"Ain't that somethin'?"

Dinner with Tracy is something my dad likes to fit in at least once during his visits. She nannied for my sister and I while we were young, and catching up with her always provides dad with yet another chance for deep belly laughter and reminiscing. He spends the evening re-telling stories of the old days, and we all hang on every word.

On Tuesday night Tracy and Steve had Danielle, dad and I over for a ham dinner, and we spent hours chatting around the dining room table. We feasted on each others' stories and positive energies as we enjoyed second and third helpings of a delicious meal (there's no dieting with Donald in town). Somehow sexuality made its way into the conversation. From his prominent seat at the head of the table Donald said, "Well my grandfather always told me you can never have any love for a woman that loves other women." After a few uncomfortable moments of silence and awkward glances across the table, dad continued, "But my daughter showed me different, 'cuz I have to love her... Ain't that somethin'?"

It really was "somethin'" to hear my dad declare a reserved acceptance of homosexuality. (Short lived though it was, since he told me this afternoon that I need to "find [myself] a man and straighten up.") I can't count the number of disparaging remarks I grew up hearing my dad spew about "faggots", "sissies" and "dykes". I have guardedly accepted his homophobia as something so deeply ingrained in his 70-year-old island consciousness that, at this point, it is too late to expect much to change.

I've come out at least a dozen times to my dad over the last five years. Three years ago, Donald was at the first "Swizzle In, Swagger Out" birthday party at Vineland. He enjoyed the afternoon of BBQ and dominoes without reserve. As Luke and I took him home in the early evening, dad decided he was going to ask "that lady" to go to the movies with him.

"Which lady?!" I asked, leaning into the front seats of the car.

"The older one," he declared.

"Oh! Well, dad, she has a girlfriend. Actually, she's dating my ex-girlfriend," Luke turned his i-Pod mix down. "Most of those women there today were lesbians."

"Oh, Lord! What's wrong with you girls? You need Jesus, we're going to church in the mornin'," Donald cried out from the front seat. And that was that. I joined him at church, hungover, that Sunday.

He's been staying at Heather and Tawn's house for the last two visits. I've often wondered if he realizes he's living with two happily coupled women- they share one room and one bed. As Ashley pointed out during one of our porch sessions this week, "Donald is sharp... He knows." How hard is that for him to conceive of? Over a half century of blaming the gays for the world's ills must be chipping away as his love for these beautiful women continues to grow. Does he consider himself lucky, as I think he should, for witnessing a love he has always considered not only foreign, but morally wrong? Is he proud of us?

The gift of unconditional understanding is a hard promise to make a day out, but I was enveloped in warmth by my dad's momentary acceptance on Tuesday evening whilst dining with old friends. Parents want the easiest and best possible life for their children. My parents are still coming to terms with the fact that for me, that best possible life involves finding the woman with whom I want to build a future with. That’s my path to happiness. I guess I'll take fleeting parental acceptance where I can.

Bermuda Shorts #2

Dad and I went shopping today. He's been to the grocery store almost every day since he arrived- we can only think of one day that no one was able to take him. Low American prices and motorized shopping carts make the normally banal chore a daily adventure for Donald. I have a few days off from work to compensate for last weekend's killer hours, and when I finally rolled out of bed this morning and asked him what he wanted to do today he said, "Let's go to Shaws, I gotta get stuff for the party!"

This weekend I'll be celebrating my birthday with a small party at the house. The original plan was to have a cookout and drinks on the porch, but the forecast calls for showers so we might be forced to move the festivities inside. This will be my third annual birthday bash at Vineland, and the crowning feature each year is Donald's rum swizzle. It's a delicious, and deceivingly lethal, combination of juices, Gosling's dark rum, Meyers light rum and apricot brandy. In his thirties Donald was a chef and a self proclaimed professional partier (half his stories end with, "I used to love a drink!"), so he's all kinds of excited to entertain people at the house on Saturday; he doesn't talk about much else, and at random times throughout our day of shopping he'd yell out, "They're gonna LOVE my swizzle!"

We've now been to three liquor stores and made two special trips to the grocery market picking up his desired ingredients... Swizzle in, swagger out!

It Takes a Vineland Village

I've had little reason to blog over the last few days because, frankly, I've spent very little time with my dad. Before Donald decided to visit, I warned him that I had a large conference to work during his proposed stay. "Don't worry 'bout me," came his booming response over the phone. In truth, I wasn't worried about him so much as my roommates and the friends that he'd be troubling for daily rides to Stop and Shop (he's somewhat obsessed with grocery shopping); Donald doesn't drive and hates to be housebound for too long, so if I'm not around that means it falls to someone else to keep him entertained.

