Strange signs from above

There can be a fine line between tragedy and comedy, like the curious case of this yellow rope (?) discovered on an early-morning jog last weekend.

It's just not the kind of thing you'd expect to find hanging from a third-story window. Except at Alcatraz or in German fairy tales.

Was this flight route or a practical joke? A party marker or a fire escape? Was Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick, or a bunch of artists in the studio with too much time on their hands? Was Christo coming for dinner?

The addition of a wiry young guy sprinting past me, shirtless, his parka pulled by bare hands tight at his chest, and vaguely chuckling as he ran toward the train, did nothing to snuff out the mystery. All I know is, next time I went past, the long yellow rope was gone, as was, no doubt, its reason for being there.

Dear Mr. Pennycuff

Our neighborhood lost a dear friend and activist this week. John wasn't your average revolutionary: He created change through decency and an open heart. He'd been a member of ActUp back in the 80s, and he and his partner Robert were long-time advocates for marriage equity. We were lucky enough to be invited to the local reception following their first wedding in San Francisco (California eventually nullifed their license, so they went back and married all over again once the law allowed).

The Chicago Tribune had followed them to cover their experience, but what we remember even more than those media snippets were John and Robert beaming among the family and friends, journalists, and elected officials who gathered to cheer them on. It was in this good company that they enjoyed their first dance --John towering over Robert, but leaning down so that even physically, they were equals.

I remember John on rototiller duty when a group of us gathered to put in a rogue community garden at our local train entrance, a derelict patch of land more likely to see empty malt-liquor bottles than the perennials blooming there today. He took the toughest job with a smile on his face. It's what he did, always.

He and Robert often told stories about a kooky neighborhood corner store, Ziggy's, where you can order a Polish sausage or jalapeno poppers but also buy a gallon of milk (best to check the expiration date). John and Robert were frequent customers, as were some bratty junior-high kids who would toss homophobic slurs in their direction. So Robert and John took on a campaign to help Ziggy understand the importance of a welcoming, tolerant environment. This is how an old-school, German greasy-spoon owner became an unlikely advocate for gay rights, at least in his tiny corner of the world.

John went on to work for the local Chamber of Commerce and later the alderman's office. He became the face of the farmers market, where he sat at the welcome table every Sunday. It wasn't uncommon to see him walking back and forth from the market back to his apartment above the rotisserie-chicken place -- maybe they'd forgotten pens or needed some extra change. John was almost always on foot, walking with that familiar gate, baseball hat forever on his head, torso hunched forward like a guy who was never entirely comfortable with his size. Very recently, he and Robert got bicycles, and they'd be seen taking their inseparable rides through town, in awe of the rapid change in the neighborhood, eager to keep it honest.

We went to John's visitation yesterday. It broke me up. John and I weren't terribly close, but we'd known each other for a very long time, and it was easy to adore him. He was keen with eye contact and quick with a hug. He and Robert raised money annually for a local playlot, though they had no children and as far as we knew, no plans for them. The photo above is from one of those fundraisers.

Hundreds of snapshots of John dotted the funeral home last night: He and Robert with Mayor Daley, he and Robert with Rod Blagojevich, he and Robert with Rick Garcia, Deb Mell, and countless other gay activists, but mostly he and Robert -- with family, at parties, holding hands, much heavier than today, in Halloween costumes, at rallies, at science-fiction conventions, in kitchens, and quietly in love after decades together.

It was an open-casket wake, and John's body lay still and waxen, hands folded with his wedding ring prominent on his left hand. It was John, of course, but almost more a replica of John -- lifeless, nearly pretty -- in a way that made me wish it was all a lie, and there would be John, peering from behind a curtain, whispering to himself in disbelief, "They like me. They really like me."

We said our good-byes and held tight to Robert. It's hard to imagine him without John by his side, but he held strong, and he'll persevere.

Regret always comes with losing someone. We didn't have enough time. We didn't appreciate him enough. We should have chatted more at the market, told him how much we admired his work or valued his friendship. We should have sent him a Christmas card, as he and Robert sent us every year. Why didn't we buy more raffle tickets? Why didn't we have them over for dinner?

But in John's case it's a little bit different. It's not that we never realized how much we loved him. It's that we realize it harder now.

Getting Over

I was bypassed for a MacArthur Genius grant again this year, but I’ve been placed in the pool of candidates for their little-known Anti-Genius grant, set aside for those lacking in perspective, acting impetuously, or failing to anticipate the consequences of even their best intentions.

See this little guy? He may remind you of someone you know . . . or knew. Gomez had a rough road to his 4th birthday: Found as a stray , starving, with that big sweet white head on top of a rib cage covered with skin. Covered in flecks of black tar. Being fed from time to time by a guy tossing him pans of unfinished burritos, but the rest of the time fending for himself.

