One of our days

When Paul could see much better, he would read late into the night in our bed the etiology of rose breeds, a phone book of sorts -- no pictures, but in his

February 14th was one of our days – just one of many days. We celebrated some Fridays, many Saturdays, our birthdays, Thanksgiving, the first and last days of Chanukah, and the first days of spring and winter. Most of the time we nodded to Pesach and Yom Kipper, but not always. For our first ten years together Paul and I celebrated Christmas, New Years, and sometimes Easter.

But February 14th brought cards and a special dinner for two at home.

In the earliest years together, Paul would sometimes have a ballet performance. In the latter years, I fed him. From the first to the last, they were glorious years.

This cubist painting of a heart was a Valentine from Paul in the 1990's. He would say, "An artist can never really be poor. He has his art."

This cubist painting of a heart was a Valentine from Paul in the 1990’s. He would say, “An artist can never really be poor. He has his art.”

Some may not know, but others can remember, that for the last several years of his life Paul devoted three or more hours each morning to stretching and doing his version of a barre class while on the floor. He most often listened to Chopin or the very beautiful voice of Cheyne Towers. Beneath any sound in the room, however, was Paul’s daily practice of forgiving us all. For everything.

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone! We’re free.

What a man!


Paul Mandracchia, Artist, September 27, 1957 – December 24, 2014


Relentless in his self-appraisal, Paul addressed MS in his characteristic style.

Relentless in his self-appraisal, Paul addressed MS in his characteristic style.


This is my favorite dance photo of Paul. In 'The River' he is not the focus of what is going on here. He was rarely the focus of what was going on, but he stood out anyway as the sweetest, smart, handsome, kind man.

This is my favorite dance photo of Paul. In ‘The River’ he is not the focus of what is going on here. He was rarely the focus of what was going on, but he stood out anyway as the sweetest, smart, handsome, kind man.


Always new

Arrival is the culmination of the sequence of events, the last in the list, the terminal station, the end of the line. And the idea of arrival begets questions about the journey and how long it took. Did it take the dancer two hours to dance the ballet, or two hours plus six months of rehearsals, or two hours plus six months plus a life given over to becoming the instrument that could, over and over, draw lines and circles in the air with precision and grace?
— Rebecca Solnit, Arrival Gates, from Granta

Blog 9I learned — when? in the first few weeks or months of our love? — what a core of steely discipline was at the center of the man I loved. Paul did his own form of barre nearly every day after he first began to study ballet. He likely died in the midst of one these on December 24, 2014. Today I celebrate Paul’s 59th birthday with memories of his life with me, but I know that our lives together were a culmination of everything that went before in Phoenix, Tempe, and Madrid. In some ways it started, too, in Sicily and New Rochelle.

Paul was sweet, agnostic, resolute, foul-mouthed, vulnerable, protective, spiritual, intelligent, out-spoken, passionate, studied, fretting, proud, loyal, meticulous, determined, and fierce when we met. He became more of the best of these over our three decades.

img_2071Our birthdays, these anniversaries of our arrivals, were particularly special for Paul and me. We didn’t celebrate Christmas in any recognizable way. We had quite a few different dates for the anniversary of marriage. We marked Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Pesach, and Chanukah quietly and in our own way. Easter and Thanksgiving, once a big deal for us, got smaller as multiple sclerosis got bigger.

But our birthdays, these were different. We marked the arrival of our personal new years with just the two of us. I would make him whatever he fancied, almost always Thai salmon with a cabbage slaw and peanut sauce. He always made me watermelon soup and chiles en nogada. Every year, I gave him a pumpkin, too. He loved them, but could not exactly say why. He had wondered if they represented “back East” from whence his parents had come to Phoenix. He might have tried unsuccessfully to grow them in their yard or maybe in a Styrofoam cup in kindergarten. Whatever the source of his fascination with pumpkins, they bordered on magic.

