Nick Poff's Blog, page 2

HANDYMAN #6 – WORK IN PROGRESS

You think 2020 has been a rough year? Wait until you read about the bumpy road Ed and Rick had in 1989. Is the going rough enough to seriously mess with the love and commitment these two men have created over the nine years prior? I’m hoping you’ll get the answer to this and many other questions about the entire Porterfield gang in early 2021.

[image error]FOR THE LOVE OF HIM — BOBBI MARTIN 1970



FOR THE LOVE OF HIM – BOBBY MARTIN Listen Here!

The Covid-19 Garden

Late on the afternoon of March 30, 2020, I threw a bag stuffed with work notes and office supplies into my car and got ready for the drive home. As I peeled out, navigating the parking lot potholes by memory, I glanced back at the building where I spent my forty work hours a week, wondering when or if I’d be back. The world was in the midst of a pandemic, and I would begin “working remotely” the next day. Three and a half months later, I’m still at my home computer, “working remotely” and efficiently performing my day job. I am a load scheduler for a trucking company, and yes, it is as glamorous as it sounds. All kidding aside, I work with great people, and at a time when so many folks are struggling I’m very grateful to have a job considered essential.

I remember talking with one of my coworkers that last day, thinking out loud really, trying to explain what had me so weirded out about the whole thing. It wasn’t so much the fear of getting sick, I told her, but it was the feeling of losing control of day to day life, and not having the vaguest idea what would happen next. Now, three months plus later, in the midst of one of my annual annoyances, a July heatwave, I’m still uneasy, still wondering where the hell the world is going in general, and this county in particular. If I was rattled at the end of March, I’m positively gobsmacked here in July.

It’s hard to divorce one’s self from the day to day realities of what we are currently experiencing. I suppose there are those who can compartmentalize it and go about their business. Not me. I knew back in late May when I had the first panic attack I’ve had in years that I needed a distraction. The obvious solution was to get busy with my next book. I tried but it wasn’t working. Fictional Porterfield, Indiana, and the sage of handyman Ed Stephens has always been a good destination when I’ve been disgusted with Real Life. This time, though, the realities of 2020 kept distracting me from Ed’s life in the 1980’s. Our weird present was distracting me from what was suppose to distract me from the present. I needed something else, so I started a garden.

It wasn’t an intentional decision. It all started just after Memorial Day when my friend Tim texted me and asked if I wanted some of the hibiscus plants he and his husband Matt had thinned out of their yard. The idea of something blooming in the backyard appealed, so I told him yeah, bring ’em over.

I wouldn’t call myself a gardener. There have been times in my life when I’ve taken a lot of pleasure in working the dirt and growing things, and long periods where I couldn’t care less. The past few years qualify as a “couldn’t care less” era, and the amazing variety of weeds growing in the backyard flower beds proved it. So, after Tim delivered the plants I got busy and cleared away a corner, pulling weeds, ripping out vine roots, and moving rocks about. I was pleased with the result. Why stop with this? I thought as I looked at the remaining weed-choked beds. You might just be surprised at what you find under the mess.

That’s when it hit me. This was the distraction I needed from a world in chaos: A little patch of pretty in my own yard. For the next couple of weeks every break from work in my upstairs study found me in the yard pulling and cutting and quietly chiding myself for letting the beds get so neglected. There were indeed some lovely ground cover perennials, but nothing that would produce colorful summer flowers. I was going to have to invest in some bedding plants, and maybe some seeds.

That thought immediately sent my mind back fifty years to Park Elementary School and the box of seeds we were given to sell each spring. The last two of those years my mom and I keep most of the seed packets and planted them in our own garden. Just thinking of those cheerful blooming flowers — morning glories, nasturtiums, and zinnias — got me in motion. I tied my face mask and took off for the nearest garden center.

Now, in early July, the bedding plants I purchased are doing well. It’s a joy to get up in the morning and see their bright colors as I make my daily inspection. The seeds have sprouted, but since I got a late start with them it will still be awhile before I see any blooming action. I make sure they have plenty of water (a major issue in this current climate change heatwave we’re dealing with) as I cheer them on. “Grow, little plants, grow!”

