From the proposal on the Rim of Crater Lake to the actual Union in Vermont, follow along as we develop plans for our Union Ceremony scheduled for August 2004, celebrating 10 years together.
The Buzz of Town. The entire town is talking about the folks who were having the Gallery opening. The florist. The choir. Walking down the street in Springfield, folks were saying hello, and congratulations. Frank Poole, the Justice of the Peace we almost killed yesterday, was there working the crowd anticipating election day, and stopped to say hello and congratulations.
Ron, who is officiating our Ceremony a little later today, no longer has his paperwork that indicates he is ordained, which he had to produce in order to be able to legally officiate the Ceremony. So we decided to simply have a small, private legal moment, which we did yesterday morning.
Dan, Sean, Zach our photographer and Justice Poole traipsed into the woods yesterday with us for a private exchange of vows. It was a little more of a hike than a stroll, and about halfway up a steep hill, he stops, huffing and puffing, his face purple. I wondered if the paramedics would go this far into the woods if they had too.
We finally made it to a bridge over a brook. And there, before Dan and Sean, the early morning dew still clinging to the grass, unbeknownst to our guests, we did the dead, and legally tied the knot in Vermont.
Bride-zilla and Just The Facts. About an hour before things were supposed to kick-off, we learned that most of Tony’s family was about an hour-and-half away. And that’s when I turned into Bride-zilla. Maybe it was a last minute panic that set in. But it was going to start, and it was starting without Tony’s parents. But just as we were about to head out to Gallery at the VAULT, they pulled in. Exhausted, tired and frustrated.
There are days when it’s easy to put yourself in other people’s shoes. And there are days when it’s virtually impossible. And yesterday was one of those days.
All the family finally here, things started moving again.
Downtown Springfield was all-abuzz. The Moonlite Madness Car Cavalcade had antique cars lining the street in downtown for blocks. There were bands, raffles, and contests. In the Gallery, where we had great Oregon wines, Vermont cheese, pleasant conversation. We moved to the Morning Star Café, and that’s when the love began.
Dan orchestrated the evening like a pro, with class, flair and wit. He was at his finest, which always puts me in complete awe. Tony and I were able to soak it up for just a moment. The power was overwhelming, being bombarded with love from every direction, from the people we most love.
The evening simply would not stop. Waiting in everyone’s rooms was a guidebook, with information for the weekend and the schedule, a music CD, a bottle of Blue Moon Riesling, and six greeting cards. In the guidebook, we included a list of guests, and random facts about people. Folks have studied the guides, and are trying to match facts and names. The facts are fueling conversation for hours. We had no idea how compulsive it would become.
We finally moved on to the Hartness House, where the owner Alex kept the libations flowing, and folks laughed and giggled into the wee hours of the morning. Trying to discover the facts, but in the process, discovering more about each other.
Freaking Out. I don't know what it is, but I'm totally freaking out about this having to walk down the aisle thing. I think if I can do that, then maybe I can get through this. I'm really more of a behind-the-scenes guy. Not a front and center.
Lossing Weight In Silk. Dan spent the afternoon hiding all the silk in his room. There’s a glutton of silk in some of these rooms, and as you know, the Gays don’t take to kindly to silk. And sometimes less is more. At first, he moved it to one corner of his room. And then we all decided it was too much a fire hazard, all that silk. So he moved it to the closet.
Calm Before The Storm. Spent a lazy afternoon relaxing with the Best Men. A hike in the woods, and the lounging in the James Hartness Suite, watching, of course, Bring It On. We headed out to dinner at the Morningstar Café, where we were greated by Eddie Spaghetti. Neither were able to head out to meet us at the Rainbow Cattle Company. Eddie met us 16-months ago at the Rainbow Cattle Company, and he recognized us right away. It always strikes us as odd how people remember the four of us wherever we go. But then people say we’re quite memorable.
Our server said Eddie’s her “gay Puerto Rican Husband.” He said she’s his “bitch straight wife”.
