TO me. I am aware that I have been the purveyor of grace in other people's lives...and sometimes I don't give myself enough credit. But grace is selfless. It's given without the prospect of acknowledgment. Grace is indeed salvation. It's love. Whatever the source.

World AIDS Day

It's been 13 years and a day shy of eight months since he died. He would be 69 years old now... But he is still so much a part of my life. The night we met he told me he was HIV+. I didn't care. He was without a doubt the most fascinating person I had ever met. And continues to be. I remember those early months together. The old cold house in Mississippi with the crumbling plaster, the collection of family antiques, the memories. The Eames chair in the living room where we first kissed I still have. The Victorian half-tester bed where we first spent a night together. I still have it too. I remember opening the refrigerator that first night and seeing only Haagen-Dazs, Beefeater (he taught me to love gin) and Vodka. There were stacks of books everywhere. And newspapers. And china. And silver. And art. To say he was a hoarder is an understatement. Ours was a story that could be written only in the South. Country boy comes out. Meets suave New York architect who has returned to his native Mississippi to retire. He 53, I 29. It was the only time I have ever been head-over-heels in love.
He was a curmudgeon. In fact, we named our first Basset Hound "Lord Alfred Bruce Barksdale" in honour of Oscar Wilde...Barksdale? Old family name.
I was a teacher in a middle school smack dab in the middle of a crack neighborhood. He seemed to delight in pushing my racial buttons. At Christmas Eve mass one year, we sat in the family pew and, upon seeing a Black family four rows up, he remarked, loudly, "This place is just crawlin' with Nigras!" I grabbed him by the collar and told him, not too delicately, "If you say one more word, I will pick you up and carry you out of here. Before baby Jesus has even made an appearance!" He piped down.
We had met in December 1993. In May, at a dental appointment, his dentist noticed something unusual in the back of his throat. It turned out to be non-Hodgkins' lymphoma...the first AIDS-related diagnosis. We spent the summer in chemotherapy and radiation. And he packed in ice when sepsis set in. In August, the day after he was released from the hospital pronounced cured, we flew to Boston. He recuperated in the Ritz-Carlton and I drove along the Maine coast alone. Lunch in Newport with friends, a visit to the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum, shopping on Newbury. We had survived round one.
The next year remains a blur. I taught school. He waited for me to come home from school. We dined. We drank. We took trips to New Orleans. We went to art openings. We read. We talked. We dreamed. We loved.
In October 1995 we went to visit his friends in Savannah. On the trip home, I decided that the time had come for me to quit my job to stay with him and care for him. He was waning.
The fungal infections, the sleeplessness, the night sweats, the dementia, the neuropathy, the depression, the fear were all compounding daily. His legs were covered with thick scaly masses of fungus. Itching was unbearable. He would soak in a warm Aveeno bath and I would take a comb and slowly, deliberately peel away the skin and then apply ointments to ease the discomfort. Strangely, one of my fondest memories of him is when he was soaking in the bath. I was in the kitchen making boiled custard (had to keep that weight up) when he started singing at the top of his lungs: "Jeremiah was a bullfrog! And a good friend of mine!" I thought he had finally gone over the edge, but he was just making the most of the moment. Three Dog Night still reminds me of him. Gradually, he faded. After Christmas 1995 he wanted to go to a hospice facility. I fought him on this, but he wanted things to be easy for me. My only requirement was that when he was ready to come home to die, he had to tell me. He told me on my 32nd birthday.
I scrambled to have home health bring a hospital bed to the house and to line up nursing staff. I was ready for him. I carried him from the car to the bedroom, undressed him and put him in bed. I was on the front terrace visiting with several neighbors and their children, when, all of a sudden, Charles appeared, fully clothed. He was completely lucid and regaled the kids with stories of what the neighborhood was like when he was a little boy. An hour later, he turned to me and said, "I'm tired."
Every morning, I would walk in his room and he would open his eyes and say, "Mawnin', JonBeahhhr." And that would be all I would get. One time, though, he was talking about having talked to his (deceased) mother that morning. I knew that was a sign of the end, so I said, "What about your Daddy? Have you seen Big Charlie today?" With bright blue eyes and a rather astonished look on his face, he replied, "He's dead, ya know." We had some time left.
I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Charles would die on April Fools' Day. That was just the way he was. He died on April 2nd. Point made.
I guess I will go to my grave missing him, but today, on World AIDS Day, I honour him. For his love, for his bravery, for his memory. I love you, CharlieDog.

The phantom of lost love

We met on a post-holiday night at the Jack’s Construction Site. I had never been to a gay bar before and didn’t even know what I should wear. I settled on jeans, cowboy boots and a leather jacket. He motioned for the bartender to hand me a beer. Because I looked so out of place, he said. I could see the twinkle in his eyes from across the bar. His stare suggested he knew our future. And then I glimpsed a fleeting look of profound sorrow. He knew I would love him forever. And he knew that he would leave.