I call it my “Covid-19 Garden.” I doubt very much I would be doing this if I had to leave home for work every day, so really the pandemic gets the credit for getting me moving. And in some ways it is a definite reaction to wide spread illness and death, the racial issues that anger me and break my heart at the same time, and mostly assuredly a response to a country’s leader so vile he stands only for the things I despise about our nation. The world is burning, but I’m not ready to throw myself into the flames. Not yet. I won’t, not when I have bright, blooming flowers to anticipate in my own backyard. As long as I — WE — have something positive to look forward to, spending time doing the activities that nourish our souls as much as our bodies, we’ll be okay. Hang in there. No, I won’t say we are all in this together. That’s a corporate message with little meaning. I mean hang in there. It doesn’t have to be graceful; just get through it, and hopefully those of us left will come out stronger and wiser than we were.

[image error]THERE’S NO FLOWERS IN MY GARDEN — THE ORPHANS — 1968

This buried gem is essentially a rip off of Scott MacKenzie’s “San Franciso (Be Sure To Wear Flowers in Your Hair).” However, if you listen to it independent of the hippie moment in which it was created, you hear a lot of optimism and hope. I’m all for that these days.

THERE’S NO FLOWERS IN MY GARDEN – THE ORPHANS – 1968 listen here!

Lead Me Not Into Indoctrination

I’ve been saying for the past three years that the presidential election of 2016 flushed the last dregs of Christianity out of me. It’s true. Oh, for years I referred to myself as a “recovering Baptist,” but I was fooling myself. It took one last piece of evidence to realize that something I had begun to suspect at the age of nine was undoubtedly the truth.

Here in northeast Indiana “going to church” is, of course, not mandatory, but the social influence to do so is quite strong, whether one is a fervent believer or just along for the ride. I was born to an ardent Baptist mother and a religiously indifferent father. My mom ruled on this aspect of child rearing. You went to Sunday school, you went to Vacation Bible School, and you went to the Sunday service until you were in your teens. After that it was your choice. I did all of that, and also attended BYF (Baptist Youth Fellowship) meetings on Sunday nights, and I even sang in the choir until my voice changed and I could no longer carry a tune. (Side note: this was the early seventies, and our choir director had us singing stuff like “Put Your Hand in the Hand” and “Day By Day.” We didn’t do “Spirit In the Sky,” though. I guess that was too far out for Mrs. Shady.) I was a good kid. I listened and learned and, as they say, took the gospel as “gospel.”

Still, I’ve always had a mind of my own, and even at an early age I began to understand that I did not necessarily view the world as everyone else around me did. There always seemed to be a catch to so many things people did or expected you to do, and there were a lot of times when asking “Why?” was frowned upon. It didn’t make much sense to me.

The first major detour on my path to being a True Christian came on a muggy Thursday night in July of 1971. There was one other required church related activity in my family: Spending a week at the Baptist Church Camp on Lake Tippecanoe in the northeast Indiana lakes region. I was just two months shy of ten years of age, and had never been away from home on my own before. The only other person I knew was Dan, a kid my age from our church. We were put in the same “bunk” together, so at least I had a comrade of sorts for all the new stuff I was to experience that week. All in all, it wasn’t a terrible ordeal, I guess. I was doing okay with the whole thing — mandatory evening church services and all — until I finally understood why we young folks were there. It wasn’t the kind of summer camp you read about, or see in movies. Oh, no. We were there for one specific reason, and one only — to “accept” Christ and prepare to “join the church.”

Come Thursday evening the combination of the humid air and a sudden sense of high seriousness made me, a kid with an over active imagination fed by years of “Dark Shadows,” feel as though something sinister was about to happen. The camp pastor, instead of his usual light lesson on how to be a better person, pulled out all of the stops. If you’ve ever seen one of those Billy Graham revivals on TV you know what I mean. IT WAS TIME FOR US TO COME TO THE LORD, by God. WE NEEDED TO BE SAVED! But no, we didn’t have to get up and walk to the alter to declare our devotion to Christ. They had something much more effective up their sleeves.

Sermon over, we all marched back to our bunks. Once there, the bunk counselor had all of us boys form a circle. One by one, we were asked just where we were on the path to accepting Christ as our Lord and Savior. Some of the kids had gone the whole route — accepting Christ, going to pre-baptism classes, and finally, putting on a white robe and being immersed in public. Oh! So THAT is what the tub at the back of our church sanctuary is for, I thought. Well, not really. I knew it was there and what it was used for; I had just never pictured myself participating in that, to me, very weird ritual.