It was nice to have a quiet moment over dinner with the boys. As Sean said, the calm before the storm, which hit like a Carolina Hurricane. Dan so astutely observed, “You were supposed to be showering. Wanna be fucking. But ended up on the phone.”
Quiet moments behind, us, we greeted all our guests who arrived on Thursday, and then headed out to the Rainbow Cattle Company, which appears to have changed its name to the Rainbow Lounge. It was very lounge-like with Karaoke, and soothing vocal seductions of Sprague.
Multiple Occasions. The Best Men have arrived, and the first order of business was to get all the paper work done. So we had a quick lunch at the Morningstar Café, walked through the Gallery at the VAULT, and then walked down the street to get our Civil Union License. Bonnie wasn’t in, but another woman was able to help us out.
I found myself suddenly nervous as we walked in to the Town Clerk’s office. It’s funny how at these profound moments, you learn the must amazing things about your partner. As the woman who was filling in for Bonnie asked us questions, Tony was hung up on the a few, such as the spelling of his mother’s name. Who would have known?
We completed the form, she printed it out, we signed it and Tony paid with 23 $1-stripper tip bills left over from Montreal as Dan and Sean looked on. The woman replacing Bonnie called around to find us someone who could conduct the legal Civil Union, and set us up with a Justice of the Peace for 9 a.m. tomorrow at the Hartness House.
We were not aware that the license and the Civil Union were not the same. Ron is not able to actually conduct the legal part because he needs to prove he’s actually ordained, but he no longer has that paperwork. So, we’re having to conduct a small, legal Civil Union, and the big, public ceremony will actually be fake. But Sean reminded us a lot of people do it that way.
The problem this lends itself to is multiple anniversaries. Gay couples, as a practice, don’t have a date to celebrate their anniversary. Often it’s the first date, or the first time they actually met. Often, couples can’t remember the date of their first date, or the day they first met. For us, it was at the Halstead Street Market Days, sometime in August. If we pulled out a calendar from 1993, we could figure it out. Then the anniversary we officially recognize is in December, the date of our first date. And now we’ll have the date of our legal Civil Union and then the date of our public Ceremony. But we’ll have multiple occasions now to celebrate. Either that or multiple occasions to accidentally forget.
Then, like every loving couple, we headed to Shaw’s Grocery to stock up on beverage supplies and argue about the price of bottled water.
An Old Flame. Mom and Dad showed up last night, just as we were putting the finishing touches on all the place cards for the reception dinner. We took the opportunity for a quiet evening with them, driving to Woodstock, and then on to Quechee.
We stopped at Simon Pearce glass blowing gallery, where they have a restaurant. The collection of glass lamps, vases, candlesticks and more were incredible. And the food in the restaurant matched appropriately.
In the center of the table was a beautiful glass flame. It was a sculpture of sorts shaped like a flame. And on it was Bob Keeshan’s name. Most probably know Bob as Captain Kangaroo. We asked why his name was printed on the flame, and learned that we were sitting at his table. Three or four times a week he would come in to dine and Simon Pearce’s, and this was their way of remembering him.
Bats In The Belfry. When we returned from dinner last night, there was a visitor in our room: a bat. We had left the window open in the bathroom, which doesn’t have a screen. At first I thought it was a sparrow, but then when it latched on to the plaster molding, it was quite clear that was no sparrow.
Tony reminded me that he was probably more scared of us than we were scared of him. I’m not quite sure as he looked pretty relaxed on that molding to me.
A check with the front desk and the Hartness House Manager nodded, and said, “Yes. A bat. We’ve had this before. You have to knock them out – that’s the only way.” With that, he grabbed a broom and for the next 10 minutes, we watched as he swatted, attempting to knock him out. When the bat flew into the bathroom, he and the bat confined themselves to that space, and within five minutes, the hotel manager had won.