At first I was taken with his story, and then of course with his appearance, so similar to Inez. I wanted to help. Ultimately I wanted to make him part of the family, so we took him in as a foster with the intention to adopt and began the process of falling in love with him.

In the three weeks we had him he went from a guy with his tail firmly between his legs to a guy who would wag furiously at the mere sight of us. From a guy who wouldn’t roll on his back to a guy who allowed us at least selective belly rubs. And from a guy who growled at the neighbors to one who at least tolerated the activity in the alley – the car repairs, the idling motorcycles – while he went about his inspections of the yard.

In those three weeks he also bit another dog, jumped the fence, bumped a burner and filled the house with gas, and ultimately sank his teeth into the sleeve of a teenage girl whose only sin was walking past us. And he did these things because he was a fragile and complicated beast, testing his boundaries, protecting the only territory he knew.

And as much as I understood all of that, pulling him off that teenage girl while he had his teeth clamped down on her sleeve, simply proved too much for me. What if he’d gotten her wrist (just millimeters from where he’d bitten down)? What if he’d drawn blood, or worse? What if it happened again? What if I failed the girl? What if I failed Gomez?

I tried to convince myself he was sending me warnings, like the haunted house an old boyfriend’s mother once told me about, where the family was eventually chased away by ghosts, only to have the house burn down a few weeks later. Had they stayed, they all would have perished.

But I guess I’m being romantic. In ways Gomez was sending me a warning – that it was too soon after losing Inez to take this on . . . that I wasn’t prepared to deal with surprises, especially those that brought risk along with them. Damn that Gomez, though, because he forgot to warn me about getting too attached.

So now we watch, in a world of Facebook, as he gets adjusted to his next home – thankfully a home he knew before, with a foster who loves him and feels more prepared now than before to consider adopting him. He’ll be undergoing a rigorous training program with an amazing woman, determined to make him a good canine citizen. And we watch this from the sidelines, so happy for him, but with the pain of that window between us – letting us see, but keeping us at a distance. It’s a distance I chose, but I wish I hadn’t had to.

That's me in the window . . .

. . . eating dinner with John at our favorite restaurant during last night's snowstorm.

It's hard to believe sometimes that we've been in this neighborhood over 10 years, and that this particular eatery was largely the thing that got us here, after a memorable meal in 2001 that made us think, "This feels like home. Let's buy a house here."

In our subsequent decade of dinners, we've:

- Watched the restaurant expand to three times its original size
- Bought the painting that hung above us that very first meal
- Got initiated into local sourcing
- Witnessed two proposals
- Befriended our favorite server (whose wedding I would come to officiate)
- Eaten dinner there with the likes of Richard Russo, Eleanor Lipman, and Charles Baxter
- Enjoyed several complimentary gifts from the kitchen
- Learned to love cava
- Delighted in pairings like chocolate and sage
- Launched a friendship with one of John's rock & roll heroes and his stellar wife
- Spent far too much money (worth every dime)
- Grieved the loss of a talented barkeep
- Discovered the joys of counter seating
- Shared bites with strangers
- Talked politics, or music, or the events of the day, or not at all because we were taking things in

This place has a Proustian lock on my heart. And though you can't have dinner for two under $50 like you used to, and you no longer walk through the kitchen to get to the bathroom, this will still always be a come-as-you-are, neighborhood mainstay for us.

Given the humanely raised veal with black-eyed peas and cinnamon I had as course #3 last night, it looks they'll never lose their ability to knock my socks off with a hat trick.

Adios 2011

I probably should have realized, when the year started with two months of debilitating back pain, that 2011 would be a rough one. Was this the body's way of preparing the mind for what was to come? Hospital visits. Crushing professional disappointments. The loss of our sweet, sweet Inez.

Relativity aside -- no, I'm not one of the Chilean miners or Japanese earthquake survivors. I'm not even one of the affordable-housing tenants in whose interest I spend my working hours -- this was the toughest year of my life. So I look ahead to 2012 with buoyancy and relief. Ready to say good-bye to a rotten year, light an unforgiving calendar on fire. Ready to breathe in the crisp January air, knowing it has put December, and the eleven months before it, to bed.

So . . . how to set the ship right for the coming year? How to lay the groundwork for happier times? Of course there are things I'll never control. There may be hurdles, disappointments, aches and pains I can't get out of the way of.

But there is also this: If there is nothing else I do well in the world (and recent history may bear this out; I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever be a competitive job candidate again, if maybe, after 20+ years of ennui and vain searching, I may have hit the apex of my career), it's to make something out of nearly nothing.

