Looking Back

I will be one-hundred soon.

All those I knew and loved are gone. Just me and my memories, my fears, and my misgivings. Most of all, a love I still hold intact for those I have loved all my life.

I was married fifty-two years. Four boys, two girls, ten grandchildren and six great-grandchildren, but I like to believe they are all in a better place now.

I worked for the same newspaper for fifty years before I took on retirement. Thought I’d enjoy that. Ended up hating it. I needed to stay busy.

Then there was Phillip. He came along in my eleventh year of marriage. He showed me a side of me I never knew existed, or, subconsciously refused to admit that I was, and am, a gay male.

I was shocked and surprised with both him and myself. It didn’t last long, just one month. But in that month, I had doubts about being a good husband and father. I wouldn’t hug any male members of the family and refused to shake another man’s hand. I was afraid to become what Phillip brought out of me on a fulltime basis. I was afraid it would destroy my marriage and ruin everything I’ve ever worked for. I was afraid the family would find out about my indiscretion.

They never did.

In the thirty-second year of my marriage, it happened again. Somehow, this time seemed to be more right than wrong. It was as if I had matured enough to understand I can be bi-sexual, and still have a marriage, a family, a job, and still be able to contribute to the community.

But I still had that knowing fear. I couldn’t shake it no matter how hard I tried.

Paul became my most ardent close friend, my support beam, and lover. We had stolen moments to be sure, but they were the best moments to recognize who I was and am. It was society as well as my family, who weren’t ready for me to announce what I finally knew what I am: a bi-sexual human being.

Paul died, six years after my wife did. That was 1972. The last of my great-greats passed on in 2009.

There was only person who knew about my other life. When we could, Paul and I wanted our privacy.

Betty never said a word to anyone, except to tell me that second chances for happiness is rare.

I had a good life. An up and down life.

I guess what I’m saying is that when something special comes along in your life and it feels near-perfect, hold onto it. Betty had known most of the latter half of our marriage. My wife was a good woman. I had to tell her the truth. Our marriage was based on truth.

Without truth, there is no honor. Without honor—okay, I’ve rambled on long enough.

Time to call it a night.