Everything But The Parade. We’ve been in Springfield now for about 24 hours. We arrived late yesterday, after buying our obligatory duty-free vodka (there is something about the sound of duty-free that makes it a duty that one has to buy something that is duty-free when the time arises), traveling across the state in terrible rain, and of course, the chalk-o-lat factory tour. We spent a low-key evening unpacking and then took a stroll through town.
After an early bedtime and early wake-up (made all the more difficult with Tylenol PM residual), we were off to meet with all the people we’ve corresponded through e-mail to make sure all the details are set.
First stop was the Gallery at the VAULT, where we met Nina, the Executive Director. They have graciously cleared a wall for me to hang some of my photography so that we can have a gallery opening on the night of our rehearsal dinner. Tony and I pulled out all the photographs we shipped, and then displayed them in the former President’s offices of this former bank space. I’m not sure if she liked my photography because she thought it is actually good, or if she liked it because we’re donating $150 with a matching gift donation from the American Express Foundation to use the space. Regardless, the pictures are hung, and if nothing else, it’s going to a totally unique and fun night.
Next, we stopped in to visit with Mac and Naomi at the Morning Star Cafe. Much to our surprise, they have been able to get three Oregon wines for us to serve the night of the rehearsal dinner. While we did discuss a few details, most of the time we spent gossiping about the town. After reading the Springfield Reporter for a year, we feel like we know the people of Springfield and what’s important. It was exciting to finally get the insider’s perspective on what’s really going on in Springfield.
From there, we headed to Coger’s Sugarhouse Gardens to visit Gail, who is handling all the floral arrangements. She’s incredibly talented and seemed to be a bit thrown by our direction, “Just make it look nice, and make sure the scale is appropriate for the use.” She’d look at us funny. “You know, people often don’t realize so much of it is about scale.” You’re not going to find a Bridezilla here micro-managing the creative talent.
We stopped for lunch at the Precision Valley Corvette Museum, which is attached to the Springfield Royal Diner for a toasted cheese and BLT. The ‘Vette Museum would have true museum directors gawking in shock at what really just comes across as one person’s hobby and passion on display.
After lunch, we sat down with Patty at the Hartness House to go over the final details, then assembled the table cards, and about the time Mom and Dad showed up, we were almost complete with all of today’s tasks.
It’s exciting to see everyone’s enthusiasm build for our weekend. We’ve been careful not to micromanage, but to coach these folks on the look and feel we’re hoping to achieve. In the process, their creativity has been sparked, they’ve been inspired, and we’re going to get so much more than we ever bargained for.
Anticipating closing Main Street in Springfield, Vermont will be a problem, everyone along the way asked if we had warned our guests about what’s happening on Friday night – the Moonlight Madness Car Cavalcade Parade – an parade of antique cars. While we haven’t spread all the details, we think is going to be one of the highlights of the weekend. As we tell people about the weekend and what is going on, people say facetiously, “But you’re not going to have a parade?”
Of Fine Chalk-o-lat and Shed-dar Sheeze. We are heading to Vermont in the morning, and Tony is forcing me to stop at a chocolate factory on the way. God, how that works my nerves. He pronounces chocolate - chalk-o-lat, which I'm convinced he thinks it will taste better when you pronounce it that way. Now if you visited Barnes Place, then you would know the top shelf of the refrigerator contains nothing other than fine chalk-o-lat from around the world. And because Tony doesn't like sweets, it sits there and sits there and sits there. I think we have chalk-o-lat in the fridge from before we moved into Barnes Place. It's no wonder I'm fighting high blood pressure. Every time I look in the fridge, all that is there is fine chalk-o-lat and beer.
Anyway, I know that when we stop, we will go on the tour and at the end we will have to exit through the gift shop and he will say, "This is REALLY, I mean, REALLY GOOD chalk-o-lat." And then we'll spend lots of dollars on chalk-o-lat we'll never eat. It never fails! We could be in Ethel-M Chocolates in Las Vegas and he falls for it. Now, anyone who's anyone knows that Auntie Ethel-M is a fictitious aunt created by M&M/Mars to sell their M&M's chocolate at a higher price point.