Anyway, back to the circle jerk. The counselor, joined by the affirmed Christian boys, then began hammering away at those of us who had not been saved. It was, without a doubt, the most uncomfortable episode of peer pressure I have ever experienced. They were not particularly nice about it either. It all came across as a demand, not a choice. In fact, nothing they were saying remotely had the joy and the love usually described as a relationship with Jesus. It was threatening, not unlike some sort of gang initiation. As I listened to them harangue a couple of other kids before they got to me, I began to feel a strong sense of unease. This isn’t right, I thought. Something about this is very wrong. Well, being just shy of my tenth birthday I couldn’t really put it into words, but when I look back as an adult I can see exactly what was going on. It was indoctrination, pure and simple. In fact, a few years later when Patty Hearst had her wild ride with the SLA I was one of the few who sympathized with her. I can understand, I thought, looking back at that night and remembering how those boys fell like dominoes under that pressure

I was the only holdout that night. No matter what they said to me, I wouldn’t say what they wanted to hear. I couldn’t. It felt so wrong to me that I couldn’t even do it just to shut them up and leave me alone. Eventually everyone shuffled off to their bunks to sleep, and as we did so, I assumed I would now be the bunk pariah, but no, while the counselor was quite terse with me for the last two days, the boys were as friendly as before. Looking back, I can’t help but wonder if my refusal to do as I was told had earned me their silent respect.

There would be other episodes similar to my camp experience through my younger years. Christians, you know, are taught to go out and proselytize and convert the heathens, but no one ever bagged me. I was on to the whole thing and had realized it was all so much bullshit. Religion eventually became background noise in my life, something easy to ignore, and often a target for my occasionally sharp-tongued comments. Oh, I raged at Falwell’s Moral Majority. I was disgusted when the Christian Right propelled Reagan into office, and I hoped someone would slap a pie in the face of Phyllis Schlafly, you know, like some brave gay man had done to Anita Bryant. I watched all this nonsense over the years, and pretty much decided that spirituality was an individual choice and not a group project. I believed, I believe, in my own odd way and let it go with that, content to let other people do as they wished as long as they left me alone.

I remained quiet, more or less, until the spring of 2015 when the governor of my state, a slimy, hypocritical prick named Mike Pence, signed a thing called the Religious Freedom Reaffirmation Act behind closed doors. No one knew about this until a photo was released of Pence signing this shit legislation surrounded by a group of religious leaders smiling victoriously. Well, I wasn’t the only one outraged at that time, and eventually enough of us shouted loud enough to get any reference to LGBT people out of the asinine thing, but I was quiet no longer. They were no longer using their phony smiles, soft voices, and words of hell and eternal fire to convert me, they were now actively working against me. And then, in their war to eliminate anyone other than white, heterosexual christians from the American experience, they did something completely unforgivable. They elected the most monstrous, vile man imaginable to the White House.

I mean, it was bad enough that narcissistic bag of shit could now, without impunity, spread outrage and destruction across our country, but when I looked back over the past forty years and the endless harping and pedantry of these so-called moral people, I thought, Game Over. Ya’ll blew your cover once and for all. You’ve finally proven by both action and word that Christianity as traditionally practiced in the US has nothing to do with Jesus Christ, and everything to do with control and power, especially White power.

I now, after years of thinking of myself as an agnostic when I bothered to think about it all, think of myself as an atheist. I believe there are powers in the universe quite beyond our comprehension, but I cannot in any way think there is any kind of consciousness behind them. I can no longer accept that. Along with my new avowed atheism, I feel a ton of hurt, anger and grievance for the suffering I endured because of religion and Christianity. Those negative feelings will probably lessen at some point, but now, when I see the Christian Right behaving even more despicably in the current world health crisis, I doubt it will happen anytime soon. If I could, I would scream and holler anywhere and everywhere about the duplicity and subterfuge of American Christianity in the hopes of saving even one person from their snare. It’s funny, really: They proselytized to me for years to become a member of their cult of group think; now it is my turn to proselytize but against them, and do my best to let every single human being know they have the right to their own thoughts. And further, encourage people to think and learn and explore and ask questions because maybe, just maybe, the truth will eventually free us all.

[image error]THE LOGICAL SONG SUPERTRAMP 1979

This record was riding in the Top Ten when I graduated high school. Kind of ironic, huh? After years of being told what to think, a British rock band was telling me I had been right all along.

THE LOGICAL SONG SUPERTRAMP listen here!

Soothing The Savage Beast Anxiety

There have been two constants in my life: anxiety and music. I’ve learn to live with the former, and have a lot of gratitude for the later.

