On our way out of Log Haven, after a glorious meal of celebration and gratitude for each other.We took a selfie by the coats. Nobody else does that.Isn’t Suzanne dreamy?Suzanne opted for the salmon.I chose the tenderloin with asparagus and mashed potatoes.A little bit o’ blur doesn’t matter when you are having a splendid time.Even through the blur, you can see our happiness seeping through.
Log Haven is quickly becoming our go-to restaurant for our anniversary dinner. I sense it’s a tradition in the making. Because we got married so close to Christmas, we think of our Log Haven dinner as sort of a combination Anniversary/Christmas evening in the snowy mountains.
We never intended to get hitched so near Christmas. We never knew when, or if it, would be legal for us to marry at all in our lifetime. And then suddenly, it was legal in Utah. Maybe. On Friday, December 20, 2013, the state of Utah began issuing marriage licenses to same-sex couples, based on a U. S. District court’s ruling that day which found barring same-sex couples from legally marrying violates the U. S. Constitution. However, there was to be another court hearing on Monday, December 23rd that could possibly stay or even throw out the ruling. We had to get a marriage license ASAP, just in case the whole possibility to marry went kaput.
The problem was that we were already decking the halls in Delta for the holidays, and it was late on Friday afternoon when we got the news. All the County Clerk’s offices in Utah were closed for the weekend. We knew we had to get a license and get married as early as possible on Monday morning—before the hearing that might possibly shatter our nuptial dreams. But where would we be able to get married? We stayed stuck to the news on tv and on our phones all throughout the weekend. Some County Clerks around Utah had been wishy-washy about issuing marriage licenses to people like us, even if they had been told they had to follow the law.
By Sunday night, we had decided we had a better chance of being able to get a marriage license if we just skipped over the iffy rural counties around us and drove north. That night, we told Mom we wouldn’t be around the next day because we were running off to get married. She was happy for us and would have come with us, but she wasn’t feeling all that well. I told her not to worry about missing out on the momentous event. I told her we thought it be fun to elope anyway. Early Monday morning, we drove out of Millard County, through Juab County, and into Utah County—where we stopped in Provo at the County Clerk’s office. We walked in and told the woman behind the desk why were there. She handed Suzanne and I papers for us to fill out. We thought: so far, so good. As we filled out our documents, other couples came in and hurriedly got to work on their own license paperwork. We had completed our paperwork, when the woman behind the desk was talking to another person and said, “The County Clerk has decided he’s not going to issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples.” Hold on! Back the truck up! I said, “When we first walked into this office, we told you why we came here. You gave us the proper paperwork to fill out. Why didn’t you tell us we couldn’t get a marriage license when we first walked in?” Duh. Crickets.
This was wrong in a million ways. By this time, the legal hearing that could stay or reverse our shot at getting married was underway. We were running out of time. Fortunately, reporters from The Salt Lake Tribune were there when Suzanne and I walked out, and one asked if we wouldn’t mind talking to them. He listened, took my name, and one of my quotes showed up in The Trib the next morning. I’m sure nobody in Delta thought for a minute that the quote from “Helen Wright from Delta” came from Mom, although when she read it, she said she agreed with me completely. Anyhoo…we had to decide where to drive next to secure a marriage license. Stay tuned.
This brightly colored Tie o’ the Day made the newest member of Suzanne’s family oh-so happy on his first Christmas. This is Bracken, and he and Tie bonded mightily at Suzanne’s parents’ annual Christmas afternoon family get-together. I plan on leaving Bracken’s slobber crusted on the tie, then gifting the tie to him some Christmas when he’s a teenager—so he can be properly and simultaneously embarrassed and amused.
