When In-laws Turn 90

The first week of February we flew to the east coast to celebrate Mark's Mother's 90th birthday.  Mark is one of seven children, and his mother has thirteen grandchildren and fourteen great-grandchildren (of which The Child is the oldest).  Almost everyone—including the Florida nephews and nieces—was able to come to the celebration, which lasted several days over the February 3 weekend; there were upwards of fifty people spanning four generations in the Suffern house.  

Probably the best way to describe the gatherings in full force is "a frat party with lots of theatre people."  Or possibly a slightly grittier version of backstage at The Muppet Show.  

Since there were so many relatives scheduled to attend the fancy birthday lunch, there was a raffle to "sit at the captain's table" with the birthday girl.  Since the instructions didn't specify a limit, Mark proceeded to fill out multiple tickets with his name on them.  This sparked a loud discussion among his sisters about the interpretation of the rules and whether Mark was stuffing the ballot or not.  During this time, The Child (at least) wrote Mark's name on an extra ticket, and somebody else submitted a ticket labeled "Anyone BUT Mark."  

When the tickets were drawn, Mark's name was drawn five times (six if you count "Anyone BUT Mark"), and after a consultation, Mark's Mother decreed Mark disqualified.  

"I've been sent away!" said Mark, "Banished."  Smeagol-like, at the fancy birthday lunch, he sat down at the captain's table and pretended to lick the forks.  

The lunch was a hearty Italian meal, with several courses (I had salmon).  The strangest aspect of the party was that it was the same venue as Mark's Mother's 70th birthday, but the room seemed smaller somehow. We couldn't figure out if the room had been painted a white back then and that the now red walls made the space seem closer, or if there had been some slight remodeling or additions.  

Afterwards, Mark and I took late-afternoon nap; the news of which alarmed one of the precocious young nieces, who firmly announced to her mother that she "did not take naps."  We rejoined the family at the Suffern house, which by this time, through the piano magic of one of the nephew-in-laws, had turned into a kind of piano bar with sing-alongs—I don't know what happened, one moment I was chatting in the living room, and then next moment I had a solo singing "Don't Cry For Me, Argentina."  The requests poured in—"This Land Is My Land," "Part of Your World," "Under the Sea," "Piano Man," "Bohemian Rhapsody," Scottish ballads— and folks were still singing when we left at midnight.

NYC Pride Notes

June 22 2023 1:25pm  Thursday.

Last fall, Mark said that I kept saying how Eugene Pride was unfulfilling and that I should just go to Pride in New York City—so here I am!  In the air and flying to NYC Pride!  I took a disco nap last night from about 8pm to 1am, but kept waking up so I'm not sure how much rest I got.  I kissed Mark goodbye, left Eugene at 2 am, and drove to PDX.  I'm traveling by myself.  

The shuttle buss was crowded. I got through security quickly and made it to my gate around 5am or earlier.  The plane was full.  Somewhere over Minnesota, I got a migraine aura, but it lasted only about an hour.  I'm guessed whacky sleep and a change in caffeine intake was to blame.  I figured I could see well enough to be able to navigate NYC MTA.

LGL will be hosting me, and there are several events planned.  We were going to attend a "Gay Mass" outside of the Stonewall Inn, which is a National Monument, but the National Park Service closed the park citing security concerns, so the mass has moved to LGL's church, St. Paul (Out At Saint Paul is an LGBTQAI+ ministry).

At some point we may go for drinks at the Eagle.  Mark said he thought that it was funny that we're going to a leather bar, and I'm wondered how much it might bother him. (He siad it didn't, but he kepts bringing it up).  We'll also visit the Stonewall and probably Flaming Saddles in addition to some shows and Sunday Pride Events. 

I'm wanting to go to the Brooklyn Museum's Egyptian Wing one day, and if we run out of Gay Things To Do, I brought my NYC Gargoyle book.  We'll also visit Mary Dwyer in Suffern (probably on Saturday, and it's possible we'll run into The Child there).

Thursday evening's Gay Mass was the first Catholic Mass I've been to.  I was able to fall into the ritual from my Episcopal upbringing, but every now and then there were changes in the wording (things like, "and with thy spirit" vs. "and also with you," and "with all the angels and archangels" vs. "with all the angels and saints"). The closest religious events to the mass that I've attended would be Radical Faerie ritual circles back in the nineties, and they're really not that close. 