I didn’t have a name for the way I felt when I was a kid. I never connected it to the word “anxiety.” I doubt having a name for it would have done me much good. Being able to label the feelings would not have cut any slack with those around me who were often frustrated by my behavior. In hindsight, I suppose I was a trial at times, but when I tried to explain the pervasive terror, dread, and worry I dealt with every day, all I usually got in return was a lecture about willpower, or perhaps a lesson about having to do what you had do. I think I’ve managed to erase a lot of that blah-blah from my memory. I do remember having no one who understood made the whole thing worse. I look back at my younger years, especially my adolescence, with sadness, as there were times the anxiety was so bad it rendered me unable to function, and those around me reacted with exasperation, and very little compassion.

Fortunately, I was born into a house of music. Well, recorded music, as no one in my family has ever been particularly musical. Even before I learned to read I was swiping my teenage siblings’ 45’s, and memorizing the ones I liked the most by the pictures on the labels, a practice that has given me a life-long fondness for record labels. Del Shannon, Lesley Gore, Bobby Vee, Terry Stafford, The Dovells, The Dixie Cups, The Trashmen, The Kingsmen, The Surfaris, The Fleetwoods — I played the 45’s until the snap and crackle of the worn grooves became a part of the music for me. Thanks to my parents I also grew up with an appreciation for big band, jazz, and early fifties pop music as well.

Eventually my sister and brother “outgrew” their 45’s — something that made absolutely no sense to me — but I was thrilled to inherit all of them, not knowing at the time that I was routinely listening to records that would one day be thought of as classics — the biggest hits of 1964 through 1967. The first 45 I remember buying myself was Zager and Evans’ “In The Year 2525” in the summer of 1969. From that moment on, the 45 collection grew through the remainder of the glory years of the 45 RPM record, and well past that and into the 1990’s when the record companies tapered off the practice of releasing all their new singles on vinyl. I’ve still got ’em, plus all the ones I’ve picked up at record shows and online. In collector’s terms, it’s not an impressive collection, but it’s uniquely mine, so I’m quite proud of it.

Around the time 45’s were on the way out, scientific knowledge about anxiety was growing. By the time I learned anxiety was a genuine treatable illness, I’d found my own ways to cope with the obnoxious beast that rarely allowed me to relax. Music had, over the years, become an important coping mechanism, and even though I have medication for the condition today, the music still helps more than anything, is really the one thing that allows me some relief from the whirlpool in my mind. Writing, too, helps, and that’s one of the reasons all my stories have a soundtrack. I can’t imagine life led without the music that truly is the soundtrack of our lives.

Apparently anxiety is a part of my DNA; there isn’t much I can do to make it go away permanently, but there are lots of ways to treat it. Although I rarely listen to all of those records anymore, I have, at any give time, about 1100 songs on my old iPod, and it goes wherever I go. Now, you can laugh at the fact that I have not bothered to move all of the music over to my phone, but I like having that little black devise. It’s become a talisman of sorts for me, something I can hold onto when the going gets rough. As long as that sucker is charged, and I have my ear buds, I’m good to go.

So, if you enjoy the records and the songs I drop into my books, thanks; I’m glad, and I look forward to sharing more with you. If you’re a reader that finds the whole thing a bit tedious and unnecessary, well, at least you now know why the music is there. Music and writing will always be hand in hand for me, my two trusty heroes when it comes to subduing the beast.

[image error]DARKNESS FILLS MY LONELY HEART THE SOUNDS OF MODIFICATION 1968

I suspect my friend Randa would call this a “groovy Nick record.” Well, she’s right, it IS groovy, and it’s definitely a Nick record. I chose it for this essay because anxiety brings a lot of darkness to a lot of lonely hearts. I’m grateful for the artists who recognize it, and create and produce records such as this one to acknowledge it for the rest of us. Listening to this helps me as much as any prescription pill ever could.

DARKNESS FILLS MY LONELY HEART – SOUNDS OF MODIFICATION 1968 Listen Here!

Of Mailmen and Cats

The original web page I had for my books bit the dust several years ago when my internet provider was sold. I was furious at the time, but happily pieces of it are still alive in cyberspace; I just have to look for them. I love this essay I wrote in 2007, and I’m happy to be able to share it again. Read, enjoy, and hug your mailmen and cats!

Sunday, August 19, 2007

Of Mailmen and Cats

When The Handyman’s Dream was first released I had a lot of folks make comments along the lines of “Gee, you must really have a hot mailman.”  I always got a kick out of answering:  “Well, actually no, she’s not,” and watching the surprise on their faces.