According to one Xmas present Suzanne gave me, my behavior last year got me onto Santa’s “naughty” list. I tried so hard to be good, but I won’t argue about the results. I trust Suzanne’s judgment. I didn’t just get a regular lump o’ coal for Christmas, I received a “Big Ass” lump o’ coal—in the form of an oversized bar o’ soap. I know the lump o’ coal soap is a sign I was bad, but the soap smells so heavenly I might want to earn a spot on the naughty list again this year, so I can be gifted another mellifluous “big ass” bar o’ charcoal soap for the sole purpose of washing all of my bad away.
It might surprise y’all to know that Mom has surpassed me in being naughty every year, for decades. She’s better than me, even at being bad. Every Christmas, she got an entire mountain of coal as a present from Dad. Visions of toasty fires, 24/7, in our living room fireplace danced in her head. I kid you not: Mom started a fire in the fireplace upon the occasion of late September’s first chill, and that fire kept going until at least April. She took great pleasure in feeding the fireplace one lump o’ her naughty coal after another, through winter and far into spring if the temperatures were still wintry. Yup, around the holiday season, Dutson’s would deliver at least a half-ton of coal chunks behind our house. The taller the coal pile, the happier Mom was with it. Mom thought it was the best gift every year. She tended to the fire in the fireplace as if it were one of her grandkids learning to swim. She kept her eye on the fire’s progress, and fulfilled its every need. Mom’s fire always gave off perfect warmth and was maximum gorgeous. She loved her lumps of coal, and she loved telling people that a pile o’ coal was the Christmas gift Dad thought she deserved. 🔥
I wasn’t available to post yesterday. We made an early Xmas visit to Mom’s kingdom, for my true Christmas morning. I knew I would wear the leg lamp Tie o’ the Day for our visit, because Mom loves it so. But she also likes the tie on which Richie wears—and abhors—the bunny pajamas. I decided a two-fer festive Tie o’ the Day was necessary for our get-together. (She made a bigly deal about how much she liked my “ugly sweater”-ish green holiday jacket.) Skitter was a constant at Mom’s side, in all her elf-collar glory. When I pulled the phone out for pix, Mom playfully showed off one of the soft peppermints we brought her. I showed Mom a couple of Christmas “stockings” she had made me over my kidhood, and she remembered them, mostly. As you can see in the first photo, Suzanne and I found Mom the perfect Santa hat for her gift: it matches her purple housecoat AND it sports a tiara—befitting Mom’s eternal Queen Bee status. As Mom drank from a convenience store Coke with lots of ice—which she said her friend, Dot, had brought her earlier that morning—she said to me and Suzanne, “I’ll drink FOR you, and TO you, and WITH you kids—for ANY reason, ANY time.” She was having such a good time. She sounded like she had been drinking eggnog with extra whisky in it. I’ll have to quiz Dot about what she really put in that drink she brought Mom.
I still have much to do before X-mas. I’ve got to remember where I hid the gifts I got for Suzanne so she wouldn’t find them. I secreted them away so brilliantly I can’t find ’em yet. I have to wrap our gifts for Mom, including the many candies she likes. We try to stick with sugar-free goodies for Big Helen, but we seem to “accidentally on purpose” make a habit of not being able to find sugar-free versions of what Mom likes. She’s my mother, so she will always get what she wants from me—which is real sugar. The list o’ my remaining Christmas tasks is long, so breaks are necessary to my sanity. So on this break, I’m just sittin’ around the house in my Bah Humbug Santa hat—while wearing soft antlers decorated with a ribbon Bow Tie o’ the Day on top. And I’m also showing off one of my CHRISTMAS VACATION Tie’s o’ the Day. Even as I rest, I am multi-tasking. No, wait—I’m multi-tieing!