I thought if I stood beneath this flickering lamp post on a deserted Park Avenue corner he would saunter through the snow shuffling along behind his basset hound. As he neared me he would pause, gasp, and then smile. His hound would sniff my feet and gaze upward knowingly into my eyes and then take a seat. He would look into my eyes and whisper, “Finally.”

In the early months I would follow and sometimes chase him, but he always got away. I was moseying daydreaming on Central Park South, when from a half block away, he looked at me, turned to walk into the park and then slowly, silently looked back. I continued walking, watching, but did not follow.

As I sat in the window at Fada exhaling slowly over a steaming mug of latte, I saw him bundled against the piercing wind and driving snow, darting among the lost souls on Driggs.

I caught a whiff of Hermes at Balducci’s and spotted him in the produce department rummaging, reaching for an unblemished bosc.

Dashing into an optometrist’s office clutching his broken eyeglasses.

Exiting the L two cars up as I boarded for my Bedford Avenue stop.

Thumbing through the Sunday Times at the newsstand at Union Square.

Rifling through a mangled pile of half-off cashmere sweaters at Barney’s.

When I slowly awoke nestled in flannel sheets on a frosty morning and watched swirling clouds of snow dance from rooftop to rooftop across the street from my Williamsburg flat, I heard him whisper, “Morning, my prince.”

“The avocado is not quite ripe yet,” I said to myself as I began to prepare a dinner for one. In another room I heard him chuckle, “Let’s have another gin and tonic and wait.” I imagined, I imagine.

It’s been 13 years since he left. And a few months since I’ve seen him. And a few weeks since I’ve thought about him.

I sat beside someone on the train this morning. Handsome, witty, kind. Loves dogs. Adores old ladies. Thinks television is a blight on humanity. Sees “A Confederacy of Dunces” as the funniest collection of words in the English language. Cries at my suggestion that Messiaen’s “Quartet for the End of Time” is the most beautiful piece of music ever penned. Suspects that no one has ever been able to define passion better than Millay. Insists that no one has ever been able to sing as passionately as Brightman. Knows how to make cornbread. Stresses that the secret to having peace in the world is teaching all people how to entertain properly. Agrees with Thoreau that no companion is so companionable as solitude. Listens to country music because of its ability to convey feelings honestly. Argues that life without love is pointless. Falls in love slowly and then loves for life...

I looked into his blue eyes, oblivious to the rocking car and bustling throngs, and felt that almost forgotten feeling of warmth and comfort.

Saturday we’ll meet again for coffee and let our dogs romp in the park. And maybe, just maybe, I will stop seeing the ghost.

Opera, olives and acorns...

In January 2008 my friend Nanci and I were planning a trip to Italy to celebrate our birthdays. During the Christmas holidays I had read John Grisham's "Playing for Pizza" and had become enamoured with the notion of visiting some of the places he had mentioned in the book. We had already rented a second-floor walk-up on Piazza Santo Spirito in Florence for 10 days and were trying to decide what day trips to take. Nanci is one of those people who's impossible to surprise, but I gave it my best shot. I got on the interwebs and looked up the opera house that Grisham mentioned in the book. It indeed existed and, to my surprise, "Faust" was being performed while we were there. I bought two tickets. Then, when we got to Florence, I broke the news to Nanci that one of our trips was going to be to Parma. "Why the hell are we going to PARMA? And we are spending the night? Are you serious?" I told her I wanted to taste the prosciutto.

With our backpacks, we took the 20 minute stroll across the Arno to Santa Maria Novella to board the train. North we went to Bologna (yes, I have a long-standing love for cured meats), northwest through Modena (you can think of the olive oil and balsamic vinegar now), Reggio nell'Emilia (cheese!) and finally to Parma. I will admit to being the typical man here. I don't ask for directions in English and I sure as hell don't try it in a foreign language. In looking for the Teatro Regio di Parma, we found Trattoria dei Corrieri. But, I digress.

We found the hotel which was across the river from the old town. I didn't score major points here, but it was safe and clean. Then we were off to the opry. I thought having studied German in college would have prepared me for a good, old-fashioned opera. Wrong. The producers had taken the classic and had turned it into a 21st -century phantasmagoric extravaganza of laser lights, booming special effects and voices seldom heard this side of heaven--all within the walls of the early-19th century opera house of Bellini, Verdi and Toscanini. This Alabama rube recognized a few words they were singing but knew the story. It didn't matter. I was mesmerized. And smitten with opera.

We sauntered from the theatre down Strada Guiseppe Garibaldi. I knew the restaurant was southwest of the theatre and I knew the name of the street was Conservatorio. We were walking with a large group of people, talking about how the opera was so unexpectedly glorious and we weren't paying close attention to where we were going. Turning the corner, there it was: http://www.ristorantidiparma.it/old/CORRIERI/index.html And, the food...risotto with pears, prosciutto with olive oil and little puffy potato pillows, gnocchi with arugula pesto, and a bowl, nay, a VAT of tiramisu that would make your tongue slap your brains out. All washed down with two bottles of white Tuscan wine. (The fact that we were scoffed at from Rome to Venice and everywhere in between because of our aversion to red wine is another story for another day.)