 It’s true.  The mail carrier at my house was a woman when I was dreaming up and writing Ed’s story about his jones for the new mailman.  In fact I never thought much about the fact that the regular mail carrier was a woman until people started asking me about it.  As I said, though, it was fun to tell people that my current mail carrier was definitely not the inspiration for Rick Benton.  It made a good promotional story and I used it for what it was worth. 

During the writing process for The Handyman’s Reality I moved to a new home in a different neighborhood.  I’m not sure how long I was living here before I noticed that the mail carrier on this street was most definitely male, and absolutely the kind of guy who rates a second, lingering glance from me.  Talk about real life mirroring fiction!  I seem to recall a few mornings when, after breakfast, I would find myself hanging around the living room before settling in at my desk for the day’s writing.  I told myself that I was looking for a specific bill or letter or package to arrive, and that getting a glimpse of the mailman was just Bonus.  Uh huh.  Yeah, I almost bought it, too.  I seemed to be turning into Ed Stephens, infatuation and all.  The fact that it was October — the month when Ed began to arrange his workdays around the mail delivery — didn’t escape my attention.  And yes, just like in the book, there was an occasional substitute who looked very much the way I pictured Ralph Graham in the story I had written a year and a half earlier.  

One day I was schlupping around the house, looking my morning worst, when I heard a knock at the front door.  I ran downstairs and whipped the door open only to find the mailman standing there with a package I had to sign for.  Sound familiar?  I honestly don’t remember what it was — the package, I mean.  I just remember getting my first close-up look at the handsome mail carrier, and being the typical homo that I am, thinking, Oh God, is he cute!  And feeling shyer, gawkier, and more of a dork than usual as I signed and thanked him.  Oh, and forgetting to look at his left hand for a wedding ring. 

Well, that would certainly be the beginning of a great story, and it was — for Ed and Rick.  As for me, I got used to having an attractive mail carrier stop by the house every day, and aside from paying a little more attention to him than I did to Becky in my old neighborhood, I never thought much about it.  As someone who has lived a good deal of his life within his imagination, I simply couldn’t conceive of the sort of miracle I dreamed up for Ed actually happening to me.  Reality checks suck, but I accepted this one easily.  I had a book to write, edit, publish, and promote. 

In fact I hadn’t thought of it all until the other day.  It was Friday, the end of what had been a long, hot, exhausting week.  The garbage on our street is always picked up early on Friday mornings, so before I set out for work at the radio station, where I was doing vacation fill-in for the production manager, I trotted to the curb to collect the garbage cans so I could store them in the garage.  Well, who should just be getting out his postal truck but Mister Rings Nick’s Bell himself.  We all but collided on the front sidewalk.  He smiled warmly and said, “good morning.”  I, as usual, smiled bashfully and murmured good morning in return, my head down as I stumbled towards the garbage cans.  I am such a dork.  

I trundled the cans back up the driveway toward the garage replaying the image of that smiling face and cheerful greeting in my mind, thinking, oh, he is so cute.  Wouldn’t it be something if I somehow did write my own story through Ed?  Maybe… 

Well, as I said, it had been a long, hot week, and I might also mention I had been taking a lot of sinus and allergy medicine.  I parked myself on the deck, lit a cigarette, and shook my foggy, tired brain back to reality.  Still, I thought, it would make one hell of a promotional gimmick wouldn’t it?  Or at least a good blog. 

As I said there musing Ivan came to the deck screen door and meowed at me.  I shook my head at him, thinking again about real life mirroring fiction.  When people come to visit they automatically assume Ivan, a black cat, was the inspiration for Jett in the Handyman books.  Nope.  At the time I was writing The Handyman’s Dream I was a landlord, and one of my tenants was cat-sitting for the winter.  I became attached to the scrappy black tom cat during his stay.  He was always banged-up from a fight, which I think inspired Ed and Rick to get Jett fixed in Reality.  Anyway, when the cat went home to his owners I missed visiting with him occasionally, and decided that Ed and Rick would have a black cat of their own.  That’s why Jett’s appearance comes rather late in the story.  I had no way of knowing I’d end up sharing a house with a friend who had a black cat of his own a year and a half later. 

 Ivan, however, isn’t anything like I imagine Jett to be, aside from the color of his fur.  Ivan is eight years old going on eight months, I always say.  He’s a busy talker, very social, and the most affectionate cat I’ve ever lived with.  He’s one of those “big personality” cats, and as I watched him paw at the screen door I couldn’t help but think, the way so many other writers have thought, that he deserved a book of his own. 

