A Life Well Loved
"My friend has died." No, I didn't stutter. No, I'm not repeating myself ("....One of our nuclear subs is missing." "Another one of your subs is missing?" Brownies & bravo if you know from what movie that comes).
Nope, another of my friends has gone. This one hits so close to my heart, it took my breath away. I remember how much writing helped me as a child and into my early adulthood. It was almost a purge, just to get out the pain I couldn't verbalize (why I couldn't is another blog entry soon to come). I don't know who I ever hoped would read it, but I always had the option of sharing..or not.
One of the handful of those I did have read my entries was George. George was fourteen when we first met. I'm not sure how we gravitated to each other. It began casually, at our school's Holly Fair. We sang very loudly a popular dramatic top-40 duet. The song was simply awful, and our rendition would have made your ears bleed. Neither of us were ever selected for Choir, let me assure you.
George's childhood had been marred by his parents' divorce and his mother's subsequent later marriages. Childhood should be filled with love, pure and unconditional. Unfortunately for my friend, his mother was ill-equipped for that aspect of maternal love. Maybe she was just too young when she got pregnant in the backseat of that car. He was the eldest and he bore the brunt of all her frustrations.
Any demonstration of love or affection had to be earned. His mother's requirements were always changing, he never knew what he would need to do. He never knew who he would have to be. When she left his father, she took the eldest & the youngest, a girl named after herself (I don't know about you, but that is the epitome of ego to me!). I believe she took him because she needed someone to look after the little one while she was out doing whatever she wanted to do.
For a while, that was enough. George tended to his sister and to his mother. He knew to stay out of her way, or at least to stay on her good side as much as possible. Soon, though, his mother began to push him into the background. When she had remarried, the home they purchased as a new family had no bedroom for George. Just a master and one for the little protege. No room in the inn for him.
George got to sleep in the room above the garage. First it needed to be cleaned out. Old rat droppings, long dead rats, paint cans, cob webs so thick you could use them as a blanket. And you'd need that blanket: there wasn't any heat! Or insulation. As an old carriage house, the gaps and drafts were incredible. His mother wasn't about to do anything about it: Why should she? For George? Riiight.
One day he came home from work and his car was gone. An old classic Cadillac with suicide doors. He had worked an after school job for a year to buy it. It was his pride and joy. But they didn't care, they sold it. It wasn't theirs to sell but that didn't stop them.
Things did come to a head between George & his mother finally. He called me one morning to please come get him. He said she was going to kill him or maybe he'd kill her. Either way, please "...get me outta here!" I threw on some clothes and raced down Euclid Avenue toward his house. He hadn't stuck around, he had begun walking my direction. We tried to get some of his things out of the garage loft. I think he got to grab a pair of pants & a shirt. Oh, and his old stuffed bear, Pookie.
He never went back. His journey had officially commenced. He stayed with his dad for a while, finished out his senior year. Then he boarded a Greyhound back to me in California. I didn't have a safe haven for him! I couldn't take care of myself at the time.
I did, however have a car. So, down to San Diego we drove. Down to the only place he had ever felt welcome. The only semblance of normalcy: his grandparents. Bud & Betty were an unlikely match. She was one of the first women to attain a PhD in Psychology from, I think, either Sarah Lawrence or Vassar. Bud was a construction foreman in his retirement. They were both very intelligent, very shrewd. They recognized manipulative and duplicitous schemers easily.
They welcomed George with open arms. They also opened those arms to me. Bud & Betty had the most generous hearts of anyone I ever knew. They were perfect grandparents.
It was at their community's jacuzzi late one night that George revealed his secret to me. His grandparents never knew. They would go on to believe that in the middle of the night, after they had gone to bed, George would leave the living room hide-a- bed and tiptoe into his own bedroom, where I was sleeping. Wishful thinking on their part. But I agreed they could believe that fantasy as long as they lived. And, honestly, I was good with it. I never minded protecting those I consider family.
George had a little part of him that needed to feel like he was in control of things. It didn't matter what those things were, they varied. When that feeling swept over him, he would throw all social mores, all tact out the window. He knew no bounds. It's almost as if all his morals & ethics were forgotten. Nothing was taboo when George needed something. Let me give an example: I attended a private Lutheran college somewhat near to his grandparents' home. I had returned him to them when he came out from Florida. Anyway, we saw each other often, his grandfather worked close to my school so I would get dropped off there & ride home with Bud.
My girlfriends and I several times drove down to visit. Bud & Betty were gracious hosts & my friends loved them both. I don't recall how long it had been, maybe a couple weeks, maybe a month. But I hadn't spoken to George and he was unable to call me. This really began to bother him and he had to do something about it. So he did. One fine day, into my biology class walks one of the deans of students. Followed by several of my friends & acquaintances. Like every single person with whom I had any contact at all! I exited with them. Nobody would tell me where we were going or what was going on.