In the nights leading up to Friday's plenary session I spent a lot of time (and Institute money) preparing for the worst case conference scenario. My evenings were consumed with running errands between the occasional dinner at home. On top of a 45 hour Monday to Friday work week, I spent an additional 35 hours this past weekend running around with a walkie talkie between buildings on campus trying to ensure that sessions were executed flawlessly: "Come in Fine Whine, what's the status of the A/V in Wilson?" Dad could have endured a terribly boring week, but my sister, roommates and friends were fantastic. "What's she named? The little one? She took me church!" Heather earned extra brownie points with Donald for that one, especially considering I got him to church as the final hymn was being sung the week before. Everyone stepped in and picked up the slack.

Sounds like they had some fun with him, too. Tawn halfheartedly complained that Donald got her wasted by making them add more rum to the piña colada mix on Saturday afternoon as they enjoyed cocktails on the sun-soaked porch. They did some party planning for my upcoming birthday celebrations- rum swizzles will be served by the gallon. And, of course, they went grocery shopping. Besides sneaking in one or two quick phone calls, my contact with dad consisted of brief, sleepy conversations when I'd wake him up before leaving for work and when I got home. When the conference ended tonight, I was pleased to get home to sit around the porch table and ease into lazy conversation with four smiling faces as they talked about their weekend.

Thank you to those that kept Donald smiling over the last week; and please forgive the tired ramblings above. I'm still trying to catch up on some sleep.

Bermuda Shorts #1

*"Bermuda Shorts" entries will be a space for shorter posts and amusing anecdotes

I've been feeling a little guilty about something. Dad's first dinner in RI was at Twin Oaks on the way home from the airport. His flight didn't land until 8:00 pm, so he was famished by the time we made it to the restaurant. When his steak dinner arrived, Donald dug right in; and on his second bite, he choked. I saw his eyes grow wide as he pointed to his throat... and I bolted from the table, searching frantically for my exit from the dining room. In my defense, as I was fleeing the scene I did call back, "Dani, help him!"

It's no great secret that I'm not the woman you want around in case of an emergency. My fight-or-flight response can be more accurately characterized as fright-and-flight. It was pretty crummy to realize that I wouldn't even stick around to help my own father! In the interest of full disclosure, I'm not the woman you want around when you're ailing in any way either. So, when dad's feet were aching tonight and he yelled to me from his room, "Diiii?! Come rub my feet," I immediately texted my sister to see if she'd come do it. "Not tonight," she responded.

Feeling bad about deserting Donald in his time of need at the restaurant, I gulped down the last of my wine and reluctantly agreed to rub arthritis cream into his swollen feet. "It's a bitch gettin' up in age, isn't it?" he said as I removed his socks for him. Pushing away my anxiety, I squeezed a line of white medicated cream onto his foot and hesitantly rubbed it in. I didn't even wear the gloves I had begged off of Tawn a few moments earlier. Now, if that ain't love...

Double Twelves!

We've been hosting communal dinners at Vineland for a few months now; we started with "Taco Tuesdays" and added "Pasta Wednesdays" when Blondie's softball season prevented her from making it to the Tuesday night festivities. Dinners always end with boardgames, and the time shared with friends helps to break up the monotony of the work week. Dad's favorite game is Dominoes, so that's become our post-dinner pastime.

Dad is adjusting to this new tradition somewhat reluctantly. He assured us last night that we "don't have to worry about [him] eating this shit Tuesdays in Bermuda." Tacos aren't quite his speed. He did, however, make a pasta sauce tonight; and my sister and Blondie were the welcome guests. Dad is loud and demanding throughout the meals, but I think we all agree that he's a lovable nuisance.

I had to run some work errands after dinner, but returned home to the jubilant sound of a competitive round of dominoes in play. Tawn and Blondie were new to the game, but Heather had learned how to play last night with Ashley, Donald and I. Dad sing-songs his way through each game, starting every round by crying out "Double Twelves!" He proves to be a pretty sore loser and immodest winner, but I dare you not to have fun sitting around the table playing a round with him!

Table for Four

Dad's 70th birthday was last Friday. I have a hard time comprehending his age: will I live that long? what's it like to feel your bones and muscles grow heavy under the weight of seven decades on Earth; to remember that only fifteen years ago you walked without a limp? how does he look back upon over a half century of memories and choose which stories to tell? To commemorate the event Danielle, Ashley and I joined him for dinner at his favorite local restaurant- The Old Grist Mill Tavern. I generally find it hard to rally to do much of anything on Friday evenings, tired from the week and longing for the simplicity of enjoying an ice cold beer on the porch; Dad's enthusiasm for his celebration was contagious, though.