 I shook my head again with an eye roll as well.  That’s just what I need to do, I thought; move from sappy romance stories about love-starved gay men to sappy cat stories!  So I got to dreaming about the mailman again, wondering if… 

A fortunate glance at my watch told me it was time to go to work, and none too soon.  Too warm and too humid.  Too much allergy medicine.  Too many scripts to write about assisted living facilities and charity fundraisers.  It had been a long week, but my sentence at the radio station was about to end, and as I went into the house to pat Ivan and grab my car keys, I couldn’t help but think it was a good thing I was shortly due back in Porterfield to spend some time with the fantasy mailman and the fictional cat.   Yup, it’s time to sit down, be quiet, and let Ed and Rick and Jett tell me what happens next, before I get my ass into the kind of trouble I can’t fix in my stories.         1:12 pm est






[image error]HOOKED ON A FEELING CLIVE SANDS 1969

While I’m on the subject of repeats, I haven’t yet dredged from the depths of cyberspace a blog I wrote in either 2006 or 2007 in which I made some pretty derogatory comments about cover versions of popular songs. Well, not all cover versions. There are ones I like quite a lot. In fact, I stumbled over this UK gem just last night. Strangely enough, BJ Thomas’s 1968 recording of this song isn’t one of my faves; I get too much of a kick out of Blue Swede’s version from 1974. This one, recorded by the handsome young man pictured above, though, has, in my opinion, the production and the plain ole SOUND that BJ’s lacked.

HOOKED ON A FEELING CLIVE SANDS 1969 Listen Here!

A Blast From My Past

Someone recently mentioned to me a podcast interview I recorded years ago. I had forgotten all about it. I did a web search today, and much to my surprise (and some horror), it’s still out there, so I decided to share it here, just for shits and grins. https://podtail.com/en/podcast/inside-scoop-live/gay-fiction-focuses-on-life-not-erotica-nick-poff/

[image error]I’LL SELL MY SOUL THE ALLIES 1966

Well, since I bared my writer’s soul, so to speak, with this interview, it seemed appropriate to share this hidden treasure from The Allies. Give it a listen for the sake of your soul.

I’LL SELL MY SOUL THE ALLIES 1966 Listen Here!

Live! And in Person…

Me! (You were maybe expecting Armistead Maupin???)

[image error]

I’m excited to share an evening of fiction and fellowship with these two wonderful writers — Brigham Vaughn and David Pratt — who are adding their unique voices to the world of fiction. Well, excited and nervous, of course. Everybody always says, “but you were in radio all those years! How can you be nervous?” Bud, there’s a big difference between talking into a microphone in an empty room and actually confronting the audience. (And I always have said I have a face for radio anyway.) I remember the night I introduced the Holiday Pops concert at the Embassy Theatre. I walked out on that stage and could only think: Holy shit! What a lot of people! Fortunately or unfortunately, I shared the stage with “local weather personality” Sandy Thompson, who, in her zest to upstage me, almost clocked me with her damn umbrella. That brought out my inner bitch and I forgot to be nervous. I doubt anything like that will happen at Wunderkammer Thursday evening. Brigham and David are lovely people, but if they get aggressive, well, I’m always up for a good cat fight.

My thanks to Dan Swartz for providing the venue. Wunderkammer is a much-needed addition to the Fort Wayne art’s community. I know Indiana is a red state, and God knows it has earned its reputation as being red-necked, but trust me, there are some amazing, inclusive enclaves here, even in ole Fort Wayne. I hope anyone within traveling distance will consider joining us.

And hey! We got cider and doughnuts! It doesn’t get much better than that on a November night in the Midwest.

Genesis: THE HANDYMAN’S SUMMER

If someone had told me a year ago that I would actually manage to knock out two books in one year, I’m sure my face would have gone ashen. It would have been beyond my comprehension how I could manage such a thing. Well, things happened, the books were written, and here I am to give you a little back story to the latest, THE HANDYMAN’S SUMMER. I’ll tell you, I may have some insight into Handyman Ed’s future and destiny, but I ain’t got a clue about my own.

Anyway, it wasn’t very long after THE HANDYMAN’S HISTORY was published last winter that I began to think about a fifth book for the series. It came together quickly. One morning I sat down and asked myself: “Okay, what kind of book do you want to write about Ed and Rick?” You see, I know where the story is eventually heading, but I wasn’t ready to go there yet. I wanted to do a book that continued the story, but not terribly far into the future from HISTORY. So I closed my eyes and thought.

