Crayola Boy

Tom Froehlich

I have always believed myself to be open-minded and accepting.  Almost boastfully so.  I am willing and able to talk to anyone from any walk of life and enjoy their company.  Having joined Alcoholics Anonymous I had exactly that opportunity. The only thing we have in common is that we are drunks. I have met doctors and actors and bartenders and the homeless. We are encouraged in our program of recovery to put “principle before personalities”.  This certainly sounds good in theory but, even in the subculture of AA you find subcultures and people of similar backgrounds and economic backgrounds tend to find one another.

That is where I met Eric. Eric, who was twenty-one years old, had blue hair and a double pierced eyebrow.  He was also funny, had an endearing smile, and laughed easily. I was drawn to his group of friends who were also a diverse group, coming from a sober living house they shared in Venice.  

Eric was the only gay member of the household and not only accepted, but well like by his housemates.  I had been encouraged by my sponsor to seek out gay friends in the program and oddly enough it seemed that Eric and I were the only two gay guys at the meetings we both attended.  We became friends and enjoyed a safe and harmless flirtation. After all, he had blue hair and a double pierced eyebrow and oh that’s right, he was three decades younger than me.  I would tell myself that what kept the possibility of romantic involvement at arms length was our age difference. Granted, one would think that would be enough of a deterrent. I had dated younger men in the past, but never attempted to bridge that great of an age gap. Nonetheless, I was comfortable with where our relationship stood and never really considered the possibility of it going any further.  But I like hanging out with Eric. A lot.  But it was platonic. Really.  He was far too young.  And even if he had been older I certainly wasn’t dating someone with piercings and hair that came straight out of a crayola box. 

Then through months of hearing him share his life and his journey in meetings I began to see past the crayola colored hair and his youth.  I began to see him for the man he was and the trials he had overcome.  I saw the courage with which he faced his demons and overcame them with a confidence and certainty that there was no turning back. When I commented on his courage he said, “You know Tom, I figure as long as no one I love is dead or dying I don’t have much to be afraid of. The rest is just life. What am I going to do? Not live it?!” I asked him how he could look at life so simply and he answered with a smile,  “Because it is that simple.”

In the back of my mind I felt something shift.  But in the front of my mind I heard, “I am not dating a guy with blue hair! That is not he kind of guy I date!”.  Then the words echoed in my head and I actually heard what I was saying. I will not date someone who is outwardly different. I heard that I care what other people think based on simple appearances. I heard that I am open-minded to people of all walks of life as long as I keep them at arms length so I won’t be judged as they may be judged. I heard these words and I was ashamed. Ashamed that for years I had talked the talk, but when it came time to walk the walk I was nothing but a hypocrite.  Someone who surrounded himself with the avante garde to make himself appear open-minded and accepting when in fact he was ready to jump aside when the first judgment was flung. It was not a feeling I liked. Not a realization about myself I was happy with, but it apparently was part of who I was. Maybe it came from years of yearning to fit into the trendy crowd and never quite making it. Maybe it was because having an alternative sexual orientation was enough for me to handle.  Or maybe it was just because I was a close-minded prick. In the end it didn’t really matter because neither of those scenarios were anything I was very proud of.  The question simply was, “Am I an open-minded accepting person who sees people for who they are inside and what they have to offer or not?” 

I reflected the people I felt a true connection with in my life. I have a large circle of friends, but the friends that truly fed my soul were not the popular crowd.  People who had the courage to be, well…themselves.  These people made me smile. They fed my soul and my creative spirit.  They were the spice in a varied mix of people I associated with.  I looked at my not so successful dating history and saw that I had dated the “right” kind of guys. Regular guys with brown hair and khaki.  I had been in fact the alternative one of the couple. Artsy and longhaired in a relaxed fit khaki world. A world I never completely felt a part of.  Sometimes for a smart guy I can be very, very stupid.

Eric and I continued to get to know one another in meetings and our own private conversations. And my perception of him changed. It’s not as if the blue hair went away. Well, actually he dyed it to “Rock Star Red”, but that’s not the point. The point is that I started seeing that I admired the fact that he chose to have blue hair and was confident enough to be who he chose to be. Oh, granted it is certainly a cry for attention, but who doesn’t have that? His just manifested in rainbow hued hair.  In the scheme of things it seemed pretty harmless. Besides, he had a wardrobe of coordinating crayola colored t-shirts. 