As I was sitting out in the pews during communion, my eye kept returning to the Matthew 6:7 verse about not being like babbling Pagans in the service flyer, which could have been more ecumenical, but I was able to reinterpret it to "don't be ostentatious in your religious practice." 

I was surprised when the sermon turned into an interactive discussion about pride and how some folks equated it with value, or strength, or self-worth.  I'm amazed at how LGL and the others at the mass operate at the intersection of their Catholic faith and their LGBTQAI+ orientation.  

After the mass's social mingling, LGL and I went to one of his favorite bars for dinner and drinks (LGL is a networker and is on a first-name basis with practically everyone) and had a brief discussion of the effects of a transcendent God compared to immanent deity on the manifestation of the praxis of Pride vis-a-vis community vs family household.  What I had seen in the church was a community coming together for shared worship; my sense with gay Pagans is that they move in together.

We also talked about bunting in our respective cities.

June 23 - Friday - 2023

"That moment when your morning tarot card pull for NYC Pride adventures is the two of wands, reversed. I think this might be about jet lag…."

LGL had to work, and I was left to my own devices.  I had breakfast at Old John's (cue music, "No one DINES like Old John, or RECLINES like Old John, no one interlocks forks by their TINES like Old John...").  The breakfast was hearty -- although I did have to fish out a red pepper!-- and the waitress thought my pride flag shirt was cute (and called me "sweetie," which, according to LGL, is her standard modus operandi).

Wandering west of Central Park, I tried to find Eden Dragon House, but missed it (three blocks too north).  I meandered through Central Park.  It was raining, and with no sun I got turned around and ended up using Google Maps to navigate the curving paths to Fifth Avenue.

Somehow, I wound up in the Egyptian Wing of the MET. (Sticker shock on the ticket prices, which have gone up substantially since I was here last.)  Once I got into the Egyptian Wing, I tried photographing new things, but found myself re-imaging old favorites.  I did manage an image of a hippo on an ostracon for Mark.  Between photographs I had fun being an informal docent with hieroglyphs, especially with the offering prayer.  Alas, the Middle Eastern Wing was closed for renovations, and the Rooftop Garden was closed by the rain; so no art or photographs from there (except for a long-distance shot of the rooftop from outside as I was leaving).  

I got turned around in Central Park again as I returned to LGL's, but I managed to photograph Bethesda Park and gargoyles, grotesques, and decorative buildings.

Aside from wearing a Pride Progress Flag t-shirt, the day wasn't particularly gay.  I suppose one could argue Queen Hatshepsut was in drag when she wore a Pharaoh's beard, but it would be a real stretch.  

Back at LGL's, I took a disco nap, snacked, and had tea.  LGL returned later than he wanted to, but also took a disco nap for tonight's Stonewall Celebration at Hudson Yards and visit to The Eagle. 

The Stonewall Celebration was one part gala celebration, one part Word From Our Corporate Sponsors, and one part concert.  LGL (who knows everyone) managed to get us into a VIP section about forty feet the main stage.  We connected up with other folks from LGL's office. The pacing was a little odd in that a performer would get the crowd pumped to dance, and then the Vice-President of So-and-so Company would come out and make a short speech about Acceptance and Love.

Many people referenced recent legislation to ban or erase drag and trans folks, and urged the crowd "Don't fight back, fight forward!" The most moving performance was a trans activist who created a sound-scape around the sung phrase, "I'm ev'ry woman" and then read the names of trans victims murdered within the last year.  

The most professional performance was by Netta Barzilai, an Eurovision performer from Israel. The sound system had issues the entire event; these were not helped when Netta choreographed her sound box off of her outfit and couldn't re-connect to the stage's speakers.  She kept on dancing and singing as loudly as she could and during the dance bridge danced off stage and pulled a sound engineer back with her to get re-hooked up—smiling and dancing all the time.  

The most fun performance was BETTY.  LGL was familiar with them.  They struck me as an edgier, Rock-n-Rollier, New York City version of Seattle's 90's folk trio, We Three.  They started out with a Pride Anthem, then transitioned into a saucy song, "Did You Tell Her?"  

By this time my hair had become a minor personality on the event's jumbotron, and apparently was visible from the stage.  When we met BETTY after the event, one of them said they'd noticed my energy from the stage, and another one wondered if we'd met before (LGL quipped that they'd mistaken me for one of the sound engineers, who also had long grey locks (although his were tied back)).

