Eloise

The memory of someone who was dear to me and who I am extremely grateful was part of my life popped into my head today and it seemed appropriate, since today is Thanksgiving, to write a little bit about her.

When I was little up until about age 14, my family was pretty well off. Indeed we would have been considered wealthy by many. My dad had been a member to the Dallas Country Cub for many years and I spent my summers at the club pool with all the other little rich, privileged white children. I was different from the other Highland Park kids though in that my friends at the club were not the other rich, privileged white children, but rather the club employees. One of the lifeguards was a running buddy of mine and I spent many hours exploring the non-public areas like the laundry, storage rooms, mechanical areas and back hallways of the country club while hanging out with the maids and other staff.


A long time employee of the club was Eloise Walker. Eloise was a stout, strong, African American woman who ran the snack bar/grill at the pool and kept an eye on her favorite kids, one of whom was me. She had worked there for a long time and had known my older brothers when they were kids in the 50's. Eloise had a deep, rather gruff voice but her kindness and genuine love were something that I felt from early on.

I was kind of a misfit when it came to being a rich, privileged white child and frequently suffered teasing and taunts from the other rich, privileged white kids. Eloise knew this and watched out for me making sure that I always had a safe place next to her grill and a warm hug up against her ample bosoms if I needed it. She let me work in the grill one summer for several weeks making shakes and pouring sodas until the club manager got wind of it and made her stop. The other kids thought I was seriously mentally deficient choosing to labor with people who's skin was darker than mine. Of course what I found in those employees, who befriended me, were people who were much more real and far nicer than any of the rich, privileged white kids.

I grew up and moved away from Dallas. Sometime in the late 80's I went back for a visit in Dallas and decided to stop by the club and try to find Eloise. I went into the main kitchen area (which I'd come to know so well from years earlier) and found a manager who advised me that Eloise had had a stroke and was no longer working. I talked him out of her address and went searching for her small, frame house just off the runway at Love Field Airport.

As I got out of my car and was walking to the door, a priest with a clerical collar came out. Fearing the worst, I asked him if this was Eloise Walker's home and he advised it was. I told him how I knew her and that I badly wanted to see her. He advised me that he was her pastor and that the stroke had left her unable to speak clearly. I told him I understood and I went in.

Her face lit up when she saw me and we hugged each other tightly. This woman who had been such a positive influence on me and been a kind of surrogate mother knew exactly who I was even after having not seen me in well over a decade. But her speech had indeed been affected. This strong woman who used to bellow across the loudspeaker at the pool to ask my dad if it was ok for me to have ice cream, "Giles! you want this boy to have ice cream?!", was reduced to garbled mumbling when she tried to speak. There was no understanding her and on top of that, she was frail and weak.

Sadly, I wasn't very strong for Eloise. I completely broke down and sobbed. She took me into her arms and held me, this former little boy who was now a grown man. Eloise was still taking care of "her boy." I stayed long enough to express to her how much of a positive influence she had been in my life and how much I loved her. Then I gave her one last hug, left and cried all the way back to where I was staying.

This was the last time I ever saw Eloise. But to this day I'm grateful that I was "her boy."

46 and I'm Still Here

46. Who'd have thought? I recall a time when it just didnt seem very likely that I would make it to 40 much less beyond that. I was telling a friend the other day of a time when I was here in Austin in about 1988 reading names of dead friends at a display of the AIDS Memorial Quilt at Palmer Auditorium. I would have been 27. I'd already been to over 50 funerals and memorial services and would go to approximately another 50 before I called a self preservation moratorium on my attendance/involvement. It just seemed that all gay men were going to meet that fate and most of us just resigned ourselves to it. No need to plan for retirement, 401k's, long term care or anything of that nature. It simply would not be necessary.

That, of course, is not how it turned out. I never ended up HIV infected and a series of accidents, muggings and excessive quantities of prescriptions failed to take me. So here I am. Thinking about growing older and what it might bring are thoughts that often cross my mind. I recently read a great article in the most recent edition of OUT magazine about a series of well known, aging gay authors who are taking on the last closet of taboo in gay life: gay aging. While American culture in general is a youth culture, gay culture(specifically gay male culture) is a youth culture to the Nth degree. Gay men know in this country that by the time they are 30 they are on their way out and that by the time they are 40, they are expected by many to be in need of assisted living.

Except we're really not. The truth is, like the rest of America, gay America is about to experience a surge of Baby Boomer Gays of which I fall at the tail end. And these Baby Boomer Gays will, like their STR8 counterparts, be unwilling to go quietly to the assisted living facility. We will be dancing, playing, working out, having sex (oh, the horror!), experiencing new things and just living to the extent our bodies will allow us to. And when the body falters, we will seek a new joint from our local surgeon or whatever med is needed to keep us strutting. Millions of aging gay folks keepin on keepin on, installing new hip joints and poppin' Viagra. Must be a scary thought for the younguns :)

But it should be a comforting thought for them. With AIDS a now virtually treatable disease, the worst thing my younger conterparts should have to worry about is being overweight and all the diseases that accompany that condition. But I think they'll be far more concerned with all these aging, surgically corrected, chemically enhanced, Madonna loving, dancing queens 30+ years their senior fighting for room on the dance floor. Something about that gives me wicked pleasure.

So, all that said, here I am turning 46 and wondering what's next. While I have some theories on that, I don't really know for sure. But I do know this: I'm still here. Reminds me of a song (It's a broadway song and what could be more fitting for a gay man, right? I took a couple of liberties):

Good times and bum times,

I've seen them all and, my dear,

I'm still here.

Plush velvet sometimes,

Sometimes just pretzels and beer,

But I'm here.

I've eaten 5 star meals

In my tux

been in the jobs where I made the bux

Seen all my dreams disappear,

But I'm here.

I've slept on couches,

Guest of my friends

but then When I slept at The St Regis in Rome,

I kind of considered it my own,

Who'd have know I'd end up with no home?

But I'm here.

I've checked into a hotel with Tom Cruise

and even then there was pills and booze.

Schmoozed with politicians and stars

Been so stoned I thought I was on Mars

Rahabs, repos, and romances

And I'm here.

Slapped down, slammed around, left town

And I'm here.

So I'm here.

Leather seated Volvo one day.

Next day it goes into hock,

Top billing Monday,

then Tuesday you're touring in stock,

But I'm here.

First you're another true blue champ,

Then someone's uncle,

Then you're camp.

Then you career from career To career.

I'm almost through my memoirs.

And I'm here.

I've gotten through "Hey, fellow, aren't you whoozis? Wow! What a looker and slim."

Or, better yet, "Sorry, I thought you were whoozis. Whatever happened to him?"

Good times and bum times,

I've seen 'em all and, my dear,

I am still here!

Flush velvet sometimes,

Sometimes just pretzels and beer,

But I'm here.

I've run the gamut. A to Z.

Three cheers and dammit,

C'est la vie.

I got through all of last year

And I'm here.

Lord knows, at least I was there,

And I'm here!

Look who's here!

I'm still here.