I decided I wanted to jump ahead two years, which put me in 1987. I also realized I wanted to do a story where Ed and Rick were working together on something. HISTORY was truly Ed’s book; as I’ve said before, poor ole Rick pretty much just stood around and said “yes, dear,” and “I’m supporting you a hundred percent.” I thought it would be fun to give them a project that required both of them. Well, that was easy enough. I just had to give them another house to buy and makeover. Still…that was kind of boring. There had to be more to it. The house had to have a gimmick of some sort.

I went backwards in my mind to my hometown, my source for a lot of the detail I add to Porterfield. I recalled an abandoned house a few blocks from my home where the local bag lady squatted. I didn’t know anything about her other than her name: Ellie. I had always been curious about her, but if I ever got any details out of anyone who genuinely knew anything, I’ve since forgotten. Actually, I was kind of glad. Since I wasn’t pestered by the truth I could create a whole story for Ellie’s counterpart in Porterfield. I named her Evie, and then let my imagination go wild.

I also decided I wanted to write about young Neal Soames, the gay teen Ed had begun to mentor at the end of HISTORY. That particular subplot took on a life of its own, and took the book to places I did not see coming. It’s unsettling when the characters take over your keyboard and begin writing the story. I always feel a bit like Linda Blair in The Exorcist, minus the pea soup, thank heaven.

I also knew, despite the cliffhanger-ish ending of her story in HISTORY, that Muriel Weisberg would be back. With Gordy “marrying” Pete and moving to Fort Wayne, Ed was in need of a new sidekick. There is a scene near the end of HISTORY in which Gordy and Muriel meet. They introduce themselves, and take measure of each other. It’s unsaid and not even implied, but at the moment I felt as though Gordy was handing the torch to Muriel. The unspoken words are: I have to go away, so keep an eye on my bro and his snotty husband, okay? Muriel is more than up to this task. I loved writing her dialogue even more in this book than the last one. Frankly, I think we all need a Muriel Weisberg in our lives. Oh, and Gordy fans, don’t despair. He makes a lively appearance in THE HANDYMAN’S SUMMER.

So, once I had the raw materials, I sat down and began to write. The blank parts of the plot filled in while I wasn’t really paying attention. Somehow, despite a lot of anxiety about life in general, I found myself at the computer every day with my fingers banging away on the keyboard. I listened to the music playing, shoved Jasper away from the screen, and threw toys around the room to get him interested in something else. Somehow the book got itself written. I was almost in tears at the end, amazed at the final result. It’s a powerful story in many ways, and I will not be surprised if people tell me they cried over it, as they have with the older books. I’m not one to brag on myself, but let me tell you, this one is good. Very good. I’m sure you’re going to like it, but let me know one way or the other, okay? I’m still a neurotic, insecure writer in need of feedback. Oh, and leave a review on amazon.com. Please! If I sell enough of these, hopefully I can write another one!

[image error]EVERLASTING LOVE THE LOVE AFFAIR 1968. This record does not appear in THE HANDYMAN’S SUMMER, and it doesn’t have jack shit to do with this post. I’m just annoyed that this Number One British hit was NOT a hit in the U.S. If it had been, I would have been listening to it for the past fifty years, instead of just the past three or four, when I discovered it online. More people need to know this record. Listen below!



EVERLASTING LOVE THE LOVE AFFAIR 1968

Tough Enough

My coworker Heidi asked if she could catch a ride home from work with me yesterday. Well, considering that a particularly obnoxious detour near my house has me driving right by her house, this was no problem.

We walked out of work and into a raging thunderstorm. Needless to say, this slowed the Friday evening traffic down quite a bit, so we had plenty of time to talk. She asked what I had planned for the weekend, and I told her I would be working on the last details for the release of my new book, THE HANDYMAN’S SUMMER. (Heidi, by the way, was looking forward to a quiet weekend with just the cats since her husband was off to Speedway, IN, for a Homecoming. Atta girl!) She asked some questions about the new book. I don’t recall how we got to this point, but I found myself fretting over my portrayal of Ed and Rick. Were they too good? Did these ordinary guys come across as being a little too saintly and heroic? I reminded Heidi this book takes place in the summer of 1987 when AIDS was a fact of every gay man’s life. Heidi shrugged. “Sounds to me as though you have them coping and doing what they had to do.” That reassured me, and the conversation moved on.