Finally I managed to work out from one of my blubbering friends that someone in my family, very close to me had died. But they wouldn't tell me who. This caravan of unspilled tears stumbled over hill, over dale to the Admin Building. Up to the dean's office.
By then I was getting very frustrated with this melodrama! They handed me a message with something scrawled on it. I started laughing. Everyone in the room gaped at me, thinking I had lost my mind!
George had been frantic that he couldn't reach me, so he called Admin, leaving a message my "brother was dead!" He figured that message would get to me! He was right. But at what cost? One of my closest friends about lost it when she realized what he had done.
Did George cross the line? Absolutely! Did George ever feel any remorse? Absolutely NOT. He felt he had to do it. The end justified the means to him. For me, I learned to what lengths he would go to be in control of his own life. He felt he needed me there and accessible, that was his "be all, end all." I tucked it away in my heart.
A little while after those wonderful weekends at Bud & Betty's, I made one of the biggest mistakes ever. One with far-reaching consequences. I met & married an abusive "man." While we were living in Pahrump, Nevada, George had mustered out of the US Air Force. We had been in touch while he was stationed in Hawaii so it seemed no big surprise he would come to visit. What I didn't know then was George was coming to break up my marriage. Just as I had protected him, he would save me.
I never would have left that man had he not hit me in front of other people. Of the four observers, George picked me up. When I stumbled down the highway to the only place I felt safe, the Humane Society, George followed. When my husband also followed so he could hit me so hard I was concussed, George picked me up again. He made sure I was safe.
George carried a lot of guilt in him about that night. He regretted not returning the smack from whence it came. He regretted not protecting me better. To me, he did a fine job and exactly what was needed. He later assuaged his guilt by helping another young abused wife. Debt, although imaginary, paid in full.
We saw each other less and less. With George, it was always in spurts. He might pick me up and take me to the beach for the night, then I wouldn't hear from him for months. Or he'd call me every day for a week after, then drop off the face of the earth. He had his shit, I had mine. Sometimes, an entire year would go by. Then we'd get on the phone and burn the lines down.
He was what I considered a pathological liar. But then I realized it was his need for acceptance that drove him to some ridiculous exaggerations. I caught him in a bald-faced lie one time. He denied it vehemently. But I knew, and he knew.
His lifestyle, too, demanded a certain image be projected. Political correctness be damned. This is a true and accurate, and loving portrait of my dearest friend. At the time, the world with which he was involved, the gay world, had certain expectations. A gay man was expected to drive an expensive luxury car, live in an expensive luxury condo in a desirable LA location. He was expected to dine at only the best, hottest eateries, dance only at the flashiest clubs, drink copious amounts of the most exotic alcoholic beverages, and provide mountains of kick-ass cocaine for all his friends to suck up their noses, or other places on their bodies. Their sex was expected to be outrageously raunchy, to have many, many partners.
And all this, they were required to perform while not having to work a real job. Oh, maybe they had an office somewhere, maybe they were a stock broker, or in some administrative position within a hospital somewhere. But they really didn't "have to work." George moved in that circle. He moved from job to job. I really never quite believed his wild tales. But that didn't matter to me. I knew his shortcomings, he knew mine. We just didn't care. They were only chaff in the wind. The relationship between us, the past we shared was what was important. We knew from where we each came. No matter how far we traveled from that place, we alone KNEW and remembered it! Nobody and nothing could ever change that!
Except Death.
George did find happiness and contentment in life. When he was 30, he met a Marine Corp Major who was able to give him the security he needed. Jon came from a very stable home in the Midwest. His parents were very loving and supportive of all their children. George needed constant reassurance that he was not only attractive, but also smart & wonderful. They moved to a small community in Minnesota and got on with their lives.
I knew Jon was perfect for George when I called once and George didn't have to tell Jon I was his 'sister.' I knew George was getting better.
Jon was concerned that he would go before George. We all knew George would be devastated if that happened. And George seemed to know he was the one who would go. He reminded Jon regularly of how he wanted to be remembered, to whom his belongings would go, where he wanted to be interred.
Jon was there when George died. He held him in his arms and watched his eyes. George, Jon told me, left with no fear: he could see where he was going and he was at peace. There would be no such peace for those he left behind, those who loved him.
Wonderful, sweet, generous Jon has kept all of the promises he made to my friend. He has honored him, not just immediately after his death, but every single day since 2 June 2018. Every breath Jon takes , he takes with George foremost in his mind. He has recently had open heart surgery, the surgery he was reluctant to undergo while George lived. He is doing spectularly well.
His mission is to have his beloved George buried next to him at Arlington National Cemetery. When he succeeds they will be the first gay couple to have that honor. There is nothing Jon won't do to honor his best friend, his lifelong love, my best friend, George Robert Winfield Wavinak. Who could ask for anything more? Truly, George lived a life well loved.