Christina Aguilera came out last and performed three songs.  The weirdest part of the show happened:  about every other person held up their mobile phone up to video the performance, so it was like a forest of techno-trees sprouted up in front of us.  They cranked up the sound system for her, and I was glad that I'd brought along some concert earplugs.  She has a nice voice, but everything was so loud and distorted that I really couldn't follow the lyrics. 

By the time the event was finished and we'd gotten a selfie with BETTY, I was starving, so we found a place to eat nearby (where my hair got asked out for a date).  

On reflection, I realized that a lot of local talent had participated in the show, and that this was one difference between NYC Pride and Eugene Pride:  NYC can support a community of professional and semi-professional singers, dancers, poets, DJ's, photographers, and videographers; most of presenters and performers at Eugene are earnest and having fun—which is fine but does contribute to a "bake sale and craft fair (and group therapy)" feel of local events.  Then we were off to The Eagle.

We opened the place up; apparently on Friday nights they don't open until 10 PM.  There used to be a stricter dress code (or is that undress code?), but they've relaxed it, so wearing jeans and T-shirts (and a leather cuff) were sufficient to get in.  There was some sticker shock at the evening's cover, but we paid it and made our way up to the rooftop part of the bar.  I ordered a margarita, and LGL and I sat back and enjoyed the skyline and the scenery.  Most of the guys were dressed like we were, with about a third (?or a fifth?)—mostly the staff—dressed in more scanty scraps of leather or shirtless (honestly, I saw more leather harnesses, jock-straps, and booty-shorts in the Sunday Pride Parade than I did in the bar).  

What I enjoyed about The Eagle was that it was mostly men, and the crowd seemed to be in their 30's or older.  You didn't need to be a gym stud with eight-pack abs to dance or socialize.  The music was something one could dance to, and I did.  (My hair got some more date offers.)  This was a nice change from trying to dance to arrhythmic soundscapes of high-pitched beeps and water being poured into a pitcher with 20-something, half-stoned Eugene kids in a mixed-use space (or not-dancing because a cos-playing person is lip-synching and wiggling for tips on the dance floor).  According to LGL, the place, especially one particular corner on the second floor, would become raunchier as the night progressed, and he pulled me off of the dance floor around 12:30.

We grabbed some matches from the bar as a souvenir for Mark and left.

Saturday, June 24, 2023

"Today’s Pride tarot card is the four of pentacles reversed. This is what happens when one is discussing the previous evening’s bar tab when pulling a card…"

LGL had some business in Suffern, and so I visited my mother-in-law, Mary Dwyer, and other available residents of Dwyer Manse.  There was some cognitive dissonance running into The Child, who had flown to the east coast with his mom, and who was on the East Coast Relative Circuit.  Mary looked good, and I filled her in on Gay Adventures so far.

Back in The City, we visited the Brooklyn Art Museum Egyptian Wing.  LGL was tolerant of my propensity to lecture on hieroglyphs and the Egyptian Netherworld Books as we rode the MTA to the museum.

When we entered, we ran into a sound check for a wedding taking place there in the evening.  The last time I visited, for about twenty minutes over a decade ago, I remember a long, dark room, and a silver ibis.  The galleries were different from my memories: more broken up and much lighter.  I was expecting larger statuary than the MET's, which wasn't really the case.  The galleries did not seem to be organized chronologically, and I was not able to discern any themes to how they were ordered.

There was a lot of new artifacts to see.  I was particularly drawn to the Cartonnage of Nespanetjerenpare (3rd Intermediate Period, D 22). What strikes me about this image of Re is that it is ram-headed instead of falcon headed, indicating that this is Re at sunset; and also the green, orange, and black coloring—which I'm guessing may have associations with the rejuvenating properties of the netherworld.

LGL was drawn to a mummy portrait of an Egypto-Roman man.  I'd say the Brooklyn's Egyptian collection is smaller than the MET's, with finer quality Ptolomeic pieces.  

After the museum, we went bar hopping, first to Flaming Saddles (cowboys dancing on the bar!) and The Dickens (loosely based on Charles Dickens).  Both bars were crowded, and the crowds were both younger and more mixed.  And loud.  The music was slower, and the young folks who were at The Dickens at times felt like they were there more to sing along with the songs and enact them as a mini-performance for their posse of friends (and splash their drinks onto the dance floor) than to dance to the music en mass.  