All in all it was a truly enjoyable evening; a table full of Bermudians sat overlooking the river in dim Tavern lighting, enjoying good food and genuine laughter. We had reserved Donald's favorite table, number 22, and were waited on by the same gentleman that had served dad and his "lady friend" only a day earlier. Dad ordered appetizers for the table and relished his entree of Maine lobster. I tried all the while not to be the nagging daughter that worries over her aging father eating too much.

The highlight of the evening came after we had blown out the candles on the Shaw's Bakery cake Donald had special ordered days earlier. The ladies at the table next to us, three sisters, had insisted on singing "Happy Birthday" despite Dad's insistence that he's "too old for all'a that." They sang, the table behind them joined in, and we all applauded. Over cake, dad opened his gift from Ashley. From under layers of blue tissue paper, he uncovered a box of his favorite tea, P.G. Tips, and erupted into cries of, "Oh Boy! My tea! Thank you, baby doll! Haaaaaa!" To say that he caused a stir in the generally subdued restaurant would be an understatement; to describe the gift as thoughtful would fail to do justice to Ashley's beautiful gesture. As dad hurriedly opened the box, anxious to share a few tea bags with our new friends a table over, I fought back tears. Overwhelmed with pride to be seated next to this amazing man, my father, I cried.

Donald loves life. This joy for the world around him is unbridled; it bubbles over in ways that are often unexpected and rarely seen. In our fast-paced society, surrounded by the impersonal, it's not always easy to hold on to his kind of enthusiasm. It's even harder to maintain the freedom and strength to express our emotions openly. That evening, however, Donald reminded all of us in that restaurant that a joyful spirit should be shared. He's living proof that it's okay to laugh the hardest, sing the loudest, and play the longest, because in the twilight of our lives we should all be so lucky to ring in our 70th birthday looking forward to "seventy more."

House Rules

During my senior year of college I lived with five of my closest friends. To maintain a copacetic relationship with each other, it was quickly determined that we'd need some house rules: Cathie's mom shouldn't call the house phone at 5:00 am, the toilet paper should roll over, parties should be approved by everyone before invites were emailed, and we should strictly abide by the chore wheel. I'm not sure how many of our friendships could have remained intact after that year without such rules.

When I moved in with Heather and Tawn, we seemed to settle into an effortless and natural rhythm of communal living . We haven't had to establish such codes here at Vineland, and we often marvel at how easy our transition from friends to roommates has been. When dishes pile up over the weekend, someone eventually peels themselves off of the couch to clean them; grocery lists are coordinated throughout the week; and taking the trash out on Monday nights is a group effort between cigs. We're not the types to sweat the small stuff, and this works well for all of us.

Last year we discovered that living with an extended house guest creates the need to establish a few ground rules. We hadn't thought much about the rules again until Donald's recent return, and I was sure to remind him of them on the way home from the airport.

Rule #1: Stay in bed until 7:00am
Tawn is the first to rise in the house. Her morning routine consists of getting dressed and ready for work, feeding Izzy (Heather and Tawn's golden), making lunch, and stolen conversation with a sleeping Heather. She has a quiet routine, and for most of the year doesn't run into anyone eager to talk to her. My dad's an early bird, though, and would try to engage Tawn in conversation heavily laden with a Bermudian accent. "I have a hard enough time understanding him when I'm fully awake- I feel bad asking him to repeat himself ten times while I'm making a sandwich," Tawn confessed two weeks into his stay last year. So, we instituted a 7:00 am breakfast rule for Donald on the grounds that Tawn isn't a morning person.

Rule #2: House guests must wear pants
I grew up in a "clothing optional" home. My parents were big on strolling around in their underwear- we did, after all, live in an often unbearably warm climate without central air conditioning; it was natural for them to walk around in various states of undress most times. The trouble is that Donald is still pretty big on wearing scant clothing around the house (quite unabashedly). Last year Heather and Tawn both stumbled upon him in his drawers at the kitchen table, and we quickly decided to declare that pants are mandatory in common spaces!

Dad's having some trouble readjusting to the first house rule. As soon as Donald hears the jiggle of Tawn's door opening in the morning, he's up and at 'em. I overheard him chatting with her eagerly while enjoying his oatmeal and banana yesterday morning. I rolled over to check the clock and, tsk-tsk, it was only 6:15 am.

I'm happy to report that so far this year we're at a 100% success rate for abiding by rule #2.