Today’s Bow Tie o’ the Day offering was sent to me by my cousin, Judy A. Humphries. She saw it, and—for some wild and unknown reason—she thought of me. I’m so glad she did. I’m sure y’all are, too. 🤣 🥓
We here at TIE O’ THE DAY believe that you can never have enough leg lamps of any ilk. It’s just plain true that 2 real leg lamps and 1 leg lamp Tie o’ the Day make a jolly trio in the house. When I next drive down to Deltassippi to visit Mom at the care center, I will be wearing this same tie. I wear it for her at least once every Christmas season. In fact, she has one of my A CHRISTMAS STORY leg lamps in her room there. It is tiny and plugs into a regular electrical outlet. It is visible on one of her tables or in her window most of the time. Tie o’ the Day will make Mom laugh throughout the entire visit. Mom’s short-term memory is such that she will see and enjoy the leg lamp tie the minute we walk in her room, then she’ll forget it, then 10 minutes later she will notice it again, and so on—as if every time she notices the tie, it’s the first time she’s seen it that day. (Mom loves A CHRISTMAS STORY. I think it was BT/Mercedes’ family who introduced the movie to Mom.)
For a while now, Mom has had a tendency to repeat her stories, jokes, and questions. But she still knows who we are and remembers enough about us to have conversations about our lives. She has, however, begun to ask me how many kids she had, and which one am I. She seems to remember from the early-30’s up to the mid-80’s pretty well, for the most part. Sometimes now she mixes up who did what and where. But we never correct her. We heard the stories when her memory was great, so we know who did what and where. If you happen to run into her at the care center this holiday season, I suggest you let her know who you are and who your parents are. Chances are, she’ll be able to place you or at least your family, and you can enjoy a fun conversation with her. No matter what she remembers or doesn’t remember, she’s still got her spunk, her compassionate heart, and her humor. She is still a joy to be around.
I didn’t intend to write about Mom today. The words simply fell out of my fingertips. I miss Mom every day. Lately, I can’t think about her without crying, as I’m doing now. I miss her even when I’m with her. I am already in mourning for her, though she’s still here with us. She’s Mom, but she is not wholly Mom. Pieces of her are no longer part of her. I mourn those pieces—her wildly aware and knowing love; her full-of-stories memory; and her astute cognition. Her hugs are not whole anymore either. But they are precious to me beyond any riches or success I might ever have. 💎 💰 🏆
Today’s Banned Books: I’m re-reading OF MICE AND MEN, by John Steinbeck, and Anne Frank’s DIARY OF A YOUNG GIRL. Two literary classics.
Our Tie o’ the Day in this photo belongs to my niece, the dapper Amanda Jo Tucker—which is a name she is generally not known by. She has always been called Mimi. Mimi belongs to my oldest sister, BT/Mercedes and Nuk. Like me, she is the baby of her family. Like me, she is the 5th of 5 siblings. Mimi and I have been tight since the Pre-existence, when were were often caught together laughing way too loudly and making the other spirits laugh louder than that. I refer to her as my Wee Doppelganger. We share interests, humor, and cultural knowledge of things before our time and beyond our years. I tell y’all these things because I am flat-out proud of Mimi’s latest accomplishment. As of a couple of days ago, Mimi achieved 6 years of sobriety. Clap now! And clap loudly! 👏🏻 And Mimi, I will tell you what I sometimes have to tell myself: “You can have a drink tomorrow.” Fortunately, it is always today. 🥛
Although my dad died 15 years ago on Dec. 4th, yesterday is also a happily significant date in our family because my grandnephew, Bosten, was born on this date a few years before Dad’s passing—so the two of them got to pal around with each other often. So Merry Birthday, Bos! I will not state Bosten’s age here, because it makes his mom, Kathi, feel too, too old. I will say that Bosten is still in high school, so that gives those of you outside the family a clue about how many trips he’s made around the sun. When Bosten’s sister, Ronni, was born a few months after Dad passed, her parents named her after Dad. When Ronni learned to talk, and the topic of Dad came up, she was adamant that she had spent time with him and knew exactly who he was. I don’t doubt it one bit.