Looking back on the night, I have to say that I appreciate spaces that are enclaves for men—the local Eugene LGBTQAI+ bar hosts a lot of all-family, drag, and trans events—but does not host a "men's night" other than a monthly "bear mixer," and I'm not even sure it's a dance event, unlike their "Lesbian Dance Party."

"That 4:38 a.m. Pride Moment when you realize (too late) that your response to “I thought Jesus was in the (gay) bar!” should be either “Come, and I shall make you fishers of men!” Or “Pick up the receiver / I’ll make you a believer.”"

Sunday, June 25, 2023

"Today’s Pride March tarot card is the four of wands reversed. Celebration in the City! Which is fun, but it’s not my home. (Pause to miss my husband… okay, put on the sunscreen and the dance tunes!)"

After a hearty breakfast at LGL's, we made our way to the NYC Pride.  LGL had once again secured access to a VIP area, and we found ourselves at the shaded review stand near 25th Street and Fifth Avenue, with access to snacks and drinks, watching politicians queue up to begin the parade.  

I took a lot of photographs of grand marshals, and floats, and marchers, and rainbow everything.  Everyone, from Girl Scouts, to people of all races, to politicians and TV stars, to folks in their eighties, to cheerleaders, and all sorts of corporate sponsors, queued up to start their march.

When LGL's workplace's group came by, we left the review stand and joined in.  Initially, I felt like I stood out because A) I was wearing a grey T-shirt with a progress pride flag graphic on it and everyone else was wearing their corporate white T-shirts, B) everyone but me had some kind of flag to wave, and C) My Hair.  But I chanted, "Elbow-elbow-wrist-wrist-wrist" to myself and marched along Fifth Avenue with everyone.

After a few moments, LGL (and a work friend, C), said, "C'mon! We're going to get on the float!"  The next thing I knew I was dancing to some really good music and waving at, encouraging to dance, and making eye contact with what seemed like half of New York City as they stood along the sidewalk, or leaned out of windows, or watched from fire escapes. Most people smiled and waved back, and some even started dancing to the music.

At one point it seemed like we were floating down a river of dancing rainbow flags, faces, and sparkles.  I said to someone, "Man, I wish my husband was here."  And then I stopped and thought about it for a moment and added, "Nah; he'd hate this.  And I'd want to smooch him, but he'd want space or to go on a hike."  And it was true, Mark would have been bored after about a half-hour.

I did not have a good sense of where we were; the parade proceeded south on 5th Avenue before heading west on 8th Street. I had to look this up later:  After crossing over 6th Avenue, the parade continued on Christopher Street and passed the Stonewall National Monument (which didn't register with me as the Stonewall when we passed it). It turned north on 7th Avenue, passing the New York City AIDS Memorial (which must have been on the other side of the float), and ended up at 16th Street and 7th Avenue.

We hopped off of the float and started walking and searching for a place to have a late lunch.  Someone from LGL's work was wearing huge white angel wings and waving a pride flag, and they graciously agreed to a selfie.  

While we were waiting for food (and drinks) with LGL's co-workers, I realized that underneath the smiling and waving and dancing, I'd unconsciously been looking for Mark in the crowds, and how wonderful it would have been if at some point the crowds could have parted and Mark could walk out onto Fifth Avenue and joined me on the float.

Monday Morning, June 26, 2023

"Today’s Pride tarot card is the Seven of Wands, reversed. Taking the long view, this could signify being beaten down by institutional homophobia, transphobia, xenophobia, and the various -isms. Or, short view, it could be about travel anxiety."

I escorted LGL to the local MTA station on 77th Street and then went for another breakfast at Old John's.  I spent the morning wandering around the 78th Street and Amsterdam area photographing gargoyles, grotesques, and dragons.  I got caught in a thunderstorm, and was glad for an umbrella.  I found what I call "The Dragons of Library Eden House," which was half under renovation scaffolding, so I was only able to take limited photographs of the dragons there.

  

5:49pm Monday, June 26, 2023

I waited for the flight out of JFK to PDX and wrote in my Book of Art.  I probably could have left LGL's apartment an hour later, but that wouldn't have left any time for train mishaps.  Luckily, taking the 1 MTA train to Penn Station, and then the Babylon Train to Jamaica Station and then the Air Train to Terminal 4 went smoothly.

LGL was worried that the thunderstorms today might make air (and train) travel extra tricky, but at 6 PM everything appeared to be on time.