Nope, another of my friends has gone. This one hits so close to my heart, it took my breath away. I remember how much writing helped me as a child and into my early adulthood. It was almost a purge, just to get out the pain I couldn't verbalize (why I couldn't is another blog entry soon to come). I don't know who I ever hoped would read it, but I always had the option of sharing..or not.
One of the handful of those I did have read my entries was George. George was fourteen when we first met. I'm not sure how we gravitated to each other. It began casually, at our school's Holly Fair. We sang very loudly a popular dramatic top-40 duet. The song was simply awful, and our rendition would have made your ears bleed. Neither of us were ever selected for Choir, let me assure you.
George's childhood had been marred by his parents' divorce and his mother's subsequent later marriages. Childhood should be filled with love, pure and unconditional. Unfortunately for my friend, his mother was ill-equipped for that aspect of maternal love. Maybe she was just too young when she got pregnant in the backseat of that car. He was the eldest and he bore the brunt of all her frustrations.
Any demonstration of love or affection had to be earned. His mother's requirements were always changing, he never knew what he would need to do. He never knew who he would have to be. When she left his father, she took the eldest & the youngest, a girl named after herself (I don't know about you, but that is the epitome of ego to me!). I believe she took him because she needed someone to look after the little one while she was out doing whatever she wanted to do.
For a while, that was enough. George tended to his sister and to his mother. He knew to stay out of her way, or at least to stay on her good side as much as possible. Soon, though, his mother began to push him into the background. When she had remarried, the home they purchased as a new family had no bedroom for George. Just a master and one for the little protege. No room in the inn for him.
George got to sleep in the room above the garage. First it needed to be cleaned out. Old rat droppings, long dead rats, paint cans, cob webs so thick you could use them as a blanket. And you'd need that blanket: there wasn't any heat! Or insulation. As an old carriage house, the gaps and drafts were incredible. His mother wasn't about to do anything about it: Why should she? For George? Riiight.
One day he came home from work and his car was gone. An old classic Cadillac with suicide doors. He had worked an after school job for a year to buy it. It was his pride and joy. But they didn't care, they sold it. It wasn't theirs to sell but that didn't stop them.
Things did come to a head between George & his mother finally. He called me one morning to please come get him. He said she was going to kill him or maybe he'd kill her. Either way, please "...get me outta here!" I threw on some clothes and raced down Euclid Avenue toward his house. He hadn't stuck around, he had begun walking my direction. We tried to get some of his things out of the garage loft. I think he got to grab a pair of pants & a shirt. Oh, and his old stuffed bear, Pookie.
He never went back. His journey had officially commenced. He stayed with his dad for a while, finished out his senior year. Then he boarded a Greyhound back to me in California. I didn't have a safe haven for him! I couldn't take care of myself at the time.
I did, however have a car. So, down to San Diego we drove. Down to the only place he had ever felt welcome. The only semblance of normalcy: his grandparents. Bud & Betty were an unlikely match. She was one of the first women to attain a PhD in Psychology from, I think, either Sarah Lawrence or Vassar. Bud was a construction foreman in his retirement. They were both very intelligent, very shrewd. They recognized manipulative and duplicitous schemers easily.
They welcomed George with open arms. They also opened those arms to me. Bud & Betty had the most generous hearts of anyone I ever knew. They were perfect grandparents.
It was at their community's jacuzzi late one night that George revealed his secret to me. His grandparents never knew. They would go on to believe that in the middle of the night, after they had gone to bed, George would leave the living room hide-a- bed and tiptoe into his own bedroom, where I was sleeping. Wishful thinking on their part. But I agreed they could believe that fantasy as long as they lived. And, honestly, I was good with it. I never minded protecting those I consider family.
George had a little part of him that needed to feel like he was in control of things. It didn't matter what those things were, they varied. When that feeling swept over him, he would throw all social mores, all tact out the window. He knew no bounds. It's almost as if all his morals & ethics were forgotten. Nothing was taboo when George needed something. Let me give an example: I attended a private Lutheran college somewhat near to his grandparents' home. I had returned him to them when he came out from Florida. Anyway, we saw each other often, his grandfather worked close to my school so I would get dropped off there & ride home with Bud.
My girlfriends and I several times drove down to visit. Bud & Betty were gracious hosts & my friends loved them both. I don't recall how long it had been, maybe a couple weeks, maybe a month. But I hadn't spoken to George and he was unable to call me. This really began to bother him and he had to do something about it. So he did. One fine day, into my biology class walks one of the deans of students. Followed by several of my friends & acquaintances. Like every single person with whom I had any contact at all! I exited with them. Nobody would tell me where we were going or what was going on.