Then one day his best friend asked me if I was interested in him. I said, “God no! He’s really sweet, but he’s far too young!”

“Okay. I was just asking, because he is interested in you.”

And again I felt something shift in my brain. Okay, well maybe it wasn’t just my brain. I had gotten past the blue hair and piercings. The problem now was that I was definitely attracted to someone young enough to be my son. That is if I had a son. Which I don’t. So I guess I can relax on that one.  I realized that it had been my prejudice that had kept me at a distance. Kept me safe. That distance was closing fast and apparently there was someone on the other side looking back. 

I took a deep breath and thought well if it happens it happens, but I am not making a move. I realize now that it was because of fear of rejection from a younger man, as well as, not wanting to take responsibility for what may be an irresponsible move. In other words, I was a chicken shit.

Then the day came and Eric simply looked at me and said, “I’ve been interested in you for months Tom and I’m pretty sure you like me, so what’s the big deal?” 

“Eric, you are thirty years younger than me. How can you make it seem so simple?”

“Maybe because it is”, he said, “I like you and you like me.”  If I worked really hard I could complicate that, but I’m going to do my best not to.  It simply is what it is and it’s a really good thing.  At least I think so… 

That was two years ago and our relationship, not surprisingly, quickly ran its course, but I don’t judge it. At least I do my best not to. I learned that things don’t need to be that complicated. Unless I choose to make it so. It’s just that simple.

The Fish Boil

Tom Froehlich

My family spent summers at our family cottage on the shores of Lake Michigan, on the Door County peninsula. Two doors away lived the Thorsons.  Second generation friends of our family, my mother, aunt and uncle spent the summers growing up with Dorn Thorson who is now a circuit court judge, but more importantly the master of the “fish boil”.  The fish boil’s roots appear to be Scandinavian.  The people also responsible for bringing us  “lut fisk” and “lefsa”, pickled fish and unleavened bread.  Armed with that information, now take the words “fish boil” and imagine what a culinary taste treat that’s going to be.  We, of course, felt honored because Dorn prepared this treat only once a summer.  A culinary experience for which others paid dearly, at restaurants up and down the peninsula. 

Why they did, and continue to do so, still mystifies me.  The fish boil has to be one of the most amazing marketing ploys ever conceived by mankind.  Much of the allure of the fish boil is in the preparation.  Fresh chunks of white fish are purchased at Andy’s Fish Market, just at the edge of the bridge in town (Andy’s mother also owns a string of rental cottages just down the road from us).  Dorn purchases these delights, with slimy silvery skin still intact, as his wife Betty is busy peeling potatoes and onions, and pitting cherries for her fresh cherry pies she would be serving for dessert at the end of this Scandinavian feast.  She picked the cherries herself at her brothers nearby orchard, one of the many that peppered the Door County Peninsula at the time.

 Cherries were another thing Door County was known for.  Cherry pie, cherry muffins, cherry bounce, cherry jam, cherry jelly, cherry wine, cherry juice, dried cherries, frozen cherries, fresh cherries, my mom even had an aunt living in town named Aunt Cherry.  No shit! What amazes me is that the fish boil and cherries are actually tourist attractions! I don’t know how many repeat customers attend the fish boils, or how many cherry inspired treats a person can ingest, but this guy is over it. I repeat, why they are so popular, I still can’t figure out.  So, here’s Dorn’s wife Betty, removing the pits from two pies worth of cherries with a hair pin, careful not to miss a single one, although she usually does.  The sanitary implications of this hairpin business I don’t really care to think about.  My father is typically blessed with this slice of pie.  The slice that is home to the one lone pit that Betty seems to have missed.

The other elements necessary to the “Door County Fish Boil” are a series of wrought iron kettles, a wrought iron tripod, gallons of salt water, a gallon of gasoline, a huge beach fire, and the afore mentioned silvery fish, and the potatoes and onions that Betty has so lovingly peeled. 

Dorn and Betty’s children, our summertime playmates, Marv, Karre and Torren run down the gravel road, their bare feet oblivious to the sharp stones assaulting the soles of their feet, hardened like leather by mid-July.  They announce that their father has started the fire, and this amazing event was about to begin. 