It wasn’t until later last evening that I thought back to that conversation. This past week has been a bit historical in the U.S. Yes, I am one of those people who are devoutly hoping the administration of the Orange Outhouse is going down, taking its many crooks and sociopaths with it. In addition to every crime and act of meanness committed, and every slap in the face of decent society, I am particularly peeved over the fact that protections for LGBTQ people have been rolled back ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FOUR times in the last two and a half years. I also was riled up yesterday about an article I read about a Bi teenager in Tennessee who was pushed to suicide by his thoughtless “friends.” (Boy, wait til you see what similar “friends” do a character in my new book! But I digress.) I thought back to the worst of the AIDS years, and all the heartbreak that went into every single thing regarding it. I also was taken back to my early years, and how the struggle to keep my head up and survive was often a daily chore. I realized I’m a tough old bird — still here, still cutting through the crap, and living a simple yet nice life despite everything that did happen, or could have happened. I am, I think, a lot tougher than I give myself credit for.

And you know what? So is every gay man of any age who survived the turmoil of the late twentieth century and the current insanity. That includes my fictional guys, Ed and Rick. They aren’t gay superheroes, they really are just ordinary guys doing what they had to do. They were tough, and they were determined to survive and have a nice life together.

Every time I hear white straight guys, evangelical Christians, or that mistake of a president play the victim card I feel a sneer coming on. I mean, really? If these whiners had to endure just a tiny bit of what they have thrown at LGBT people over the years, they’d be sobbing in the dirt, begging for mercy. No wonder they all cuddle their guns. They couldn’t handle real victim-hood unarmed.

So for any LGBT person reading this, just remember: You are tough enough. Don’t give in to them. You can survive. And if you need help, it’s out there, and it’s right here with me, ’cause I want you to survive as long as I have if only to spite the haters and be able to thumb your nose at them. Everything I write — this blog, emails, Facebook comments, my books — is my way of thumbing my nose at them. Find your way to do it, and you’ll be fine. Because you’re tough enough.

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TUFF ENUFF THE FABULOUS THUNDERBIRDS 1986
Listen here!

Coming October 8, 2019

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“Sometimes the hardest part of my job is dealing
with human cruelty and its aftermath. It’s almost always instigated by fear. I
wonder if we will ever evolve out of that instinct.”

Pastor Phil Sturgis in The Handyman’s Summer

By the late
spring of 1987, Handyman Ed Stephens and his life partner Rick Benton are
anticipating a lazy, peaceful, even boring summer. Things do not go as planned
as Ed and Rick suddenly find themselves embroiled in mystery, scandal,
surprises, and a lesson in both the kindness and cruelty of people.

When local bag
lady, Evie Fountain, suddenly dies of a stroke, Ed and Rick become interested
in her rundown house. Evie’s house turns out to be shrouded not only with
overgrown bushes, but also in secrecy. Ed and Rick are drawn into the murky
legend of the official town character, determined to discover the truth
underneath the rumors that have circulated throughout Porterfield, Indiana, for
almost thirty years. When a personal journal is found in the house, they become
immersed in a shameful story of small town bigotry and its tragic results.

There is
plenty of other activity to keep Ed and Rick busy over the summer. Neal Soames,
the gay teenager they have been mentoring, graduates high school and suddenly
gets cold feet about going away to college. He moves into Penfield Manor while
Ed and Rick try to convince him leaving Porterfield is in his best interests.
Ed’s friend, Dr. Paul Klarn, calls Ed for help when one of his patients is an
unidentified victim of a queer-bashing. Ed and Rick decide to take this young
man in as well, creating, as their friend Gordy calls it, “Uncle Ed’s Home for
Wayward Homos.”

Ed’s mother,
Norma, also stirs up drama when she involves Ed in her troubles with the local
garden club. Ed develops a scheme to turn the tables on a pushy, obnoxious
woman who is determined to run the club in her own best interests. Norma will
have another surprise for Ed before the summer is out. “Expect the unexpected,”
Norma tells him.

Muriel Weisberg, self-proclaimed vision-impaired bitch goddess, is on the scene as well throughout the summer, providing much needed comic relief for Ed. She uses her new role as a columnist for the local newspaper to solve problems, spout her sometimes unconventional wisdom, and to assist in the mystery of Evie’s house. As always, Ed supplies a soundtrack of both oldies and current hits to help him cope with this busy season, one that will, in some ways, change the lives of Ed and his beloved Rick forever. Join these two gallant men as they continue to create an oasis of freedom and acceptance in an otherwise narrow-minded world. Together, hand in hand, still in love, Ed and Rick move triumphantly forward, ready to take on the world.