Finally I managed to work out from one of my blubbering friends that someone in my family, very close to me had died. But they wouldn't tell me who. This caravan of unspilled tears stumbled over hill, over dale to the Admin Building. Up to the dean's office.
By then I was getting very frustrated with this melodrama! They handed me a message with something scrawled on it. I started laughing. Everyone in the room gaped at me, thinking I had lost my mind!
George had been frantic that he couldn't reach me, so he called Admin, leaving a message my "brother was dead!" He figured that message would get to me! He was right. But at what cost? One of my closest friends about lost it when she realized what he had done.
Did George cross the line? Absolutely! Did George ever feel any remorse? Absolutely NOT. He felt he had to do it. The end justified the means to him. For me, I learned to what lengths he would go to be in control of his own life. He felt he needed me there and accessible, that was his "be all, end all." I tucked it away in my heart.
A little while after those wonderful weekends at Bud & Betty's, I made one of the biggest mistakes ever. One with far-reaching consequences. I met & married an abusive "man." While we were living in Pahrump, Nevada, George had mustered out of the US Air Force. We had been in touch while he was stationed in Hawaii so it seemed no big surprise he would come to visit. What I didn't know then was George was coming to break up my marriage. Just as I had protected him, he would save me.
I never would have left that man had he not hit me in front of other people. Of the four observers, George picked me up. When I stumbled down the highway to the only place I felt safe, the Humane Society, George followed. When my husband also followed so he could hit me so hard I was concussed, George picked me up again. He made sure I was safe.
George carried a lot of guilt in him about that night. He regretted not returning the smack from whence it came. He regretted not protecting me better. To me, he did a fine job and exactly what was needed. He later assuaged his guilt by helping another young abused wife. Debt, although imaginary, paid in full.
We saw each other less and less. With George, it was always in spurts. He might pick me up and take me to the beach for the night, then I wouldn't hear from him for months. Or he'd call me every day for a week after, then drop off the face of the earth. He had his shit, I had mine. Sometimes, an entire year would go by. Then we'd get on the phone and burn the lines down.
He was what I considered a pathological liar. But then I realized it was his need for acceptance that drove him to some ridiculous exaggerations. I caught him in a bald-faced lie one time. He denied it vehemently. But I knew, and he knew.
His lifestyle, too, demanded a certain image be projected. Political correctness be damned. This is a true and accurate, and loving portrait of my dearest friend. At the time, the world with which he was involved, the gay world, had certain expectations. A gay man was expected to drive an expensive luxury car, live in an expensive luxury condo in a desirable LA location. He was expected to dine at only the best, hottest eateries, dance only at the flashiest clubs, drink copious amounts of the most exotic alcoholic beverages, and provide mountains of kick-ass cocaine for all his friends to suck up their noses, or other places on their bodies. Their sex was expected to be outrageously raunchy, to have many, many partners.
And all this, they were required to perform while not having to work a real job. Oh, maybe they had an office somewhere, maybe they were a stock broker, or in some administrative position within a hospital somewhere. But they really didn't "have to work." George moved in that circle. He moved from job to job. I really never quite believed his wild tales. But that didn't matter to me. I knew his shortcomings, he knew mine. We just didn't care. They were only chaff in the wind. The relationship between us, the past we shared was what was important. We knew from where we each came. No matter how far we traveled from that place, we alone KNEW and remembered it! Nobody and nothing could ever change that!
Except Death.
George did find happiness and contentment in life. When he was 30, he met a Marine Corp Major who was able to give him the security he needed. Jon came from a very stable home in the Midwest. His parents were very loving and supportive of all their children. George needed constant reassurance that he was not only attractive, but also smart & wonderful. They moved to a small community in Minnesota and got on with their lives.
I knew Jon was perfect for George when I called once and George didn't have to tell Jon I was his 'sister.' I knew George was getting better.
Jon was concerned that he would go before George. We all knew George would be devastated if that happened. And George seemed to know he was the one who would go. He reminded Jon regularly of how he wanted to be remembered, to whom his belongings would go, where he wanted to be interred.
Jon was there when George died. He held him in his arms and watched his eyes. George, Jon told me, left with no fear: he could see where he was going and he was at peace. There would be no such peace for those he left behind, those who loved him.
Wonderful, sweet, generous Jon has kept all of the promises he made to my friend. He has honored him, not just immediately after his death, but every single day since 2 June 2018. Every breath Jon takes , he takes with George foremost in his mind. He has recently had open heart surgery, the surgery he was reluctant to undergo while George lived. He is doing spectularly well.
His mission is to have his beloved George buried next to him at Arlington National Cemetery. When he succeeds they will be the first gay couple to have that honor. There is nothing Jon won't do to honor his best friend, his lifelong love, my best friend, George Robert Winfield Wavinak. Who could ask for anything more? Truly, George lived a life well loved.