So now he's called me an ass for revealing the truth to you. "Hey," he says, "you drug me to a god-damned cheese factory and filled the car with Tillamook Cheese that we couldn't eat." Okay, but Tillamook Cheese - you can't get that everywhere, and I'm convinced they have the best cheddar cheese in the world. Oh, I mean, shed-dar sheeze.
Bonjour, Zzentleman!. One of the benefits of traveling with Tony is his extensive experience in the travel industry. While the perks have dwindled next to nothing in recent years, and they are nothing like the glory days of travel long before I met him, he’s occasionally able to swing a deal. Most often it comes in the form of an upgrade at a hotel when the property is nowhere near full.
Whether we stay in the monster suite with multiple rooms, power curtains, and a door-bell, or we’re in the cinder-block room with a Wal-mart print providing ambiance, it generally costs the hotel the same to house us, comfortable or not.
And for the professional ass-kiss who knows his business, the college-aged front desk hospitality management major is simply putty in his fingers. So once again, he batted his eyelashes as we checked in, and we’ve landed on the 25th Floor with a view of the Fleuve Saint-Laurent. Outside our window is a crane. The gigantic type used to build skyscrapers with. Hanging out on the end is a college student (a hospitality management major, I’m sure) trying to raise funds for tuition. The police and firemen have been hanging out, yelling at him through a bull-horn, trying to talk some sense into him. When they approached him to negotiate, he through objects at them.
We watched the stand-off come to an end from the 26th Floor, in Club Exécutif, the breakfast/cocktail lounge that was the upgrade Tony got for free. I’m not sure which show was better: the college student coming down and the police and fire squads rejoicing as if they had won (I tend to think not. I mean, it only took 36 hours to talk him down.), or the age-old executives who are trying to woo tart-like women with the free cheap chardonnay, and cream cheese daintily squirt on stale bread cut into circles and referred to as an hors d’voure by the French. The women are all, of course, concerned about the safety of the student. The men are all, of course, concerned about the dessert they hope to get after dinner.
Tony and I are sitting in the corner at a table watching this unfold. He’s playing his gameboy, and I’m fixing my need to document everything on my laptop. Clearly, we are in a place we don’t belong. Again. Ironically, we can’t afford this cheap free wine we’re drinking.
There is a part of me that identifies with the college student sitting on the top of the crane outside the window. In fact, I’m envious of his entrepreneurial spirit. This isn’t the first time he’s gone to such extremes. Last Fall, he scaled the roof of the Biodome and hung a banner asking for assistance. It was much easier for police to reach him there and arrest him for being a public nuisance.
Tonight, he’s the ultimate public nuisance, drawing the attention of the women in Club Exécutif away from the age-old men swirling cheap chardonnay in their wine glasses.
Three-quarters of a bottle of cheap chardonnay later, I said something that made Tony slink back to our room. Three-quarters of a bottle of cheap chardonnay later, I announced to the room, “Bonjour, Zzentleman! If youz really wantz to impress de voman, denz youz write de boy a zcheck with yourz zcheck book.”
There is probably a reason we can’t afford to pay for this cheap chardonnay, and it’s probably rooted somewhere in my ability to hold it.
The Lite Shines Free for Pride Everywhere. Today is a holiday, of sorts, for us. It’s the Gay and Lesbian Pride Celebration in Montreal and that means there is cause for celebration: there’s a parade. After a late breakfast and a morning swim in the hotel pool, we walked the four blocks from the hotel to Boul René-Lévesque, catching the parade mid-route as it traveled along one of Montreal’s most important streets, cutting through the business district and meandering toward the gay neighborhood.
