I had planned to write some pithy and profound thoughts on the subject of relocating, but as I look over my collection
of records and books and a huge pile of cardboard boxes for transporting them, all I can do is sigh and moan, "oh, shit!"
I hate moving. Everybody does. I'll bet even people who make their living from moving hate doing it themselves. There
is something about packing all of your possessions -- everything from that valuable, antique keepsake your grandmother
left you to your current toothbrush -- that pushes the average person's stress level into the danger zone.
It's been one hell of a summer. I've spent a good part of it cleaning out a huge, old Victorian
home and its accompanying carriage house. My late partner was something of a pack rat, and since his death four
years ago, I knew eventually I'd have to face this chore. The desire to move to a smaller, more manageable home finally
kicked me into gear. The work itself was challenging enough when you factor in my bad back and the hot, humid
weather, but when you throw in the emotional turmoil of dealing with Steve's possessions and selling the house,
and finding and buying a new one, I think it's pretty understandable that I'm feeling a mite tired these days.
If it weren't for the unqualified and never-ending support of my dear friends, I don't know if I would have made it this far.
I'm crazy about the new house and can't wait to be settled, but the chore of moving stands between me and the cozy
writing space with the north-facing window I've always wanted. And once again, here I am, back to the subject of moving,
and I still can't think of anything more profound to say about it than "oh, shit."
Wasn't it Douglas MacArthur who said "war is hell?" Considering how much stuff he had to move to direct operations
in the Pacific during WWII, I know how he felt.
Imagine my surprise to see my hometown featured in today's issue of USA Today.
I usually don't read USA Today unless I'm at the radio station. I went in to cover the mid-day show this
morning, and someone had left the newspaper in the studio. My mouth fell open in shock when I saw a picture of Bluffton,
Indiana's, mayor - good ole Ted Ellis - on the front page. He was posed behind a new sign reading: "Welcome.
We are building an inclusive community."
News to me, I thought, but since I moved north to the big city, I don't keep up on Bluffton news like I used
to. All in all, though, I was pleased to see my hometown and its mayor featured in a "nationwide initiative to promote
tolerance." It was good to see the town I've always described as "anachronistic" moving into the 21st century,
and angling for its place in the global economy. It was also good to see the effort spearheaded by Mayor Ted, whom I've
known all my life, and have always respected. Hell, the last time Bluffton got any national attention was during
the 2003 summer floods!
I read the article with interest, wondering just HOW inclusive Bluffton intends to be. Although sexual orientation
wasn't mentioned specifically, it was brought up in a larger debate about small communities and changing attitudes.
It's no big secret that Porterfield, Indiana, the setting for The Handyman's Dream, is loosely based on Bluffton. Ever
since the book was published I've been waiting for a huge gust of outrage to howl north and blow me over, but nothing remotely
negative has happened. Granted, a story about two men in love doesn't hold much interest for the bulk of the population,
and I strongly suspect a good many of those who would be horrified are probably unaware of the book and its
author, despite the local publicity.
Ed and Rick's story takes place in the early 1980's, and they are wary about pursuing their relationship in a small,
Indiana town. Believe me, historically speaking, they have every reason to be. However, in 2006 I know of several
out and proud couples living openly in my hometown. Things have changed, people's minds have opened (a little), and
I'd like to think Ed and Rick's relationship would be a non-issue in modern-day Porterfield.
I don't want to be Little Mr. Sunshine and joyfully declare, "now we can all live happily ever after." Nope.
We still have a long way to go. Gay folks cannot get married in Indiana, and I doubt that will change any time
soon. I'm in the process of buying a house with my friend and companion Blake, and the legal hoops we're jumping through
to protect our interests are incredible. My friends David and Jerry, who have been together for twenty years, are
currently investigating the labyrinth that is Indiana inheritance law to make sure their interests are covered as well.
Allow me to climb atop my soapbox and deliver my harangue. It's ridiculous and stupid that an enduring
relationship such as theirs is not recognized, especially when I see the mockery many heterosexuals have made of the supposedly
sacred institution of marriage. Okay. I know you've heard that before, but I had to say it. I feel
better now.
So here's the thing: any push toward inclusiveness is great -- really, it is. I'm all for it, and again I'm
pleased to see my hometown on the vanguard of a movement for a change. But as a native son with a long memory and a
healthy skepticism of Hoosier behavior, I'll still be watching my back.
Check out USA Today for Friday, August 4th, 2006, to learn more about the National League of Cities' Partnership
for Working Toward Inclusive Communities.