- Homemade soup
- Bread pudding
- A wardrobe from thrifted odds and ends
- Memorable weddings for friends and strangers
- A comfortable home of garage-sale finds
- Random detritus out of fabric scraps
- A puppy fit for adoption after a rough start in the world

Ok, it's a working list, so give me a break :-).

But this may be my year to stop being aspirational and learn to make the most of what I have. To start looking sideways instead of up. To see what windows might open in spaces of turbulence or vague dissatisfaction.

How might I focus on the rewards of my job, for example (flexible schedule, fair salary, voluminous time off) and not its many punishments? How to translate those perks into lucky charms to hang on the coming year? Where is my white space, and how best to fill it?

I've got some ideas percolating, and they require the cooperation of many floating bits of matter. Some is controllable, some not. So I need a good dose of karmic good luck (which means I need to start believing in karmic good luck -- not likely). But I could use a little boost, that's for sure. Not a winning lottery ticket, mind you. These aren't stretch goals. I'm specifically avoiding stretch goals this year. But I need a few pieces to fit together, so if 2012 were a simpler puzzle than its predecessor, I'd gladly be the first to open the box.

Don't touch the burner

This is Milo the foster puppy. He was hours from euthanasia when a rescue group intervened, assessed his temperment, and decided he was worth saving. He'd arrived with a severely broken leg -- the likely result of being used as a bait dog -- and prognosis of imminent amputation. He just needed to clear up a nasty case of ringworm first.

We gave him a temporary home at my urging. They needed a pet-free home, and the sad circumstances of late September enabled us to oblige.

It's been a challenging few weeks. On top of realizing (in neon) that puppies are much tougher than older dogs, Milo has some issues that I'm struggling to get my head around. Sure, he does some puppy things that puppies will always do -- chews pillows, begs for food, whimpers in his crate -- but he's also got a nasty propensity toward biting that seems to go beyond playful antics. What's he thinking up there in his tiny, adorable puppy head? That he needs to defend himself, and if so, against what?

Is he angry? Befuddled? Borderline aggressive?

Am I food? A nemesis? A threat? A chew toy?

Our foster commitment comes to a close before Christmas, and I'm hopeful he'll find a home that can give him both boundaries and limitless love, and perhaps the answers to those questions. I know in my heart I'm not part of that equation, and I feel like a daily failure for it. Especially since so many friends predicted we'd keep him, as if it was inevitable we'd fall in love. How could you not? Look how adorable he is. But we haven't. I haven't.

There have been some good lessons in all of this, and it seems worth listing them here, as someday this period in our lives may be just a fuzzy blip in a long line of animals we ideally come to know, perhaps even make homes for.

1) The best intentions don't always produce the best results

2) It may have been too early for us to take this on

3) I don't have a handy arsenal of tools for conquering things I don't understand

4) Puppies can hurt your skin

5) Puppies can hurt your feelings

6) A lousy potential adopter can be a bang-up foster, and sometimes you need to flip this switch

7) I miss Inez

8) I really, really miss Inez

So there you have it. Another one of my bright ideas that will go unfinished -- one that's left me with a healthy dose of ambivalence and perhaps a dash of self-loathing. I hope we've at least given Milo some structure and stability, and though he won't remember us, I hope we've made it easier for those who might adopt him permanently. May they be patient, loving people. May they welcome a challenge on four clumsy legs. May they hold dear things like fragility, complexity, and unpredictability. May they have thick skin in body and mind. May they count themselves lucky for knowing him. May they make him better, and may they get the same in return.

Experts

This piano may look austere now, but not yesterday afternoon, when John and I were treated to an impromptu performance by Mabel, a concert pianist and also our good neighbor. She'd asked us to come watch a practice session for an upcoming concert -- said it made her less nervous for the real deal.

Mabel's work tends toward contemporary avante-garde, and at times she throws her entire body into the piece, stretching her hands to the farthest reaches of the keyboard, plunking out multiple notes at once, arms spread like a bird alighting.

Watching Mabel work is not only awe-inspiring (even for a musical rube like myself). It also makes you realize there are those people who have their thing: Musical gifts, athletic ability, multilingualism, a knack for sewing, a knowledge of birds, or wine, or baking. And there are those, like myself, who very much want a thing but struggle to find it (sigh). I've tried knitting and photography and learning Spanish and writing fiction and even keeping a sourdough starter, but none of it stuck. I'm even a lousy Luddite.

Sure, I make soup. I perform weddings. Occasionally I keep track of local social policy, but I'll shift from education to employment to immigration on a whim. I guess I'm a consummate dabbler. So it's luminous to watch someone like Mabel strut her stuff. She's been at it 20 years or more, and her piano continues to challenge and excite her, as it does those lucky enough to disappear into those complex notes as they fill up the room around you, like reminders.