While it’s filled with local tradition, it’s filled with global themes. Leading the parade, as all Pride Parades around the world, is the Rainbow Flag. The flag was created in San Francisco in 1978 by Gilbert Baker and has been adopted world-wide as a symbol of unity, aspiring freedom from discrimination and hate for the gay and lesbian community. For a moment, a lump forms in my throat knowing that this is a powerful American symbol that has been embraced by cultures everywhere.
Standing in a foreign country watching their pride parade, I wonder about My America. My America touches cultures around the world not only with the export of a Rainbow Pride Flag, but with products that define the world. Gay men in Montreal march down the street in Nike shoes. Lesbian women in Quebec drink Dansani, a Coca-cola product so they don’t dehydrate. The parade’s VIPs are escorted in Chrysler convertibles. A Leather Daddy chooses a Mustang convertible. We all dance in the street. To the sounds of Madonna, Diana Ross, and other American disco classics. A group of American Cowboy-inspired two-steppers waltz down the boulevard in time with LeAnn Rimes.
It’s hard not to feel a smidgen of pride for My America, with its economic prosperity that so clearly leads the world, with its vision and ideals for freedom. I thought of the line from Emma Lazarus’ poem written in 1883, “The New Colossus” which every American child learns in grade school. The line bronzed in a plaque at the base of the Statue of Liberty. The line that sums up what Americans collectively believe about freedom and exile. The line that has become a part of American culture: “Give me your tried, your poor. Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”
The irony hits me. The United States of America, birthplace to the Rainbow Pride Flag, is trailing behind the rest of the world in guaranteeing gays and lesbians the same freedoms and rights the rest of our society take so for granted, they can’t even articulate them. The irony is bittersweet and it tastes like bile on my tongue. While the balance of the world embraces and acknowledges gays and lesbians as productive members of their society, my country is leading the charge to ban my relationship.
Give me your tired, your poor. Your huddled masses yearning to breath free. Except for your same-sex married. Don’t want ‘em. Can’t have ‘em. In fact, we have a President leading the charge to ban ‘em in the Constitution. Not only is he against homosexuality, he’s against homosexuals. The citizens of Georgia are voting on amending the State’s Constitution to officially ban the married gays.
It makes me feel embarrassed and ashamed. Not for me; I’ve resolved those feelings long ago. Rather, it makes me feel ashamed of the new passport I just got so I could come here to Canada and return with little hassle. The passport that says the United States of America is my homeland. The homeland that doesn’t want my relationship. The homeland that was founded on inclusion and freedom and has spent centuries expanding and protecting those concepts, but is now leading the world in exclusion.
Here, in Montreal, in Canada, they embrace same-sex relationships and help to protect them. It’s because they understand the value of relationships in helping people get along in the world, and protecting those relationships is not only good for those individuals, but all of society as well.
Tony and I returned to our hotel, and I looked up the entire poem by Lazarus, which rang true with such timeless wisdom in 1883. I reread her powerful words.
The New Colossus By Emma Lazarus Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame is the imprisoned lighting, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities fame, “Keep ancient lands. your storied pomp!” cried she With silent lips. “Give me your tried, your poor. Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore, Send theses, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lite my lamp beside the golden door!”
In this northern land where uniformed police officers lead the crowd in Pride chants, and so many straight people attend the pride parade, if not for the mullet hairstyle, I would question if lesbian women were even in attendance, I re-read the poem and wonder what have we forgot? I wonder if we are no longer free to accept those who, because of religious beliefs, or political sentiments, or skin color, or lifestyle, are considered wretched refuse, and find themselves homeless, tempest-tossed? Does our light beside the golden door still shine true for everyone’s freedom? Is it a proud day to be an American? Maybe I should ask the Canadian standing next to me.
Shots I Wish I Captured WIth My Camera. Stopping at the Filling Station in Massachusetts, a 24-hour diner highlighted in USA Today as one of the top ten places to eat (almost) anytime, we spot a gentleman sitting on his hemorrhoid pillow on the bar stool.
