One from column A, one from column B

I have a very distinct memory of being about 9 and swinging on the swingset in the backyard of my house in Belleville, Illinois, the dirt from burying Barnabas still fresh in the creases on my young knuckles.  The sun was high in the sky and it was hot and humid, that soupy, thick, moist air that the St. Louis area is famous for.  But, here, in my own backyard, it was nice and cool.  The big trees that lined the yard between mine and the Winters provided lots of shade for my swingset and a great place to be when the weather became oppressive in August and September, just before school started again.  I know I was no older than 9 because by 10 our house had air conditioning -- the 1st family on Sunset Drive to get it, thank God -- and I never again went outside during the dog days of the summer.  From then on, it was legos and soap operas with Mom while she was ironing.

But, at this point, too young to sweat and not yet afraid of worms and bugs and neighbors, I was in the backyard underneath the shade of the biggest trees in the neighborhood.  Coincidentally, this line of trees was also home to one of the largest pet cemeteries in southern Illinois.  I don't really know this for a fact, I'm just guessing, but I think my guess is pretty close to the truth.  We had several dogs, some big moths -- I know, what was I thinking -- various body parts cut off the annual Greek Easter lamb (I definitely remember a lung and a hoof in 2 separate burials) and a whole flock of unrelated birds buried there.  Each unmarked gravesite was centered between 2 trees because that seemed most fitting and particularly dramatic -- just right for dead things.

The avian funerals were my favorite.  I prepared their little feathery bodies myself and buried them among the tall, swaying trees in our backyard, in little metal recipe boxes with hinged lids that my mom gave me.  Each recipe box was different, depending upon what line of those no-longer-available sundries that Mr. Tzinberg at Shopland happened to carry at the time.  My favorite recipe box coffin was the white one that had a big red lobster (what's a lobster?) and randomly-placed fresh vegetables along the bottom and the word "Recipes" in fancy girly script on the front of the hinged lid.  It had connected blue curly-cues as decoration.  This was the one I used for Barnabas.

To assure a nice soft eternal resting spot, I thoughtfully lined each recipe box coffin with no more and no less than 1 paper towel.  Paper towels were precious to my parents and they would never have allowed me to over-cushion my dead birds but dad in particular had a soft spot in his heart for pets so I was allowed the 1 paper towel as a funereal accessory -- for the birds only, never the moths.  I suspect that the paper towels were not really precious, just expensive to these Greek immigrants who had lived through the Depression, eating corn for dessert and saving things like buttons, used tin foil and little slivers of soap because "waste not, want not."  Anyway, PS, 1 paper towel.

After I had gently laid my newly dead bird in his or her coffin lined with the 1 paper towel, usually bending them at the neck to fit their bodies in, my mom would allow me to clear off the dining room table.  I would move the old dusty silk flower arrangement in the big plaster planter -- yellow, orange and brown flowers because, after all, this was the late 60's/early 70's -- and the table would be clear.

Our dining room table was immense and the source of great pride in my family.  The mahogany table with gracefully sweeping legs accented by fluted brass caps and 3 big leaves was always covered with the same tablecloth, the one that Uncle Andy had brought back from Greece. It was gorgeous.  Pristine white linen with lace inserts and lots of fancy looking, delicate cutwork in it.  It was one of my mom's favorite possessions both because of its beauty and because it was from Uncle Andy.  She took great care of this tablecloth, patting it very carefully with a sponge dipped in baking soda water at least once a month, whether we had eaten on it or not.  It was always covered with a clear plastic cover so Uncle Tony, Tom Thanos or Aunt Sophie would not soil it when they were at our house for dinner.  As a result, it was still in perfect condition some 20+ years after Uncle Andy lovingly gave it to Mom.

Once the table was cleared, I would somberly place the dead bird in the recipe box coffin right in the center of the table, carefully using the lowest crystal on the chandelier above as a guide.  The chandelier had a dimmer on it and I would turn the lights down low to reflect a somber mood -- it was after all a funeral.  Only when I could squint and see the bulbs twinkling like stars in the big mirror on the wall was I happy that I had set the proper mood.

Then, I would put something on the stereo, usually some slow Greek song that I didn't understand or the Andrews Sisters singing "Apple Blossom Time," and mom and I -- there was no need to invite others -- would sit tightly on the shield-back chairs just for a minute or 2 -- it was after all just a bird.  I would then close the coffin lid and we would both do our crosses 3 times.  She would go back to preparing something for dinner, or sewing something or cleaning something, and I would slowly process through the dining room, the kitchen (making sure my mom looked at me) and finally the back room, through the back door and to the bird's final resting place outside.