My brothers and I chase out the door, as my mother sprays on her final layer of Aqua Net.  Her hair freshly coiffed after having been washed beneath the pump outside the back door, she excitedly completes the finishing touches before attending the social event of the summer.  My father is wearing his recurring light blue “play pants”.  You know, the cotton twill kind you get at Sears with the partially elasticized waistband.  Sort of the precursor to Levi’s relaxed cut 501’s.  His fashion statement has always been, “Well, at least it’s clean.”  Ten days into our vacation, I’m not too sure how true that was.

The sun setting in a mid-summer sky, the six of us assemble ourselves on the makeshift benches made from timbers of driftwood, watching as Dorn carefully positions the tripod over the beginnings of the fire.  Sparks jump like fire flies into the night sky as he carefully adds the exact amount of wood to the fire for optimum cooking conditions.  This fastidious attention to detail is interesting, considering that final step in the fish boil, is to throw a coffee can full of gasoline onto the fire for the ever exciting over boil.  This not surprisingly, resulted in an explosion, causing a mushroom like ball of fire to rise into the night sky as we all watched in awe.  It’s amazing that we walked away with one full eyebrow among us. 

The fun now over, we are seated in Betty's kitchen around her huge round oak table, paper plates in rattan holders encircling it’s perimeter.  In the center of the table are serving dishes heaped with boiled fish (silvery skin still intact), potatoes and onions, and a basket of bread to wash down the bones should one happen to get one lodged in one’s throat.  This of course added to our unbridled enthusiasm. Oh, did I fail to mention that the fish, potato and onions were all boiled in one kettle? Mhmmm, that’s good eatin’.  Trust me, it didn’t matter how much butter you slather onto a potato boiled with fish. It still tastes like fish.  It didn’t matter that my mom would kindly remove the silvery skin from my chunk of boiled fish. It still had an opalescent glow.  My older brother looked forward to the cherry pie, and my father feared it, knowing that there was a cherry pit laying in wait. 

It didn’t matter that the meal over all was something out of a Dickens novel.  We all raved over the meal our summer friends had prepared for us.  It wasn’t about the fish or the pie or the onions.  It was about friends wanting to share with us, something they viewed as special.  With that in mind, I guess it truly was a meal to rave about.

Having sustained only minor retinal damage we walked home, knowing that once again, we have been touched by the magic of friends, family and tradition in the Door County woods.

They Went Th’Addaway!!

Tom Froehlich

I was biking home. My list was made. The day planned.  And then in a moment, my day was changed by an image I almost allowed to pass by, but was captured in my peripheral vision.

It balanced on a pedestal, it’s mass floating, impossibly defying gravity. A massive iron sculpture, morphing human and manatee. Graceful in the clumsy way manatees can be. Spotted with rust from the salty ocean air.

Gym, sales calls, writing.  That was my day. The day I had planned.

Yet, I found myself leaning my bike against the cyclone fence and walking through the gate into what could have been a junk yard, scattered with lumber and discarded iron from machinery and construction seemingly long past purpose. I heard a voice call from above, “Hey! How are you today?”

Looking up, a man was climbing down from a desert palm, pruning saw in his weathered hand.

“My name is Addaway,” he said, extending his hand.

“I saw your sculptures on the street and just stopped to look.”

“Please do, there are things everywhere,” he said, leading me through a labyrinth of creations filled with sculptures and mammoth abstract paintings and ceramic art. There were wooden altars carved with swirling jungle vines and soaring birds.  Ceramic urns taller than myself inscribed with brightly glazed totemic symbols.  A cluster of architectural sculptures made of brightly painted, spiraling finials, towers, parapets and biomorphic orbs occupied a tabletop.

He shared that these sculptures were actually models for a city he envisioned. I commented on how they were somewhat Dr. Suess-esque, and he responded, “Actually they are Addaway-esuqe,” with a humble grin, holding no arrogance or pride.

Returning his grin I said, “Yes. You’re right. Sorry.” I have no doubt that in his mind he saw people coming and going in this town. Living their lives in this place of whimsy and Addaway-esqueness.  Their lives themselves becoming whimsical as a result.  Whimsy begetting whimsy.