Also, yesterday, I “decorated” the pantry for Christmas. It was easy. I simply put the green Folgers (decaffed) coffee right next to the red Folgers (caffed) coffee. Bite Me Tie o’ the Day was a bigly help to me in that never-did-it-before decorating job. 👔
I have so much more to say about the banning of books. I could write forever more addressing the topic. However, I think this will be final post about the subject—for the time being, at least. I’m sure you get the gist of how rabidly I’m against banning books. Y’all are probably ready for me to move on to lighter subjects. With that in mind, I’m wearing my rafter o’ turkeys Tie o’ the Day, in honor of Thanksgiving being just two days away.
I am writing this post about my own experience, as just one example. It’s about books and being gay. I have no so-called “gay agenda,” nor have I ever come across one, so I doubt such a thing exists—except in the mouths of pundits on TV. I am merely telling my story to make a point or two, and my story happens to be about books in a school library, and growing up as a gay teenager in a rural Utah high school, during the late 70’s and early 80’s. I’m sorry if my life offends you. I’m not sorry for my life, mind you.
Back in the olden days, when I was young, Delta High School was not just the high school. It was also the junior high. Students moved from 6th grade directly to the high school back then. 7th and 8th graders were not technically high schoolers, but we were in the high school with them. Grades 7-12 used the high school library. There were no computers there at the time. There was no internet. There were wooden card catalogs full of index cards for each book. There were books, and records, and newspapers, and prints of masterpieces of art in the DHS library. I spent my lunch time there almost every day.
Miss Hansen was in charge when I got there in 7th grade. She was an outstanding librarian, therefore, we were blessed to have a fine library—much better than libraries in schools of similar size, i.e., libraries in other small rural high schools in Utah. I know our library was exceptional because when we traveled to the other schools to compete with them in sports, I somehow managed to sneak into the opposing schools’ libraries to see what they had to offer. The DHS library out-classed them all. The DHS library was where, when I was in 7th grade, I found a novel about the post-Civil War era, which name I don’t now recall, and I first learned about Juneteenth, for example. It’s not a new “woke” thing. It’s a celebration that has been in existence since 1866. Because of that library, I have known of it since I was 12. I had no way of knowing back then that, in the 90’s, I would teach in a middle school whose student population was 100% black. I learned about black history and culture from books in the DHS library. Little did I know, those books had prepared me to be a better teacher for my middle school students. Little tidbits of what I learned in the DHS library about a culture so mysterious and far removed from my own rural, white, Mormon culture I grew up in helped me to connect with my students in ways other white teachers in my school could not. In the DHS library, I devoured every library book I had time for—about a multitude of subjects.
But the splendid DHS library lacked a key thing. It did not have any book that connected to me in one key way. I knew I was gay and I was struggling to understand it, but I found no book that reflected what I was going through. Not one. There was no character in a book that I could identify with. According to the books on the shelves, I did not even exist—or maybe I wasn’t supposed to exist. I was a good student. I was a good Mormon. But I did not exist on the shelves of my own school’s library. Nobody talked about being “gay” seriously at that time. I myself tried mightily to ignore that part of me. There were plenty of comments and jokes, though. Some were aimed directly at me. Some were just teenagers cracking gay jokes where I could hear them. Listen, I’m not whining about all of that. It made me tough. It made me savvy. All in all, I had a wonderful childhood in Delta. I was smart enough to understand that people—especially teenagers—have a tendency to either get angry or poke fun at what they don’t understand. Adults should know better, although they often don’t. These people were my friends, and I doubted their goal was to hurt me. But it caused harm to me and other gay students, nonetheless. It wasn’t okay. With every sarcastic comment, every joke, the messages piled up: because I was gay, I was a joke and had no value or morals. I was less than. I had no right to be treated with dignity. And there was no room in the community for me to be me. I never felt friendless—just sad and alien. I knew the jokes came from ignorance, not meanness. Still, they took a toll on me anyway.
