Someone With a Pen: Richard Grayson’s Diary

Wednesday, May 20, 1998

9:30 PM. Last evening I left the group soon after I did my share of the post-dinner cleaning up. I got into bed a little after 8:30 PM and fell asleep soon after, making up for the insomnia I had on recent nights.

Still, I didn’t feel well this morning; it seemed as if I were trying to fight off a cold. When I did my half-hour of light exercise, I felt sluggish and tired.

But I started to perk up around 9:30 AM when I went to the School House and made myself a pot of mixed green tea and Red Zinger and then drank it iced, with lots of aspartame, just the way I’m used to drinking iced tea in cafés.

Liz said she’d be going into Sheridan in the afternoon, and both Robert and I said we’d like to come along. Back in my studio, I did a little writing, though it mostly seemed like an exercise. I also read the rest of the New York Times issues from last week.

In the School House, I picked up Gretel Ehrlich’s The Solace of Open Spaces, about her stay in northeastern Wyoming and found myself agreeing with much of what she said. Of course I’m not a writer who notices nature, nor could I describe the cottonwoods or the red clayey soil or the arid winds the way Ehrlich can.

After a while, I took a little bike ride, and I noticed a cute adolescent boy, maybe 17, sitting by the road in front of our place with his bike next to him. A woman who I assumed was his mother came by and picked him up. Maybe he became ill or hurt or just tired while biking and had called her.

It’s been rare to see a stranger here at the ranch, as I told Robert as I met him outside the School House, let alone an attractive one.

When Liz, Robert and I were driving into Sheridan, there was a tornado warning, but of course we’d get them every morning during the summer in Gainesville, so they don’t faze me.

The ride to town is always nice, especially when you reach that vista where the Big Horn Mountains open up in front of you. We saw the usual sights, but also a fire on top of a hill – Robert said it looked like equipment was burning at an old strip mine – and saw the fire trucks racing toward it.

All the disabled parking spaces were taken at Walmart, and next to where we had to park, also in a non-disabled space was another woman with a wheelchair.

Liz had to return some hair spray, and that took forever. I bought a dozen cans of diet cola (with caffeine!) at $1.75 and some fat-free chocolate pudding, and I walked around and took my blood pressure (105/65, pulse 82) and I read the Billings Gazette on the bench as a downpour erupted.

After the energizing rain (negative ions!) subsided, I walked over to the packing and shipping store and sent a box of clothes to Florida. Liz and Robert went downtown, agreeing to meet me back at Walmart in 75 minutes, at 5:15 PM.

I walked down Coffeen Avenue to Wendy’s, where I had a salad bar and baked potato and I listened to All Things Considered on my Walkman as I read Sunday’s Denver Post.

After leaving Wendy’s – where I was the only diner – I walked back to Buttrey, where I bought crudités, frozen veggies, sweet potatoes, fat-free brownies and diet ice cream.

Liz and Robert were nearly half an hour late in picking me up, but I had the radio and newspaper and interesting-looking people to stare at. We arrived before Gillian had our dinner ready.

Tonight we had Mexican food, but all I had was an ear of corn (I have to eat it by scooping off the kernels because of the caps on my front teeth) and a taco with beans, chicken, tofu, lettuce and salsa.

We had a pleasant meal with nice conversation. In Buck’s Cabin, I watched TV and was joined by Liz and then Agymah and Julie.

When I left at 8:30 PM, I saw Margot coming back from a failed shoot at the town of Recluse – she’d left too late to get the good light, she told me.

Once I put away the dishes from the dishwasher, as I had this morning after breakfast, I returned to my room. I no longer feel sick although this would be an ideal place to have a cold since I don’t have to go anywhere or do anything.

This evening I realized how comfortable and comforting it is to be here in Wyoming.

---

Saturday, May 23, 1998

11 AM. This weekend was supposed to be chilly and cloudy, but I’ve just been sitting outside the School House, and the sun was baking down on me.

I made myself a pot of Constant Comment tea (the orange-spice tea flavor) and put it in a big pitcher with lots of ice and aspartame, and I drank the tea as I read the Week in Review from last Sunday’s Times.

With my time at Ucross running out, I doubt that I’m going to find the hook with which I can organize my “Silicon Valley Diet” story, although I’d like to try. But I feel I can soon start making the transition from fiction writer to journalist.

Perhaps one reason I have never been that productive at artists’ colonies is that here I feel I’m supposed to be an artist. This could be silly rationalization, of course.

