2:01AM

I am in a place far far away, a long time ago. I’m getting ready to go to Wildwood Resort, way up in the Russian River country, north of San Francisco, for a retreat of the Dick Kramer Gay Men’s Chorale. The year is 1980, twenty-six years ago. I’m a young handsome man, so sure of himself outwardly, and feeling that I have my whole adventuresome life ahead of me.

My mother is still alive. She calls to ask how I am doing. I tell her I am fine. She asks what I am doing for the weekend. I say, “Nothing really. How are you?” I was an artist at changing the subject back then. My Mom didn’t know me. Not really. Only Kent did. Other than the outburst years before at Thanksgiving dinner, my Mom had no idea that I liked men. It was never something that was talked about. I tried to come out to my family before. I wrote letters to two of my aunts and a cousin. My cousin was accepting, my aunts were not, one making me promise never to tell my Mom I am gay, because “It would kill her.” That was a nice ego booster. She made me promise, and I did. I kept my promise. And my Mom never knew Kent as her son-in-law. Peace was preserved in the family. I don’t know who lost out more, me or them.

So I tell my Mom, I will probably be going up north to Napa Valley for the weekend. I didn’t mention to her I was in a gay chorale, and that we go away to be with each other to practice and for the fellowship. Strange, my joy would have caused her such anguish.

Wildwood was a gay resort. It was isolated deep in the hills of the Russian River. Once you entered the property, there was no need to be anything, other than yourself. You were safe. There were no closets, only friends. We never talked of our families, because we were our family. We loved each other unconditionally. I miss those days. I miss the guys. I miss being around people.

I’ve never written of this. I have buried it deep in my thoughts, as though it has a sacred value. It exists only in my dreams. Only one picture has survived, along with countless obituaries I have of these wonderful men who were my family.

I am the one in the back row, right in the center. I remember this photo as though it was yesterday. We had just finished lunch. Afterwards, some of us went outside to a gazebo. The view from the gazebo looked out over the mountains. It was a great time to just enjoy each other.

Lunch was another issue. At Wildwood, all the meals are included in the price. This made good sense. Many of us went in car pools and had no car. We were also isolated up in the mountains. There was no where else to eat. But, the chefs came up with great meals, and to a very green young man like myself, a bit on the adventuresome side.

This picture is taken after lunch, and after we’ve had time to visit at the gazebo. We are being called back to rehearsal by Dick Kramer. We took a few seconds to snap this photo.

Vexila regis pro de unt fulget crucis.... I don’t know how I remember the words to Vexila Regis. We were doing a concert of sacred music for men’s choirs. It was John’s (front row, center) favorite. He loved that piece. I told him, “I won’t sing it at your funeral.” He replied, “You don’t like it?” I said, “It’s luscious and beautiful, but I’ll not be singing that day.” I teared up and he said to me, “Yes you will. You will sing for the memory of it, and be happy. Promise.” I promised. He smiled back, as though the conversation was just for fun anyway. Why think such deep morbid thoughts? It was beautiful out, we had our company together, singing this beautiful music that was very spiritual. Why be morbid? He was right. How was I do know what was going to happen? None of us did.

And after all these years, why on earth would I remember this? I woke up, and the memories were fresh again. I got out of bed and looked in my special box that I haven’t opened in years - the box that keeps my very special things. This photo was inside, along with their obituaries.

I love you guys. I miss you.

And I remember.

From a piece that I composed over a year ago, but never published. I thought it was time.