…the sense that we are arriving all the time, that the present is a house into which we always have one foot, an apple we are just biting, a face we are just glimpsing for the first time. In Zen Buddhism you talk a lot about being in the present and being present. That present is an infinitely narrow space between the past and future, the zone in which the senses experience the world, in which you act, however much your mind may be mired in the past or racing into the future.
— Rebecca Solnit, Arrival Gates, from Granta

Blog 30Multiple sclerosis had a way of keeping us current. Paul would often stray into fretting about the future, turning his nights into nightmares and his days into tournaments that would aim at getting him well someday. I would often stray into the past, recalling how my father and mother delayed so much of their enjoyment until they’d retire, my father dying so soon after my mother left her job. Time and time again, we’d sit, hold hands, and remind each other to be here now. Paul would tell me to work because it was important to me, us, and the community. I would tell Paul to draw and paint because it was important to him, us, and the world.

As much as I hated those days and weeks when Paul was most ill, hospitalized, or in nursing homes, each brought us closer and closer together. Even the hour before the ambulance would arrive, we’d sit and talk about how we would know if this chill or fever was sufficient to get more help. In the last year of his life, he’d just say, “Be my bulldog right now.”

If Paul were alive today, I’d be eagerly awaiting tomorrow morning so I could tell him it was time to plan monthly birthdays for the next year. After all, turning 60 deserved a big bash. I reason that the month after our 59th birthdays, we arrive at our 60th year and do so every month until we arrive at the 60th birthday. Then, toward the end of Paul’s 60th year, we’d have a few months when he’d be 60, I’d be 70, and we would celebrate our 35th anniversary. Arriving at that big convergence would take planning.

What does it mean to arrive? The fruits of our labor, we say, the reward. The harvest, the home, the achievement, the completion, the satisfaction, the joy, the recognition, the consummation. Arrival is the reward, it’s the time you aspire to on the journey, it’s the end, but on the mountain south of Kyoto on a day just barely spring, on long paths whose only English guidance was a few plaques about not feeding the monkeys I never saw anyway, arrival seemed to be constant. Maybe it is.
— Rebecca Solnit, Arrival Gates, from Granta

One Dream

sleepy-boy-2This morning I awoke too early, tossed around uncomfortably for a couple of minutes, and fell back to sleep. It was a deep, deep sleep that included one dream.

My dream involved my incredible frustration over having to wait for nearly two hours at the local hardware store as my favorite clerk there talked, joked, putzed around, and did nearly everything but actually mix the paint that I wanted. Even as I write this, the details of the dream are fading. I know that it was approximately 11:00 AM in the fantasy. I had arrived shortly after 9:00. The final straw in this dream was realizing that when she was finally getting down to business and actually ready to approach doing some real work, the clerk waited on someone else whose needs could be more readily addressed than my paint order.

I spun on my heel and went to look for anyone else in the store to help me. Every guy there seemed useless to me and all wore perplexed expressions that registered their surprise about my very apparent frustration. As I head back to the paint counter to stew further in my impatience, I realize that I have no idea about the name of the color I need to have mixed or the type of sheen I am to order.

I woke. There was no one there to hear my dream.

Had Paul been alive, I would tell him my dream along with the comment that I have made to him scores of times, “You know I don’t remember my dreams. In fact, it is hard to believe that I dream at all.”

Today I would have added,

You know the woman, the one with the reddish hair at the hardware on … Wait, that place doesn’t exist! She doesn’t exist. I don’t have a long-lasting relationship with her as my favorite clerk. But I know I have dreamed about her often. Really often. It is like I know her!

I actually dream a lot. I have long struggled to recall my dreams upon waking. Instead, I incorporate those dreams into what I consider reality and only rarely — like this morning — I realize that chunks of my life are filled with people, places, and incidents I do not talk about with anyone else because they are not real. They only really exist between midnight and 5:00 AM while I am asleep next to Paul — who is no more.

He cannot hear my wonder and delight to know the richness of my fantasy life of vivid, recurring dreams populated with so many familiars.



One summer I got married at least 20 times – possibly as many as twice that number. It wasn’t that my friend Kathy always wanted to get married, she just wanted to play house. But I followed the rules (‘Don’t just start playing at being married, you gotta GET married first.” This directive to my older siblings was meaningless to me at the time, but an imperative nonetheless.) and frequently initiated the nuptials. Tina, Kathy’s dachshund, was most often the unwilling witness to our vows. We took turns being bride and groom, largely because the former got the best lines and costuming.