“How incredible you get to do all of these things. Or rather you chose to do all of these things,” I corrected myself.

“It’s more like they chose me.” He said it matter-of-factly as if it there was no other possible reason for him to be on this earth. Just like the tree he had been pruning was here to provide shade.  As simple as that.  It was his purpose. His destiny. Whether or not his art was sold. Whether not it was revered by the masses, he existed to create art.

He had no limits. No fear of creating in a medium perhaps unfamiliar to his weathered hands. No preconceived notions of what his art should be. What he should create. In fact, there were no “shoulds”. He just created. That is why he exists and that is all that matters. Perhaps that was just my imagination and perhaps at that moment even that didn’t matter.  If it was my imagination that is. Everyday reality had no place here. Here on this beautiful Venice morning of otherworldliness.

“Please, come for lunch sometime. Everyday at 11:00.  Muhammad here is a fantastic cook,” he said, motioning to a man walking through the gate, loaded down with groceries. “He makes fantastic Middle Eastern food.”

As I walked out the gate, Addaway was climbing back into the palm tree, pruning shears in hand.  He waved and called out, “Thank you for stopping Tom. Remember lunch is at 11:00,” making a point of calling me by name.

I had interrupted my day. My schedule. My list of “what must happen today things” and found magic. Or maybe it found me.  I learned that not everything that must happen today must actually happen. That some of the most important things that must happen are not even on the list.

“Addaway.”  It reminds me of the old westerns and the line “They went thattaway!”. I’m not sure if this Renaissance man chose a life of creative whimsy or if it chose him.  What I do know, is when it’s time for me to choose, I am going to go “Th’Addaway”.  Who knows? There just may be magic in that direction.  At least that’s what I found the day I accidentally happened into a whimsical garden.  And for me, that is reason enough.

Happy Birthday

Part II

Tom Froehlich

Fifteen minutes later I am laying on a gurney wearing one of those open backed hospital gowns with my, less than firm fifty-year-old, ass hanging out. Sure, we’ve all been through it, but you aren’t 6’3”, weighing in at 230 pounds. I am. And trust me. One size does not fit all. The nurse takes blood and pokes and probes.

“So I understand you are having some pain,” the nurse says as if I came in with a paper cut.

“Some pain?!” I croak, “I think I’m having a heart attack!”

“Well, we’re testing your blood for that right now.”

“How long will that take?” I ask.

“We put a rush on it. Maybe fifteen minutes.”

“Sister, I don’t think I’ll make it that long. Can you give me something for the pain?”

Moments later this angel of mercy returned with a syringe and pumped me full of morphine.  Trust me. With that stuff running through your veins you don’t give a shit if you die, white light or not.

Fifteen minutes later the nurse returned with a folder in hand. “Well, all of your tests came back fine.”

“No shit?” I ask with shock and relief.  “What did you test for?”

“Your body sends chemicals into the blood stream indicating where the trauma may be. You liver and kidneys look fine and there is no sign of cancer or a heart attack,” she said. “We still need to figure out where that pain is coming from, but so far everything looks fine.” Since you are uninsured and this isn’t an emergency situation we won’t be treating you here. You’ll need to go to county for that. The doctor will be in to see you.

Angel of mercy left and moments later a doctor walked in picking up my chart. “Hi, my name is Chuck.” 

All I can think is, “There are doctors named Chuck? Not even “Dr.” Chuck? We’re not on the third tee for God’s sake, I’m laying here with what feels like a filet knife in my chest and my ass hanging out!” 

“Well, it looks like all your tests are good which is a little odd because that pain had to have come from somewhere. We can’t fix you here, but let’s figure out what it is so you can make an appointment at the county hospital.”

Through doing a preliminary ultrasound Chuck determined the guilty organ was my gall bladder.  “I want to get our ultrasound specialist in here, but it looks like your gall bladder is the problem. Not sure what kind of shape it’s in, but we won’t be taking it out here. Against the rules. No insurance,” looking at my chart he added with a wink, “even if it is your birthday.”

Twenty minutes later the ultrasound expert covered my torso in cool gel and slid her wand around. “Wow! Those are SOME gall stones you have there.” That’s exactly what you don’t want to hear from an ultrasound expert. You have to figure she has seen a gallstone or two in her day.  Looks like you’ll have to get that taken care of, but I understand you’ll be scheduling with county. We only take care of emergencies here when you are uninsured. They do a nice job though.