Before my iced tea respite, I phoned Mom, who gave me Marc’s phone number in Mesa. I’ll call him soon. Mom said he’ll give me directions to his apartment from Sky Harbor. I’m starting to get excited about seeing Phoenix even though people like Liz disparage it as a crowded, ugly city.

As much as I can appreciate the “solace of open spaces” Wyoming provides, I really like crowded, “ugly” cities.

Mom told me I hadn’t gotten any important mail – I told her to send anything that comes in the next week to Marc’s house – and said they’d had only one potential buyer look at the house this week.

A neighbor who’s a real estate agent offered to sell the house for them, but Mom doesn’t want to lose a percentage of the proceeds of a sale. Yet she says she’s afraid to show the house alone, and that limits viewing times because Jonathan and Dad are usually at work. Dad wants to put an ad in the paper, but until my parents get around to doing anything, it takes a while.

Judi Komaki sent a postcard before she left for Ragdale for a few weeks. She’ll be making several international trips this summer, but most of the time she’ll be home in Manhattan so we can get together.

Teresa forwarded my email off America Online, which I printed out. There wasn’t much: both messages were from old friends from Brooklyn.

Justin sent out a mass mailing (“Dear Friends:”) about a new short play of his, “Lotto Fever,” developed at Chuck Maryan’s workshop. It was being presented as part of a bill of one-acts by the graduating class of the Neighborhood Playhouse. All the plays, directed by Chuck, had performances over the past couple of weeks.

Elihu said, “I’ve finally figured it out: you’re a spy! The constantly changing jobs and careers and places are obviously a disguise geared to gaining to entrance to top secret government, corporate and philanthropic conspiracies.”

Elihu’s going to the doctor and dentist – as is the cat – and he’s reading, cleaning, and seeing if he’s going to win election to the St. George co-op board. He’s started to plan his annual fall trip to New Orleans. What a creature of habit.

Teresa wrote that she and Paul are going to New Orleans in late June to meet up with Deirdre and her family, so she hopes I’ll be able to look after the house in Locust Valley while they’re gone – although her parents said I could stay in Brooklyn again if I want to.

Teresa and Paul are unhappy with their new yuppie neighbors because their bratty kids annoy Ollie. But hopefully this family will be spending most of the summer at their second home in the Hamptons.

Teresa’s gay cousins Martin and Sal are hosting a 75th birthday party for her mother this week, and after that Teresa will go to Fire Island.

Her busy days are in July and one weekend in June. She’s planning on having a surprise 50th birthday party for Paul in mid-July when all his kids will be around, as will I.

Jade is finished with the year’s classes at Purchase but hasn’t yet gotten her spring grades. On Monday the summer term at Nassau Community College begins, and she’s taking two art courses there.

It was good to get all the news from Teresa, as I miss her a lot. I will be glad when I can see her again. Her letter made me excited about being back in New York again, too.

Last night we had another pleasant dinner. Gillian is such a great cook. (Judi said to send her regards to Gillian, who “made such delicious meals” while Judi was in residence here.)  After I cleaned up, I returned to my rooms, declining to go with the others for a walk.

On my portable TV, I watched two silly ABC teen comedies on KOTA, the Rapid City station, and then fell into a long, deep sleep. Josh was in two of my dreams but I can’t remember them now.

I’m going out to ride the bicycle for a while.

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Tuesday, May 26, 1998

9:30 AM. Last night I got in about 10 PM from seeing a movie, so I decided not to write another exhausted diary entry and wait till this morning.

I didn’t know then, of course, that I’d get a phone call from Jonathan at the School House at 7:30 AM. I’d gone back into bed after having breakfast and putting away the dishes when Pam knocked on my door.

Hearing Jonathan’s voice on the phone, I knew it meant trouble. Here’s the story: They haven’t been able to get in touch with Marc for two days, so they called the Mesa police to check on him, and they wanted to let me know in case I had to suddenly fly to Phoenix. They assume Marc OD’d or had a heart attack.

When I suggested that maybe he’d just gone away for the weekend, I could hear Mom in the background saying Marc doesn’t have the money for that. They talk to him every day on the phone. (When I told this to Pam, she had what I consider the reaction of a normal person: “Your parents talk to your brother every day?”)

The phone call left me more furious than worried. Why do I have to have a mentally ill family? Well, the answer to that is, that’s the breaks. I see so clearly how my own craziness was inevitable, given my background and what a miracle I accomplished getting as far as I have.