Ha! LGL was right!  First my flight was delayed 90 minutes while we waited for flight attendants from other delayed flights to board the plane (which was sitting at the gate, empty).  Then, after we boarded, we taxied around on the runways while the pilots negotiated a flightpath with air control, then we parked on the tarmac, then we returned to the gate because the whole airport was shut down, and finally the flight was cancelled around 11:20.

"That NYC Pride Moment when Delta cancels your flight home, and your Wonderful Gay Husband manages to remotely find a space for you at The Box House Motel."

I took a crazy midnight taxi ride through the rain to the motel; the driver didn't know where the motel was, and navigated there with his cell phone.  The mobile's map app sent us the long way, and I  ended up paying the fare in cash to knock off $15 of what was still a steep price.

Tuesday, June 27, 2023

"And today’s post-air-flight-cancellation tarot card is the three of wands. For some reason what sprang to my mind was gratitude… although I am wondering if the merchant in the card is wishing they were on one of the ships in the distance."

Hunkered down in a (expensive!) boutique hotel, The Box House Motel, in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.  It was the only place with a room (the JFK Hilton had all of their rooms booked by other stranded travelers).  Between having fun in NYC with LGL and the room deposit for The Box House, my credit card was maxed out (this is my reward for setting my credit limit to a low amount as a preemptive method to manage credit card debt), and so I spent over an hour on the phone with the credit union to try to extend my credit and secure lodging through Thursday.

The Box House Motel had an artsy lobby with a sixties art-deco and colored glass pane feel.  Magnolia or cedar scented the air--it was not unpleasant, but strong.  Pop/swing ballads dominated the sound system--this made the open design of the space more private, but also made conversations difficult. 

I'm grabbed a (expensive!) burger at The Eagle Trading Company, a kind of indoor/outdoor cafe with glass garage doors. The clientele looked like local neighborhood folks; lots of dog walkers, mixed ages, and mostly dudes.  I asked the wait staff about place to walk (and not walk) and they said the neighborhood was a safe one.

After waiting four hours for a call back which never came, I finally managed to connect with a bank person and get my credit card straightened out.  It's was a huge relief; it's crazy how food and travel are dependent on credit-card connected apps on my iPhone.  I'd would have been in a really bad place if my iPhone (or credit card) stopped working.  

Tuesday evening:  There was only one working laundry machine in the laundry room.  I gave up on laundry for the moment and walked to the Greenleaf Cafe, where I found a bench supported by two stone griffins!  Then the music switched from sort of tribal-fusion to 70's Rock (oh well).  The Cafes and hotels here all seemed to be converted garages:  high roofs and glass garage doors, so I am imagined that rooms and houses and buildings that I write should have a history--the farmhouse with added rooms, or old carriage houses turned into living quarters, or old engine sheds turned into garages and then turned into cafes. 

Wednesday, June 28, 2023

"Today’s Post-Pride-Still-Waiting-For-Tomorrow’s-Flight Tarot Card is the Knight of Swords reversed. This is my usual significator card, so I’m interpreting it as a warning to stay focused and be aware that I’m tired of not being home yet."

I had recovered from bank negotiations and goofy non-travel sleep that I had enough energy to go on a photo safari of Mid-Manhattan.  The nearest MTA stop to the Box House Motel was about a 10 minute walk over a bridge spanning a small river (the Pulaski, which fed into the Harlem River).

Once I was on the MTA 7 train, it was a one-stop trip to Grand Central Terminal, where I photographed the building details, especially the twined dragons.  While traipsing about trying to find them, I wandered into a jewelry store, and the next thing I knew, I was helping my New Best Friend, Mars, pick out a tiger-eye bracelet.  She (or maybe they) gave me their email so I could share a link to Google photos of GCT.

Outside the station, I met a Venezuelan couple who were a little lost; I tried to help them, but we had no common language... I couldn't get a translation app on my phone, and felt inept.  In the end I could only wish them good luck.

From there it was more photos of the terminal and then Rockefeller Center.  Prometheus' courtyard was surrounded on all sides by rainbow flags. And somehow I wandered into a La Madison du Chocolat.

After more wandering and photography and a cloudburst and I finally exhausted my camera's battery.  This was probably a good thing, as I managed to get back to the motel before five o'clock rush-hour trains.

Thursday, June 29, 2023

"That Post-Pride moment when you’re about to embark to JFK. No tarot card pull today, although I am envisioning the eight of wands for a completed travel and arrows of love."

Thursday morning; I had to leave the motel at 5 a.m. so I could be at JFK at 6 a.m. so I could be ready for my 8 a.m. flight.  At the airport, I bumped into an information desk where the attendant was giving away little rainbow ribbons; I ended up pinning it to my camera's pack.  My departure gate was in a sixties-industrial concourse that could only be reached by bus, so I lingered a while in the nicer main concourse.  

The floating time during the three days waiting for my Thursday flight was a contrast between the scheduled time with LGL.  Instead of having a guide and host, I was on my own; instead of having scheduled Pride events to be at, I had unscheduled tourist events.  

NYC Pride was fun and great and I managed to experience it from a place of privilege.  Marching was fun, and dancing and waving to folks from a float was fabulous.  

The only thing I'd change—aside from not having my return flight cancelled—would be the bars and venues to something where conversations could be had (all the bars and places we went to had really loud music, which made understanding folks next to impossible).

In contrasting and comparing NYC Pride with EUG Pride, I'm reminded that NYC has massive corporate sponsorship, and EUG has maybe city sponsorship.  Also NYC has a larger and more diverse community, and can have groups like the Sirens (Dykes on Bikes), and The Eagle, and Gay Water Polo Players, and Education Centers, and Latina/Latino and transgender and gay parent groups.  Eugene pride is smaller, with folks like the Unitarian Church, and Spectrum Bar—but the three community pools:  Eugene, Springfield, and the University of Oregon, don't always speak to each other.

I suppose that I need to go to PDX for Gay Dancing with Gay Men over 35.

And volunteer more.

Vacation Dream

Tuesday morning, I dreamed I had to look for something at the bottom of a pool filled with black oil.  To dive down to the bottom of the pool, I had to keep my eyes closed and follow a chain through the thick sludge.  I'm not sure how I was able to swim through the think stuff.

Later, I dreamed I was leaving a group of people.  I stopped at the top of a kind of escalator or rope-bridge; my hands were full with juggling balls or maybe  some folders.  I hesitated, not quite sure what to do.  Eventually, I just tossed the balls down the stair, and then took the escalator down.

At the bottom of the stair, an amalgam of B.H. (Wordo)  and Mark's brother from Virginia caught up with me and told me how various folks were worried about my early-onset Alzheimer's.  

I wasn't sure what to make of these dreams once I woke.  I'm pretty sure during the previous evening someone was talking about aging and forgetting things -- but I do worry sometimes about aging doing a number on my brain.   At least it wasn't an airport anxiety dream.

We said good-bye to the Virginia Dwyers, who were going to the beach and then to their home.  

Mark and I took his niece, K. , out for lunch.   The Child had been touting the virtues of Sonic Burgers to her, so she originally wanted to go there, but Mark explained that the nearest one was a forty minute drive away, and she chose some place nearer.  

I must confess I don't understand The Child's praises for greasy fast food of dubious quality.  Or steak houses.  I'm not sure if he thinks hoi polli places are authentic, or manly, or 'Merican, because in the same breath he will express the desire to dine at upscale restaurants in New York City.  

Afterward, on a whim of Mark's, we made a little detour to Mt. Fuji Restaurant.  This is one of those places where "Japanese" chefs who pretend not to speak English come to your table and make onion volcanos on the grill built into your family's table.   I've been there once about sixteen years ago.   We drove through an impressive and newly installed tori gate, and then discovered the restaurant was open for business -- so Mark drove us back to his mom's house. 

The afternoon was very laid back.  Mark mowed the lawns.   I cleaned out a light fixture in the kitchen.  

Stories and Bocce

Mark decided that we should stay up until midnight every night so that we wouldn't be going to bed at 6 PM when we returned to the West Coast.  The only problem was that sleeping until 8 AM felt both slovenly (from an Eastern Time point of view) and masochistically early (from a 5 AM Pacific Time point of view).  Getting up at 7 was a little worse, but required if one wasn't going to lose the morning. 

Our routine developed into get up, perform our ablutions, drive to a coffee roasting cafe (located within an old bank), order coffee and tea, then drive to his mother's house.  

Monday morning was a continuation of the previous day's party, only more laid-back and with fewer people.  Mark's mom is recovering from various medial issues related to being in her eighties; she was doing much worse back in May, and looked pretty good in August.  

We gathered in the TV room and listened to stories from her childhood.  She was a wild Catholic girl, and told us how she used to dress in a Catholic school uniform in the morning, throw jeans out of her bedroom window, head to a friend's house, change into the jeans, go to school, and then reverse the process going home so her parents wouldn't know she was wearing pants to school.   She also used to tell ancient and maidenly aunts who hosted her over summers that she was going to go play basketball with friends when she was really going to Coney Island to kiss boys.  There were other stories of 1940's and 1950's social life:  young boys being shipped off to pre-seminary school; wearing fancy hats and gloves to watch polo games; and fussy aunts who literally would run a finger over one's furniture and inspect the digit for any resulting dirt.  

It was all interesting -- and I consumed at least two clever little eight ounce cans of Pepsi -- but I was overcome with the desire to nap, and passed out, before 11:30 AM, masked up, on a couch in another room.

Monday evening, there was another party, this time with a game of bocce.  Mark's out-of-town siblings had left, but the Virginia Dwyers were still around.  I pulled out my camera to take some more photos of folks.  One team gathered together, and to get good photos of them, I had to climb up to the tallest part of the yard. 

Mark saw me in the distance, but -- because of the way my hair was falling over my shoulders, and because my COVID mask covered my face, and because I was crouching down -- he didn't recognize who I was or what I was.  

So he came over to take a photo of the troll hiding in the vegetation, realized as he got closer that it was me,  and started laughing.  

Dwyer Family Gathering

Most of Sunday my body had no idea what time it was.   Suffern is at about the same latitude as Eugene, so the sun's more or less in the same altitude.  But I unconsciously expected the sun to be three hours, or forty-five degrees, behind where it actually was.   Also, we were eating at radically different times.  Mostly, I tried to not think about what the clock said on the west coast and not nap at weird intervals.

Tropical Storm Henri sent bands of rain to deluge the Dwyer Family Party.   This was both good and bad.  The good part was that the day wasn't like a sauna, and the rain pulled dust and pollen out of the air.  The clouds were a welcome change of place after months of arid skies in Oregon.   The bad part was that it kept everyone inside, which made face mask usage An Issue.

Mark and I (and The Child a week before us), had decided that we'd wear masks around Mark's mom so we didn't expose her to the Delta Varient if we'd picked it up flying.   So wearing a mask wasn't a problem for us. 

Once a vending pop-up tent was deployed in the back yard, it was easier to social distance, and The Issue went away.   Between rounds of deluge, tipping out the water which had collected in the folds of the pop-up became a kind of bonding experience.  Folks rotated between the smoking lounge in the opened garage, the pop-up tent in the back yard, and the living room where Grandma and a metric ton of potato chips, cake, potato salad, mini sandwiches, soft drinks, and varios dips were.   The bad-mitten game planned for the day was cancelled on account of the storm.

What I find interesting about Dwyer Family Gatherings are the sibling dynamics.  Also, a number of the Dwyers smoke; so the garage/smoking-lounge turned into the place where people processed their truths as trails of smoke wreathed their heads.   I'm the oldest, only brother in my family, and my sister is the only youngest sister;  this plays out in a straight-forward fashion between us.  Mark's two older brothers, and his mix of four sisters -- two older, two younger -- creates a more dynamic dynamic, with folks trading off on older-sibling-to-younger-sibling relations depending on the parties involved.  Mark is the youngest brother, which means that he frequently invokes youngest-brother-nuclear-deterrent strategies.   I'm pretty sure that no matter how old one gets, when one is dealing with one's siblings, one reverts back to about twelve when is confronted with them.  

The award for most scary story goes to B, a family friend from Ireland, who related a couple of tales growing up during The Troubles, the most traumatic being the time he was eight, watching "Lassie" at home, when soldiers knocked down the door, held a rifle to his mom's head, and wanted to know where his dad was.  

Scary in a different way was the World-Famous Dwyer Butter (this example is very early stage Dwyer Butter, as there are no crumbs embedded in it, and it isn't partially melted).

The Big Party

At 8:30 AM most of the folks who had spent the night arose and prepared the final touches for the house.  And ate bagels.  My main task was reinforcing the cardboard house from the day before.

All of Mary’s seven children (from four states) and most of their children, and some of their children, appeared at Mary’s house.    I made a list at some point to try to get all of the names and relations fixed in my head… in any case, there were easily fifty people, from age one to age eighty-five, at the party.