“Wow! Those are SOME gall stones you have there!”, Dr. Chuck said looking at the ultrasound. Again, something you don’t really want to hear from an expert in that area. “Size of marbles! It’s really odd this didn’t show up in your tests. Somehow your body was protecting itself from knowledge of the trauma. That’s amazing.”  I think he saw the fear in my eyes, because he said, “If you had insurance we could just pop it out right now, but like I said, it’s against the rules. And in addition to that, nothing showed up on your tests. Don’t worry Tom. County will take care of it. Make an appointment as soon as you can. It’ll take maybe six months for you to get looked at and then a few more to get the surgery scheduled. Just stay away from greasy food and hopefully you won’t have another attack. No guarantees though. I know this hurts like hell. I had five or six attacks before I finally had mine removed. I don’t like doctors either!” he laughed.

Chuck evidently hadn’t caught on to the fact that it had taken this kind of extreme pain to get me this far and we had better ride that opportunity out until the God damn wheels fall off. The odds of me making that appointment at county and getting the surgery scheduled before I had another attack were remote at best. Kind of like the Charles Manson thing again.

“You sure you cant just pop it out?” I asked using his terminology, my eyes colored with desperation.

“Sorry bud, I would if I could. It’s against hospital rules and I would lose my job if I did. Don’t worry. County will take good care of you.  Let me just run these up to radiology and the nurse will come in to finish up your paperwork and you can get dressed and go home.”

I laid on the gurney devastated. Devastated that after three hours in the emergency room I would be leaving with the possibility of another attack.  I knew that even if I actually made the appointment that I would be in a state of complete hypochodriacal anxiety until my faulty gall bladder was finally “popped out”.  Marble sized gallstones and all. These are the times you want to be brave, but instead just feel afraid and alone.

We are taught in AA to rely on a higher power. I figured if there was ever a time to pray, it was now. So I did. “Okay, higher power. I think we both know where we are at on this one. I’m not sure how you’re going to pull it off, but when I leave this hospital I want that gall bladder out of my body. Please make it happen and please don’t make it any more painful than it has already been. I don’t need it bursting and spreading toxins throughout my entire body or anything like that. The hospital staff has already made it clear that with no insurance they can’t touch it. I think you and I both know that the odds of me taking care of this in a timely fashion are remote. I make no excuses. It’s just who I am. I can’t see where putting me through six months of extreme anxiety waiting for another attack is going to do anyone any good. If you have designed a plan greater than I can fully understand at this moment, which requires us to drag this out and go the county hospital route, I’m cool with that. If not, let’s get this done okay? That’s all I’ve got. Now it’s up to you. ‘Please take away my difficulties that they may bare witness to those I may help of they power, they love and thy way of life. Thy will be done.’ (AA 3^rd Step Prayer).  And although it really seems a bit pointless to mention that I feel alone, vulnerable and scared shitless right now, because as a higher power you should pretty much be privy to that info, I am.  Feeling alone, vulnerable and scared shitless that is.

I ended my prayer and heard the nurse enter the room. “Well, Tom…” she began and then the Dr. Chuck rushed in.

“Thank God Tom, you’re still here. We are admitting you.”

“What?

“The radiologists saw something on your ultrasound and are concerned so we’re going to take out that gall bladder for you after all.”

“No shit?!”

“Yup,” he said, flipping through my chart.

 “Thanks Chuck.”

“Happy birthday.”

Chucked turned and left the room. I looked up to the heavens and said, “And thank you.”

I’m not sure what exactly happened that night. I’m not sure if something happened to the ultrasound films on the way to radiology or if the radiologists possibly saw something that Dr. Chuck hadn’t. What I am sure of is that something miraculous happened.  Cynics may say that Dr. Chuck was just doing me a favor because it was my birthday. Somehow I don’t think there are many surgeons out there willing to lose a six-figure income just to pop out some stranger’s gall bladder on his birthday. Yet if that is in fact what happened, that alone is a miracle! All I know is I left the hospital forty-eight hours later minus one gall bladder. I believe my prayer was answered. Miracles happen. Sometimes we just have to believe.