I would mournfully place the closed recipe box in the pre-prepared grave and push the dirt over the top by hand.  Then I would do my cross again -- usually several times more than necessary in case Mom was watching out the window.

I knew these were just birds but each burial made me sad.  They were my birds.  I would never see them again, never see the glee on their faces as I let them fly free around my bedroom and roost on the drapery rod, a look of superiority on their faces because they, not I, could fly.  It was sad.  The hardest burial of all was this one for Barnabas -- a green parakeet named after Barnabas Collins from Dark Shadows.                                                   

I loved Barnabas like he loved Josette and it was only the thought of him going to his resting place and being with her that eased my own pain.

After the burial of Barnabas, I distinctly remember swinging on the swingset under the shade trees in the backyard, dragging my feet in the dirt worn by several years of hard use.  Swinging always made me feel better.  Hey, I was 9.  Anyway, I was thinking of Barnabas and Josette and how I would never see him again unless my parents let me buy another green parakeet which I vowed right then and there to name Barnabas II in honor of him.  I wondered why he wanted Josette so bad -- she was a girl.

Why did he want a girl?  Why not a boy?  What did it mean to be a boy, what did it mean to be a girl.  And, most intriguing, which was better.

Boys get to run and play soldier or elk like I did almost every good weekend with Robby Dombek.  I used to love to pick just the perfect fallen tree branch from my backyard or his backyard and pretend to be an elk -- Robby would do the same.  Then we would run and paw the ground and joust each other with our make-believe elk antlers.  We would do this for hours and hours until all that was left of our antlers was a harmless little twig or 2 -- or one of our mothers made us lunch -- whichever came first.  Oh man, that was living!  But boys, I knew, had to go to war and some of those boys died in battle because they shot at each other or fell off ships when they were stupid or drunk.

On the other hand, I wanted to be a girl so I could be like my sister Jeri when she was a maid of honor in the May Festival Court at the AHEPA cotillion in St. Louis.  She got to have her hair teased and piled way up high like a cow pooped on her head -- but in a good way -- and wear an elegant long dress that was shiny, gathered at the waist and had sequins all across her boobies.  That night at the Stouffer's Riverfront Hotel ballroom in downtown St. Louis had been so cool and everyone at our church -- well, almost everyone, except for the Kontos bunch who hated our guts -- talked about my family really really nice for a long long time.  That made my mom and dad really proud.  But girls did have to have babies and I knew for a fact that some girls died when they had babies because Mrs. Taratsas died when she had her daughter, Fat Georgia.

So it always seemed to be a draw -- there didn't seem to be an overwhelming advantage to being either a boy or a girl. 

More ominously than anything, though, I just didn't seem to have an overwhelming preference to being a boy or a girl, although, to be sure, I clearly thought I had the option of being either.  Or both -- at any time or times.  It was not "do I have an option?" it was "which would I rather be?"  "And at what times?"  Confusion reigned.  Is this what Chaz Bono went through, I wondered, long before there even was a Chaz Bono.

As I mulled over the pros and cons of being a boy versus being a girl, I pumped my legs on the swing, going higher and higher.  Doing this was my way of working off the increasing sexual tension, I suppose.  I tried to hit my head on the trees behind the swingset when I was on the backside of the swing.  But I never did.  I guess I had been swinging for a long time because suddenly the door opened and Mom was there.  "Come on in and have your sandwich," she said, her loud voice both firm and loving.  No options.  I never disobeyed anyway because:  (1) she was Mom; and (2) I was always hungry even then. 

Funny how my mom's good bologna sandwiches with 2 pieces of bologna, 1 piece of generic shiny yellow cheese and Miracle Whip swished from corner to corner on the top slice of bread only was almost always the deciding factor in my agreeing to remain a boy when I was 9.

Almost exactly 1 year later, I dug Barnabas up to see what he would look like.  Seriously, he was a vampire on TV and I wanted to make sure that he had stayed put.  The recipe box still looked like it did when Mom plucked it from her counter, dumped the recipes and handed it to me for the funeral -- the big red lobster and assorted fresh vegetables were in perfect condition.  Would Barnabas be the same?  I lifted the lid and, behold, there he was -- one gooey soupy mix of greenish decomposed flesh and little itty-bitty bones, including the beak.  Except for that beak, I never would have recognized him.  There it was, plain as day and the nose on my face.  Barnabas was not a vampire, just a dead parakeet.  And I was "not a girl," my mom said, just a boy, a regular 10 year old boy, a good Greek boy who liked to eat my mom's good bologna sandwiches, play make-believe elk with Robby Dombek and dig up dead birds.  Nothing wrong with that, is there?