If Marc is dead, I’ll handle it. Yes, in the back of my mind, I’d thought a tragedy like this was possible – but I think my thinking that is a remnant of crazy Grayson-family thinking. If Marc is dead, at least I’m glad he got away from them for the last weeks of his life.

Now I understand better why I –

*

10:30 AM. Marc’s phone was out of order. Liz called me while I was in the middle of the last sentence. She said, “Everything is all right.” Jonathan told me that Marc was out when the police got there, but he’d been home all weekend.

I’m almost giddy with relief right now, but it’s a good example how crazy my family is. But as Robert said, if it doesn’t impact your life, you can look at it with a kind of detached amusement. I wonder if my family jumped to the conclusion that Marc was dead because they don’t believe he can survive away from them.

One day, when my parents are gone, I’ll be able to write about my family honestly. I think a lot of my writer’s block comes from my inability to do that now. I can write about my homosexuality but not about the mishigass of my parents and brothers. Marc’s escaping is the best thing he could have done.

Anyway, yesterday turned out to be a pleasant Memorial Day. At 1 PM, I squeezed into the front seat of Liz’s truck with her and Margot and we took the dirt road all the way to Sheridan. To me, it was like trekking across the desert, as we went through all this empty land. There are tiny “towns” like Ulm, which have maybe three or four houses far apart from one another.

The dirt road pretty much follows the railroad tracks, and we saw two Burlington Northern freight trains with coal bins go by. And of course we passed lots of cattle.

Margot said that cattle rustling is profitable today and that ranchers probably looked upon us with suspicion because we were in a strange van on a dirt road. I had a little anxiety attack but managed to keep it under control, and once we got into Sheridan, I felt much better amid the streets of a “city.”

We got to the rodeo grounds and were making our way to the best viewing area (hard to do pushing a wheelchair on a sandy stretch of ground) when the rodeo’s last event – roping calves – ended.

So all I got to see were some cute teenaged boys in cowboy hats, Western shirts and tight dark Wranglers (boot cut) who had numbers on their backs; some handsome horses; and well-turned-out high school girls who also competed. I did notice they keep an ambulance nearby and that the arena has a number of ads for orthopedic surgeons.

After I put gas in Liz’s van and cleaned the dead bugs off the windshield, we took U.S. 87 south of Sheridan past ranches and the tiny towns of Banner and Story, onto dirt roads near the sites of the 1866 Fetterman Fight and the 1867 Wagon Box Fight and old Fort Phil Kearney.

Then we stopped by Lake DeSmet: cool and beautiful, with holiday fishing going on. Somehow the dirt roads we were traveling on connected with U.S. 14 outside Neltje’s compound.

Home at 4 PM, I lay down and drifted in and out of sleep as I listed to All Things Considered.

Gillian made a Memorial Day dinner for us outside on the grille: veggie/quinoa burgers and steaks, corn, potato salad and strawberry shortcake. (I avoided the last two heavily caloric items, but I’ve still gotten fat over the past month).

Margot set up her camera on a tripod and timer and took a photo of all of us around the picnic table. It was a gorgeous evening.

I went to Buck’s after cleanup and watched TV, joined by Agymah and Liz. We saw a little of Wayne Wang’s improvisational Blue in the Face (set in the same Park Slope cigar store as Smoke, it made me homesick for Brooklyn), and then we watched, on AMC, How to Marry a Millionaire, which I hadn’t seen in years and years.

*

9:30 PM. The rest of today turned out to be warm. The cottonwood was blowing again and these gorgeous little goldfinches have been around. I’ve never been in a place with so many lilacs everywhere, either.

After a month in Wyoming, I’ve seen the seasons change. Now it’s warm enough so that at night we’re plagued by moths.

Margot and Agymah left early this morning for Gillette, where they took a tour of the coal mine. When they got back, they reported it was a lot of propaganda about how environmentally-friendly the whole process of strip mining is.

But they said it was interesting to see the huge vehicles and machines that get the coal. Apparently it looks very clean. Wyoming, of course, is the biggest coal-producing state, but the price of coal has been so low lately that it’s impossible for the mines to make a profit.

Margot brought the mail from the office. I got last Thursday’s New York Times, a birthday card from Teresa and Paul, and SASEs with info on the Drue Heinz and Flannery O’Connor short story collection contests.

I decided with the deadlines on both nearly here, I’ll wait till next year to next year to enter. