SHAVINGS FROM MY HEAD

Long before Jasper visited Palm Springs or ever even entertained attending the White Party, his love for Easter began with the enormous baskets the “Easter Bunny” would leave at the bottom of the stairs every Easter morning.

Until the age of eight, each year, his mother would give him a bath, rub him dry with a big terrycloth towel, then help him into his Doctor Dentons’—before tucking him into bed with a story of how the Easter Bunny would make the treats, arrange them in a basket then deliver them to every little boy and girl.

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The massive Convention Center seemed as if he were experiencing one of those rare-worldly occasions; a festive lunar eclipse appeared before Jasper as he entered the great hall. It was both dark and light, day and night, all at once.

There was anything you could envision featured in white. Some expected: like jockey shorts and sneakers. Others not as much: like massive wings made of feathers.

The thump and thud of the music seemed, as he stood perfectly still in awe, as if each musical thud of base propelled him inch-by-inch in the direction of the enormous dance floor of harmonious, exuberant gay men—all gyrating like snakes following the spell of some massive flute.

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After spotting the basket at the base of the staircase, Jasper padded down the seventeen planks—the rubber dots on the feet of his Doctor Dentons’ securing each step of the decent. Along with the giraffes and elephants on his pajamas, he sat on the bottom step to join the duck and the purple bunny caged behind the wall of cellophane.

Hungry for the sugary taste of a few pre-breakfast jellybeans, he began to pull at the flocked blue chick coiled to the handle of the basket—causing the cellophane to crinkle sounds of disruption.

“Jaaaasper! Not yet!”, his mother yelled from the kitchen. “I want to take a picture first!”

He stared down at Pop-Pop the chocolate bunny, with considerations of hacking into that instead—as the box would be quieter. But the bunny’s sugary eyes looked away as if to say, don’t even think about it!

Several moments later, he found himself standing on the back stoop of the house, his hand placed atop the basket like his mother had instructed.

“Now smile” she coached, and he began to think about the lady named Carol— the one from the television, from the Price Is Right; the one who turned the doors with the numbers and displayed the new cars. He wanted to be just like her.

He wanted to grow up and be a Game Show model.

As he waited for his mother to take another picture, he glanced down at Pop-Pop and thought about how much he was going to love biting the ears off the hollow chocolate rabbit then pulling off the eyes and hearing their sugary crunch inside his own head. He thought about pulling the plastic colored grass from the basket and wearing it on top of his head like the comb-in nest of his curls his mother wore for parties. He thought about rubbing the soft plush chick and duck against his face; just like Carol from the Price Is Right did—each time she wrapped a mink stole around herself before taking it off and giving it to some lucky winner who had guessed the right amount. And he thought about eating all the candy until it made his teeth hurt.

But, as Jasper posed for another picture, like the clear cellophane that surrounded the Easter basket, like the fluffy duck and the purple bunny, he too felt bound, suffocated. They were all on display; but without movement or personality.

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From across the dance floor emerged a tall, black boy, modeling cutoff white jeans and a pair of rabbit ears affixed to a headband that cut into his cropped afro. Behind him trailed three additional African American man-boy-bunnies in the same outfit.

Every so often, as they made their way across the dance floor, they would stop and pose, then sweep their arms across the floor as if to say, see my shoes, my legs, my body, my ears…you could win this!

Hardly anyone noticed, except Jasper. They were, to him, The Supremes reincarnated then mistakenly miscast in a commercial for muscle-enhancing powder. They were dark chocolate-covered-delight amid a box of white, chocolate. In spades, they were Carol from The Price Is Right.

He must have been staring, causing them all to stop, then pose in front of him.

“Nice basket!” said the Diana Ross lead-Carol.

Jasper smiled, and then asked, “How do you do that?”

“What?” replied Miss Ross-Carol.

“That?’ said Jasper, motioning to their modelish poses. “You all look like you’re from a game show!”

“Honey, we got game and we were made to show it! We’re from the House of Peeps!”

“Well, can you show me how you make your leg go away from your body like that?” asked Jasper.

“Here gurrrl. Hold my basket!” Miss Ross-Carol said, thrusting the white basket filled with sugary Peeps into Jasper’s hand.

With that, Miss Ross-Carol began to pull and twist Jasper’s body into an s-like configuration.

“There!” he said, stepping away to admire his handiwork, before removing his cell phone from the basket and lifting it for a photo.

“Now smile! And let your game show gurrrrl!”

After snapping a photo, Miss Ross-Carol turned the phone to show Jasper the snap. The person he’d always seen in his imagination smiled back at him. Like the chocolate bunny of his boyhood, his hollow insides were gone; he’d gained his game show girl. From that moment on, the reality of Jasper’s life became a game, white became a color, and his Easter basket never again felt empty….

Dr. Denton or Dr. Denton’s is a (historically) well-known American brand of blanket sleepers, formerly manufactured by the Dr. Denton Sleeping Garment Mills of Centreville, Michigan. The company was founded in 1865, originally as the Michigan Central Woolen Company, and from the late 19th Century through the first half of the 20th Century was probably the single best-known manufacturer of blanket sleepers in the United States. The brand was so well-known that Dr. Dentons became (and remains today) a genericized trademark. The trademark has since changed hands several times, but has remained in sporadic use by various corporate entities into recent years.

The name Dr. Denton derives from Whitley Denton, an employee of the company who created the original design on which its product line was based. The appellation of “Doctor” was a marketing gimmick, intended to give the impression that the garments were designed (and implicitly endorsed) by a medical doctor.

Happy White Party…White Knights!

….I promise, to do my best to do my duty to God and my country to, to, o-o-obey the….shit! I promise, to do my best to do my duty to God and my country…nope, gone!

I thought, as I scrutinized the boyhood image of myself, that the lessons, the pledge, the words, would return to me; like my French. If I start at one, un..deux..trois, I’m still able count into the hundreds. But nearly forty years has passed since the night I became a Cub Scout; the same night—because of what I’d learned from Cub Scouts—I also pledged to, someday, become an honest and opened gay man.

Several weeks after a Thanksgiving visit with my parents—the fight with my father still fresh in my memory—while riffling through a kitchen drawer, amid organizational post its and dog treats, I stumbled upon this photograph left behind by my mother. To most, perhaps even to you, there are no visible signs of boyhood evaporating, no indication of parental dreams squashed, or anything particularly gay about the image. But the photograph before you, marks the moment it all changed; the night I stopped seeking merit badges from others and began honoring my own personal pledge, my own gay. It was the night I decided to redefine “real” on my path to manhood.

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When it came in the mail, my sister Mary Louise scoffed at the swearing-in invitation—making fun of the little blue and yellow bear confidently smiling from within the diamond—before tossing it to the floor then marking it with her dirty roller-skates as she slid out of the kitchen. Things got worse—further heightening her (concealed) rivalry—when our mother enforced Mary Louise’s attendance.

A week later, on the night of the event, while mother wrangled the lacey pinafore over her disapproving frame, my sister whined, “What’s the big deal?” while battling against our mother’s vice-like grip.

“I don’t waaaant to wear this dumb ol’ dress!”

“Now, Mary Louise, don’t act that way! Today is a veeery important day for your brother. He’s becoming a man.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she belligerently asked.

“It means” mother began, while yanking her arm through a sleeve of the pinafore, “It means” she began again, after hesitating for a moment, “that once Frances is sworn into the Cub Scouts tonight, he’ll begin his journey toward becoming a real man.”

Mary Louise scrunched up her nose, shot a spiteful slingshot-like glare toward my spot in the doorway of her bedroom and then stuck out her tongue before succumbing to the other armhole of her pinafore.

But, there it was: the definition of my future; I was to become a real man.

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The February evening was bitter, the frosty Vermont air jabbed at my nostrils—before turning each of the fluffy hairs that lined my ten-year-old nose into miniscule, icy daggers. When my parents, sister Mary Louise and me entered West Willows Elementary School it was abuzz with proud parents; the gymnasium a sea of families dotted by uniformed specs—as if someone had splattered navy bugs across the grill of a massive car.

My father helped me find my seat at the honorary table, my place marked by the folded invitation with my name neatly hand-written in fancy script on the inside, just below an official-looking seal of gold foil. Official manhood.

Stand right there son”, he instructed before fiddling with the snaps of his brown leather camera bag.

“Faaag!” mumbled Mary Louise from the corner of her mouth.

On my honor I will do my best to do my duty to….shit! On my honor I will do my best to do my dut…

“Sissy. Boy liker!” followed—stabbing at my thoughts as if my sister were jabbing the legs of her Barbie into my eardrum.

With our mother socializing and our father distracted, it came again.

“Faaaaag!”

I’d learned what it meant, fag, after hearing it yelled at me a bunch of times on the playground, then asking my second grade girl-friend Patti Davitt.

“It means a boy who likes to kiss other boys and hold their hands and stuff. My brothers say Tommy McKenzie is. And, and, that guy from fifth grade that wears the funny pants with the flowers on them. They’re not real boys!“

“Whadda’ mean?

“Real boys like girls!”

“I like girls, I said. “I like you.”

“Good”, she said, before kissing my nose. “Then you’re ok! So you’re gonna grow up to be a real man. Then we can get married!”

I smiled back at her, but I knew I liked boys more than I like her. And I wanted to kiss them more than her. And I wondered if that made me less real? I wondered if I would grow up to be a fake man?

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As I waited for my father to take the picture, I backed into the cinderblock wall for support. Mary Louise’s words had stung—piercing my pledge like a flaming arrow. The wall only made things worse; it felt as if someone had stuck a big ice cube against the back of my body—giving me chills as I stared out into the gymnasium; the miles of wood planked basketball court shining like glass.

I tried again.

…..I promise, to do my best to do my duty to God and my country to, to o-o-obey the…FAG! I promise, to do my best to do my duty….FAG!….to God and my country…FAG!FAG!FAG!….

It was useless; the word was stuck there between other words like promise and duty.

And then, everything began to feel wrong.

The collar of my shirt became too tight—digging into my burgeoning adams apple. I tried to tame the bump in my hair but all the rubbing in the world wouldn’t make it stay down. But worst of all, was my Cub Scout pledge, the words suddenly felt wrong, fake.

“Frances! Come on now, son” my father coached from the other side of the instamatic, “Stand like you’re proud….stand up straight! Like a man!”

There it was again, that word: man.

In that millisecond, as I heard the click and whirl of the instamatic, the flashbulb cube pop and then turn atop the little box, something snapped: I suddenly understood I would be a different sort of man. And I would—like I’d learned in Cub Scouts—have to be honest; I was a boy liker.

To those in the room who may have noticed me posing for my father’s photograph—jubilant families commemorating Cub Scout Troop # 27 of Port Belvedere Vermont—I displayed nothing outwardly extraordinary to mark my shift, my alternate course toward real manhood.  It only took one word, one millisecond, to mark the alteration. Even as my father refocused the instamatic camera for another “back up” shot, nothing unusual appeared in his lens. But for me, Frances Robert Northrup, age ten; it was the night I left my boyhood behind. It was the night I understood the personal pledge I would have to take to live with honor—a different version of manhood.

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As I stared down at the fading photograph, I thought about all the promises I’d made with myself after that night—thirty-eight years ago—when I became a Cub Scout.

Had I kept my promises? I wondered. Done my best? Helped people? Obeyed the law of the pack?

I thought about the other boys from my troop, and then wondered what they’d all think of my pack now? Of the parades, and pink triangles, the rainbow flags and the stubbly kisses. I’d made different choices than my father and my troop, chosen a different life, with different rules. But my choices, driven by a ten-year-old Cub Scout’s pledge, showed me that I had no choice, I had to be honest to become real.

As I placed the photo back into the kitchen drawer I wondered, had I become a real man? I’d kept my promise to that ten year old boy, I’d done my duty and I’d done my best. The reconsideration made me smile as I looked back at myself. And although there were similarities in the smile(s) it was different now, it had become “real”.

After closing the kitchen drawer, I raised my right hand, then folded back the required fingers before touching them to my forehead. And then I began.

I, Frances Robert Northrup, promise to do my best, to do my duty, to God and my Country, to help other people and to obey the law of the pack….

The words came easy, rolling back like marbles across a linoleum floor….

……while scouting for my honor, I’d found my real man.

So…another NY fashion week.

The first way to consider the state of fashion:

…its direction and the varied signals one can take from a week of what’s hot and what’s not! Something to consider.

And then…there’s Barbie! And yes, she opened her closet this season to share her massive—50 year old—wardrobe. And happily I was there, sharing a drink with some of my favorite Mattel peeps. Admittedly, I haven’t been back  in the closet for years, but, sometimes, it’s nice to visit—especially when filled with Barbies, lots of fashion, good friends and wall after wall of pink pumps!

Sometimes things in my current life just seem to effortlessly roll me in the direction of a new one—unexpectedly colliding with my current me to construct a renovated me. When this happens (to me anyway) the outcome produces a surreal result: like those movie scenes when someone dies and they don’t know it yet, leaving them watching over the remains of their past life while no longer in it. Physically gone yet mentally aware. Taking apart, then reconstructing the details of my new (palm springs) home has once again evoked the aforementioned movie moment.

Although the (above) snap is (Mini) Me painting, (He photographs better) the surreal occurrence actually happened while tearing out the bathroom of my new abode—which started with: Humm…this molding looks dated. To, I think there needs to be a pocket door here. Which morphed into ripping off the (bad 80s) shower doors. To, this built-in is a waste of space. Finally concluding with an empty room and visions of myself languishing in a spa tub, in what will (hopefully) become my new bathroom. Although I wasn’t in my new life yet, I could see it clearly.

All the while, between dodging broken tiles and airborne chips of wood, my I Pod was cycling through my library folder of 80s music. Thus, when I sat to post this snap—along with a little musing—the first thing that popped into my head was the 1981 hit Tainted Love by English techno pop /duoband Soft Cell.

I suppose the combination of old tunes, a new home (and the rhyming of painted and tainted) got me thinking about how much my life has changed since the eighties—my bleachy-streaked Duran Duran mullet, my school time in the UK—as well as my countless evolutions and homes. In my past lives I’ve been: a (teen) model, a makeup artist, a student, a fine artist, a stylist, a fashion designer, a toy designer, an art director and a writer. With each of these renovations, brought various challenges; forms of friendship and love, as well as with all sorts of definitions of home.

As I considered all of my past lives, I thought of Buddha.

Buddhist practice says that the attachment to a permanent self in this world of change is an obstacle to liberation. To advance my happiness, my change, I do my best to release the past while applying my method of liberation: decorate it, then enjoy it…for as long as it lasts….while understanding that it will not be forever.

My friends compare me to Auntie Mame (the Rosalind Russell version)—as I am always morphing my existence/home into another “period”. This observation is seen outwardly, evoking statements like “Oh, he’s in his pink and yellow phase now!” (Which is true.)

But inwardly, change is also churning through my organs, my being; constantly considering the transiency of things.

And with this recent change, this evolution of my being, I am once again reminded that home, (although this sounds totally corny), is however you define it. And, that it changes every day, with a fresh coat of paint or the latest bathtub or a new friend that crosses the threshold.

I suppose how one chooses to look back, to view the past events of your life, impacts how you proceed forward; how you view and ultimately embrace change…or home. Or a new year.

Thus

…home today,

then gone tomorrow

……along with another year.

aaaagggghhhh…the closing.

….pop the cork!…

now…let the projects begin.

…should I….buy it or not? I wondered. Was I…being practical or frivolous? Am I….I questioned, taking care of myself: avoiding the bad 50%—the “50% from my generation who will retire below the poverty line?”……..

Everything, I concluded, worth improving ones life, generally requires a certain amount of risk.

And said risk generally comes accessorized with a little fear.

Currently I’m wearing a lot of accessories. More than I consider tasteful or appropriate.

But I like my accessories…..what can I say? They can make or break any ensemble.

Additionally, I determined that there would be no hope of affording future accessories, (a dreary look) were I to retire below the poverty line—The bad 50%.

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Three weeks ago I bought a house in Palm Springs; a getaway place that will—if all goes well—eventually become a mortgage-free retirement home for the final stages of my maturing process. My conclusive resting stop—ending my era in the good 50%.

Yet, it felt odd to do such a thing with unemployment figures so elevated, jobs so scarce and the world’s money situation sooooo bleak.

At times, I felt practical.

Other times, I felt like Imelda Marcos.

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If I’m going to take the leap, I thought, then let it be in a comforting pair of shoes! The appropriate accessory.

Thus, before signing a million pieces of paper (loan docs), I decided to accessorize with the shoes I’ve been wearing since I was 12: a pair of (this seasons) Jack Purcell leather high tops.

It’s odd how certain things from ones formative years can become, then remain, so comforting for decades to follow—even providing support when considering retirement; the possibility of walking with one of those walkers with the wheels that the old folks pimp out with tennis balls.

I first wore Jacks, purchased by my father with the hopes of enticing me into his obsessive, passionate love of tennis. Now I was picturing them accessorizing tennis balls affixed to my accompanying walker.

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Stepping into new territory always feels big, scary.

What if I trip and fall, fail miserably? So I sat. To put things into perspective.

Suddenly it all felt less scary, miniscule…

….and the unknown future became exciting, a smart, stylish step forward.

But maybe I’m mistaken and I’ll end up in the bad 50%, below the poverty line…

…or maybe, like Imelda, I’ll retire, slipping quietly into seclusion…..

…..with a significant stride and a million pairs of shoes….

Imelda Marcos is sometimes referred to as the Steel Butterfly or the Iron Butterfly. She is often remembered for symbols of the extravagance of her husband’s political reign, including her collection of 2700 pairs of shoes.

Some mornings I wake up and feel as if I could maneuver through anything; other days, not so much.

Recently, while on a trip to New York City, I was reminded of the randomness of said feelings.

On the first morning of my visit, while languidly sipping my (room service) latte’, I went to the window of my hotel room and swept the curtains opened as if resurrecting Eva Gabor’s opening from the 1960’s television series Green Acres.

(My version being, of course, Queen Acres.)

It felt as if I were standing on top of the world—the cabs of Manhattan buzzing about my feet like a frenetic swarm of bumblebees.

Neeeew YorrrrK is where I’d raaatha staY! I gaily announced to the jagged skyline—as the taxicabs scurried over my mangled toes.

The yellow cabs of New York City have, for me, always brought with them a sense of home, of belonging—like my formative years—a comfort level with their disorderly efficiency. Like ants at a picnic, the meal, the bite, the visit, would not taste the same without them.

Akin to the variations on my day-to-day outlook, the taxis also have the ability to travel in several directions—taking one east or west, fast or crawling through traffic, uptown…

…..or down. Every ride, every day, is a dodgy prospect.

A few hours later, I (actually) stepped onto the streets of Manhattan and that wonderful, familiar feeling of power and control returned as threw my arm in the air—causing three or four cabs to come hurling in my direction; making me immediately question my move west.

How could I have left this? jumbled about in my head, as I slipped into the back seat and dictated directions to my on-the-spot chauffeur.

It was a perfect New York (movie) moment.

But….

….like some other mornings, other moments, other movies, things can go the other direction.

The wrong way.

Downtown.

I think about this as on-the-spot chauffeur effortlessly zigzags us through the traffic.

The wrong way, inevitably occurs two or three days into my visit, when I’m laden with shopping bags, or it begins to rain…or I’m laden with shopping bags and it begins to rain.

Why the fuck do people live here? (Generally) rumbles through my thoughts, as the shopping bags and the rain become heavier—while several women in impossibly high heels or some mother with a baby materialize from nowhere to compete for the same cab from opposing corners. Predictably, these women win out through either my deformed sense of chivalry or my long-gone Manhattan mojo.

Two days after I took this photo, (the last day of my visit), it happened.

Both delighted with our pile of cashmere sweaters, my friend Peter and I emerged from (the new) Uniqlo store—only to be pelted in the face by bullets of rain.

We are Los Angeleno-mos’ and, like cats, have come to regard the rain with disdain.

Fortunately, the overly caffeinated, uncharacteristically helpful sales people at Uniqlo had fashioned big, plastic condoms over our shopping bags—in preparation for the storm.

Channeling Eva Gabor, I threw my arm into the air. The swarm of cabs zoomed by—all proudly boasting a blurred Off Duty sign atop their yellow roofs’.

“Let’s just walk” my friend Peter chirped. “It’ll be fun.”

Several blocks down Fifth Avenue, the wind pelting the downpour from every direction, while umbrellas stabbed at my bald little head, my shopping bag shed its condom near the steps of St. Patrick’s’ Cathedral (a gay omen).

Just as my new Duckie Brown lace-less wingtips were nearing ruination, we succumbed to the elements and retreated into Saks. Momentarily distracted by a wool melton tote from Coach and some Paul Smith boots, I began to forget. The day was moving in a better direction—all the while driving my credit card into the red zone.

Then.

“Come on” Peter hissed, “We gotta get back to the hotel and get our stuff! It’s gonna take for-evvvv-er to get to the airport!”

Back into the rain we went.

Again, not a cab to be had…it was an off (duty) day for all.

I was a prune—literally and figuratively.

But…eventually, like good queens from L.A., we called the car service that had brought us into the city….

….to take us out. And left!

Whether a good mood or a bad trip, whether fair or not fair weather, at the end of the day, there is always significance—something to take away from the excursion. Some days it’s worth blissful acknowledgement, a tip, others…not so much, leaving you to walk it off—the rain soaking you with irritating reminders.

But when in Mahanttan….

….I am always reminded that life is absolutely caaaab-ulous!

….Should I save these? I thought to myself, while staring at a stack of Shavings From My Head homo-promo cards—left over from last year’s Gay Pride.

You never know, I concluded, plunking them into the save pile.

As I continued to sift and sort through the heap of business cards, expired warranties, old magazines and endless post it notes—filled with to do lists and scribbled reminders of things to write about—I came across a torn white envelope bulging with five dollar bills.

I thought of Keith and smiled.

And then, I counted its contents.

I’d amassed a small fortune: two hundred and fifteen dollars had been stuffed inside the envelope….

….and then, forgotten.

Again, I thought of Keith and smiled. The forgotten five-dollar stash was my savings account for him—a possible weekend getaway treat or future holiday gift.

And while caught in that moment, sifting through my pile of things to save and things to throw out, I grasped a lesson even more valuable than my small fortune of five dollar bills: I was reminded of the valuable currency of relationships; of what we exchange with those who come into our lives, and of what we take along with us—after they are gone; each ritual, each habit, each kindness.

From Keith, it was his high-five savings plan.

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One night, after a few dates, each of us perched on opposite slabs of the concrete kitchen countertop; we sipped white wine and talked of our formative years on the east coast, of our families.

“Yeah, I have a niece and nephew…my sister’s kids” said Keith, elaborating on our theme. “When they were born, it kept me from moving to the west coast. I didn’t want to miss their childhood and be the absent Uncle. Then one day, all of a sudden they were teenagers, and I thought, I don’t want to grow old here, it’s time to move. So I came west,” he said, taking a shot of chardonnay.  “But they’re still part of my everyday life. We talk a lot and I do my five dollar thing for them.”

“Your five dollar thing?” I asked. “What’s that?”

“Oh, yeah”, he laughed and took another swig from his wine glass.

“Well…every time I end up with a five-dollar bill, I pull it out and stick it in an envelope. And at the end of the year, whatever’s in the envelope I give to my niece and nephew. It’s craaaazy how it adds up!” his Boston accent accentuating the amount. “And, you never even notice. Last year, I think I ended up with twelve hundred dollars!”

“Wow. Impressive”, I countered, mental memo-ing the concept.

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Keith and I were eventually spent—our currency exchange rate became like the euro and Greece. The idea of a common currency seemed great, but in the longer scheme, it dwindled to occasional calls for sex, and eventually life moved on.

While I continued to sift, it made me reconsider the others—past boyfriends and how they’d left their mark.

Coincidently, two recent occurrences only made the consideration more potent: I’d just bought a new home in the desert (my reason for cleaning) and, within the same week, (last week) I’d seen and had dinner with two past loves.

Standing in the middle of my kitchen, the keep and not keep piles on either side of my stack of five-dollar bills, I looked up—scanning the top of my cabinets for things to take to the desert. They were filled with Depression glass.

Until I met Steven, at the age of twenty-nine, I’d never been to a flea market. And I knew nothing about Depression glass. But Steven loved the flea market and he collected Depression glass. So it became something we did together. Something I folded into my life—along with him.

Last week, twenty some years later, when he walked into my house, the first thing he said was, “Ah, the Manhattan!” (the pattern name for the depression glass we collected)

Although we were no longer boyfriends, akin to our continued affection, the Manhattan Depression glass survived—decades after the depression, not to mention a bombing and a few earthquakes.

While smiling, I pulled a few pieces down and packed them for their new abode in the desert.

Then I thought of “Chunky”.

Before I met “Chunk”, I’d never been to the desert. But, as our relationship grew, we folded into each other’s lives; sharing the things we loved—when he took me to Palm Springs for the first time. A romantic getaway for new lovers.

They are still my fondest memories of the California desert.

Again, a smile came to my face as I thought of our recent visit—of his new, happily married life in Texas. Then of the Chunky from eighteen years ago, who introduced me to the place that will become my home of tomorrow.

Another example of how those I have loved, have opened me, expanded my scope, added interest to my being….

…..by leaving behind pieces of themselves. Good, useful pieces, that, even when the ending was tumultuous, valuable interest had been added to my personal currency.

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The currency of relationships usually begins with small exchanges: a hello, a wink, a smile, a five-dollar bill. And even if all parts don’t last forever, if the bottom falls out of the shared economy, a valuable personal fortune is (still, usually) amassed. Because of these exchanges, we’ve gained interest (and sometimes cash)—learning a little more about ourselves through these small, gracious investments.

So…perhaps, like me, Greece may eventually return to the drachma.

Why?

Because the word drachma is derived from the verb “to grasp”.