The porch was our playground and our church. It was also the birthplace of my lifelong desire to be married. Thirty years later, on August 21, Paul and I met on Bradford Beach and commemorated the day ever after as our anniversary. We didn’t go out that evening, start dating, or even hold hands. We met.

Many middle-aged and older same-sex couple have several anniversaries. We celebrate the day we meet, the day we cohabitate, our commitment ceremony date, and – much more recently – the dates we marry. (Note: The dates we marry. Some of us registered our domestic partnerships, married in another state, and remarried when SCOTUS affirmed our constitutional right to marry.)

Today as I listen to an audio clip of an interview Paul and I did with Will Fellows for his Shall Not Be Recognized project, I am back at Bradford Beach in the season of local peaches and Michigan blueberries, high humidity, scorching sun, and freckles. The late summer garden is mine, and a period of profound wonder is about to begin.


Cleaning has its benefits

Today I was preparing some things to drop off at Goodwill and came across a box of standard issue eyeglass cases, the hard case type with some sort of faux leather covering. They were empty and I have no idea why I had hung onto them for so long. I don’t even recall the glasses that would have come in them. At the bottom of the box there was a scrap of paper — just a snippet, really. But, when I turned it over, there was this.

To my Love, Gary:

Your passion is my fountain.
Your feelings are my waterfall.
Your strength is my river on which to float.
Your laughter is a wave that splashes me.
And your heart is my warm, calm lagoon in which I swim safely.

I love you. Paul xxoo


Suddenly my day moved differently and absolutely everything will work out.

I would ask at times like this, "Are you thinking or are you fretting?" Whatever he said opened a door into his love.

I would ask at times like this, “Are you thinking or are you fretting?” Whatever he said opened a door into his love.

Vote because you can

Larry Kale was an amazing young actor in Milwaukee nearly 30 years ago. He attended a graduate program at UWM. It was widely held that he would be going places. My late husband Paul and Larry’s late widower, Marty Smotrilla, joined a couple of other friends to spread Larry’s ashes between the graves of Lynn Fontanne and Alfred Lunt at Forrest Home Cemetery.

Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne

Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne

A few weeks before Larry died from complications of AIDS, he was feeling terrible, having not been able to keep down food for over a week. Still, one morning I was summoned to his apartment to go on a shopping trip with him. He said, “I don’t care if I die today. If I want something, I want it. Don’t look at me like I should stop wanting something just because I won’t get much use out of it.”

That exchange comes to mind with surprising frequency, still today. However, it was sure recollection every election day for a decade because it was Paul’s attitude about voting. He loved to vote and nothing could dissuade him. Those who knew Paul were aware that the last several years of his life it took him forever to get dressed. Often there were three of us in on that project. Usually Jose or Anneke or Leslie joined me and Paul in tugging, rolling, pulling, twisting, and smoothing clothes on his immobile frame. It seemed on Election Day that this was more important than most other days. He wanted to look good at the polls.

In the last few years of his life, Paul transitioned from voting on Election Day to early voting. While this was not his first choice, it was necessary because our polling station was inaccessible. One time he lost out on voting because we got to the location to vote early on the afternoon of the Friday before the election, only to find it closed at noon because that was their normal closing time for the business office in our village. In Wisconsin we had also been in a tug of war about voter IDs. Paul didn’t have a valid ID because his driver’s license was expired and the nearest DMV was also inaccessible.

Blog 8I remember more than once that Paul sobbed in the car after not being allowed to vote. I also remember him crying for joy after an angry poll worker accompanied by a police officer walked a ballot out to our car in the parking lot so Paul could direct me to mark his ballot. Yes, even our ballots are inaccessible to many people with diseases like MS.

For the past few weeks, our polling station that was inaccessible to Paul is now accessible. Early voting is now also available on the Friday afternoon before Election Day; village office hours have been extended. While I am happy about those accommodations, I am really pissed off that he didn’t live to see the day that the ADA came more nearly applied in our own village. I am also pissed off that we’d still need to battle the voter ID law that has come to roost in our state.

Still, I celebrate today that Paul and I figured out more often than not how to get him something he enjoyed so much – his vote.

Please don’t squander your vote. Get to the polls today. If you are up for it, also tell the poll worker that you are showing your ID under protest.