As the party geared up into the early afternoon, I found myself giving tarot card readings.  I lost track, but I must have done at least seven readings.  For most of the readings I used a nine-card spread:  two cards crossed at the top representing inner and outer states or starting point and obstacle; and seven cards arranged in a horizontal line, the first two the past, the next three the present, and the final two the future.  The Sun, The Lovers, and The Hermit cards came up a lot, as well as the Hierophant.  I’d say the teenagers were the most difficult to give readings to, partially because they seemed to be more curious about what it was I was doing and less focused on any particular question.

While tarot happened, there was also face-painting.  Mark’s oldest brother received a nutcracker effect that was very alarming and frightened some of the younger children.  He second oldest brother was made up to look like a (slightly less alarming) tiger… there was some talk about having a lion and a bear, but this didn’t materialize.

I was one of several photographers snapping shots of visiting relatives.  My camera’s strength is that the zoom lens allows me to take pictures of folks without them realizing it, so they are less apt to pose in an unnatural fashion.  I think my best shots were of a great-grandchild looking out of the cardboard house, and possibly the hawk that alighted in the tree we were partying under.  Other folks took better portrait photographs, I think.


The Child held a contest to see who could do the best Fortnite Dance.  There were badminton games, and bocce, and a water slide, and general visiting.  Dinner was grilled cheeseburgers and corn, prepared by “Chef Sean.”

As the evening progressed, the talent show began.  We had group sing-a-longs on the deck.  Mark M.C.’ed “Mary Jeopardy” and I led everyone in the Oregon 1983 version of “The Shark Song.”  More singing with the piano happened inside.  And then the karaoke machine was wheeled out.   Probably the most painful song was Tom Jone’s “Delilah”;  probably the song everyone got the most into was “Bohemian Rhapsody”; probably the most soulful song was John Denver’s “Country Roads.”  We had fun with George Micheal’s “Faith,” and “Get The Party Started.”  There’s video.

Navigating Monday

Monday (6/15).  Today's big adventure has been navigating around the neighborhood of the Family Manse without getting lost or involved in a collision.  It's actually not that hard, but I do have to make an effort to navigate by street name instead of by landmark, which is my normal way of getting around.

My time sense is a little off.  I'm waking up around 9 and going to bed around 11, which feels late and indulgent until I stop to remember the time zone change, at which point it feels virtuous.  I'm hoping that I can stick to the relatively early schedule when I return.  

The visiting relatives over the last four days have gone back to their respective homes.  It was nice seeing everyone again; I haven't been out this way in about eighteen months, when we flew out for the Christmas Holidays (and got caught up in various horrific holiday weather).  We're staying with Grandma Mary and her two daughters, Melora and Melisa.  Melissa has a daughter, Kristina.  Melora's son, Kevin, visited with his wife, Jackie, and son Evan.  We've been seeing a lot of Veronica, Melora's daughter, and Veronica's husband, Joe; and Kevin and Veronica's dad, Ray.  Mary's other daughters, Maria and Mega, visited.  Maria and her daughter, Devon, drove up from Pennsylvania.  Megan and her two sons, Marley and Masio, drove down from upstate.   Mary, Melissa, Maria, Kristina and Devon went into the city to see "Wicked."  

We've had a boatload of home-cooked meals.  

Writing in the Air

Last week I visited my in-laws in New York.  It was great seeing them and we had a lot of fun visiting.  The Dwyers like to play parlour games, so we played things like Password and Reverse Charades and Uno and something kind of Risk-like involving trading sheep for timber.  I'm not sure which story will be talked about more, me miming a urinal while my sister-in-law Melissa mimed using it, or me miming a helicopter and almost decapitating her.  Or the misinterpretation by my nephew-in-law Mike of someone's miming of peep-hole.

Um, yes; there was tequila.

On the writing front, I (re)discovered that it's difficult to write on an iPad on an airplane:  I can't use a wireless keyboard in the air.  In some ways, it's simply faster to write longhand on paper than it is to use the touch-screen keyboard.  I'll have to get in touch with Blake again about the plastic keyboard overlay for the screen and give it a try.  I did manage to get some editing done while I was on the ground (my flights involved three airplanes).

I wanted to try writing a story during my travelling.  Mary Robinette Kowal wrote one in a moving van across the country, and during Writers of the Future we had to write a short story in 24 hours.  I got about as far as wanting to write a science fiction story and figuring out some things about the main character when I got a little stuck.  So I took a break with The New Yorker and read a review of a historical novel (about Nazis).  And I thought, "I'll go meta!"

Suddenly the words flowed.  I got about four page's worth. And some drawings of characters and the setting. Now I'll have to transcribe what I've written and see where to go next.