As we strolled, sated and just a wee bit tipsy along the Parma River toward the hotel, I, with my chest swollen with pride in having executed such a memorable evening, asked Nanci if she was surprised. She said, simply, curtly, "Even a blind sow finds an acern ever once in a while."

Sissies, racism, and redemption

My friend Emo posted her recent experience at a healthcare reform town hall meeting today and it's been on my mind all day. It made me think of this excerpt from Kevin Sessums' "Mississippi Sissy:"

"Did you catch the Oscars last night, Matty?" I had asked her that morning. "Can you believe a nigger won Best Actor?"
Matty May sat down on the bed. A long slow sigh slid from her. She reached over and took a sip of the Tang she liked to drink instead of a morning cup of coffee. "Oh, baby...," she kept saying over and over and running her palm along the chenille spread. "Oh, baby...." The look of sad resignation in her eyes--all slyness had disappeared from them--was the same I had seen in my mother's only the day before in her hospital room, a look of utter fatigue, defeat. "I thought you was different, child. Lawd be, if they can get you t'sayin such things, there ain't no hope. No hope." She started to cry. I sat down next to her and reached out and held her hand. I turned her palm over and, as I loved to do when taking a nap with her sitting at my side, I gently rubbed her calluses with my fingers, amazed by their toughness and how very tender they made me feel. "No hope. No hope," she kept repeating.
"Nigger's a ugly word?" I quietly asked her, trying to understand this newest storm of tears in my presence.
"Child, it's d'ugliest. Jesus never say nigger in d'Bible. God made us colored folk in His own image, too, you know. So if we a nigger, God a nigger, too. You think about that. And you think about old Matty cryin' here like this, if you ever think about sayin' that agin." I looked up at her and asked her what I should call her then, since my grandparents, careful never to curse around me, used the word several times a day within my earshot. She straightened her bent shoulders and roughly pulled me up by the collar of the shirt she had just ironed for me to wear to school. She stood me up right in front of her. She always made sure to use a sweet tone when addressing me, but not in that moment. Her voice took on a hard edge, not lashing out at me exactly, but making me notice the angry dignity with which it was suddenly imbued. "Ah-woe!" she said, that special exclamation she always used for emphasis when she wanted your attention and was sure to get it. "I got a name, child. call me by my right name--Matty May. That's got a pretty sound to it. You don't need to use some ugly name when my mama give me two pretty ones. Sometimes when I'm shopping at Paul Chambers," she said, referring to the owner of the general store where many of the country folk in the area shopped for groceries, work clothes and gasoline, "and I hear some white fool use that word around me I just say my name over and over in my head to drownt it out, Matty May Matty May Matty May. Now I got a new one I can use--Poitier Poitier Poitier," she said, practically singing the name, her face aglow with pride." Sounds almost as pretty as my own."
I helped her make up the rest of my bed that morning. "Matty May," I asked, "when somebody calls me a sissy at school, can I say your name over and over in my head to make it go away?"
Se teared up again. She offered me the last sip of her Tang. I took it, defying my grandparents' admonition never to get a colored person's germs. "Child, you can use old Matty's name all you want," she said, kissing me on top of my head. "Plenty of me to go around now that I got something as pretty as Sidney Poitier to pronounce inside myself."

President Carter's comments last night were not "playing the race card." He spoke as an enlightened man who has witnessed throughout his life the ugly, painful truth of our American story. Sessums' story serves as a reminder of how far we've come. And today's cultural and political environment reminds us how far we've yet to go.

Christmas in Dixie

I spent the Christmas holiday with my family in sleepy Meridian, Mississippi. When we are all together, conversation invariably turns to the olden days. Daddy told us this year about his father's going to town on Christmas Eve 1940-something and buying 2 crates of oranges and 2 crates of apples. He dispersed one crate of each of the fruits to the sharecroppers on the farm and reserved the rest for his 8 children, wife, and mother. That was Christmas. No stockings, no gift cards, no need for wrapping paper and ribbons. And everyone was thrilled with the extravagant gift!
Today I feel guily for remembering with disappointment the Christmas I wished for a cookie shooter...a contraption you could pack with cookie dough and press a button to create cookies in a myriad of shapes and sizes. I didn't get it. And this Christmas I wished for an espresso machine. I didn't get it. Now I can afford to buy both, but I need neither. And I think these lessons from my parents' childhoods have sunk in to the point where I realize "need" is more important that "want" at Christmas. Which leads me to this summation--from whom I don't remember--" If you don't need it, it ain't worth a bucket of warm spit."