I don’t recall a day at DHS when there was not at least one snide comment or joke aimed in my direction, even though I had never publicly told anyone that I was gay. Gradually, I felt smaller and smaller as my years in DHS continued. I was often suicidal. I made a few genuine but halfhearted suicide attempts. I clearly did not want to die, but it began to feel as if my community wanted me to. I felt that I was supposed to rid the community of me. I had a near-constant feeling that eradicating my “evil” self was what almost everyone seemed to want me to do—because their routine anti-gay comments told me I had no right to honorably exist as who I was. I didn’t talk to my parents about being gay when I was at DHS, because I assumed they would have no idea how to help me. And I thought that if they knew the truth about me, they might not love me as ferociously as I knew they did. (Of course, they would have, and always have loved me, but I was a dumb teenager and I wasn’t so sure back then.) I went to an ecclesiastical leader for help to change who I was, and I was surprised to find that it did me much more harm than good. I pretended to be and live as a straight person every day. Obviously, I was not very good at it. I routinely attempted to negate myself. Even as I tried to disappear, I have no doubt I developed my wide sense of humor into a kind of shield to protect the real me, by distracting others—by making them laugh. I did put up a good front.
I was fortunate to have a couple of DHS teachers who could see what was going on with me probably even better than I could. They accepted me just by having conversations with me about books and art and ballet and classical music and politics. We never referenced my sexuality. They gave me slivers of hope that I could be okay just by being me. They valued me. I had a couple of Mutual teachers who did the same. Those four incredible women are still in my prayers of gratitude every day. One day, at the end of a class, I was having a conversation with Nancy Conant (legendary DHS math teacher) about the country’s politics at the time. Without once mentioning my sexuality, she said the following to me as I was leaving her room: “Listen to me. The longer you put off being who you really are, the more people you will hurt when you finally discover you can’t pretend anymore to be someone you’re not.” I sort of understood what she meant at the time. As I found my place in the world, I understood it more deeply with each passing year. My talk with Mrs. Conant happened near the beginning of my Junior year. And that’s when I knew I had to get out of Delta. I couldn’t take not being seen as a valued human being for one more year. I knew I would literally not live through my Senior year. I was getting more serious about wanting to die. I had enough credits to graduate after my Junior year, and so I did. A week after I graduated, I moved to Ogden and started college at Weber State. Immediately, I was treated with dignity by almost everyone I met. Nobody knew me or anything about me. I could breathe as myself. And in Weber State’s Stewart Library, I found books that reflected my experience (I also found Suzanne in the Stewart library a couple of years later). I found stories that were representative of my struggles with my identity, inside bookstores everywhere I went.
I am asking you to imagine how much difference it would have made to me and other gay DHS students (Yes, I was not the only one) if there had been even one book on the DHS library shelves that reflected what we were going through. Just one book that validated our right to exist. One book that said we had value. Just one book that showed us we could have meaningful and successful futures in the larger world. A book that acknowledged we were not jokes, but human beings who could contribute much to our communities. One book that said it was possible for us to love and be loved for a lifetime. Just to stand in front of such a book on a shelf in the DHS library would have said to us and every other DHS student that we gay students were human beings and every bit as important and treasured as every other student. After providing books directly related to enhancing the public education students are offered, the very least a public high school library has a duty to do is to provide books that represent every student’s experience and worth. Not just white kids. Not just Mormon kids. Not just straight kids. Every kid in a school’s student body is owed that respect and acknowledgment by their community.
Statistically, in every culture throughout recorded history, around 1 in 10 persons born is gay. That means approximately 1 in 10 students is gay. I can attest that this statistic was pretty accurate at DHS when I was a student there, and I have no reason to think it’s any different now. A public school has no right to create a library void of books that reflect the experiences of 10% of its student population. Please keep in mind that a public school is a gift, an American right. It is not a church. And no American has the right to try to make it one. 📖 📚 📗📕📘
BTW: A final thought from me, for you to ponder: The most dangerous books are the one’s you don’t read.
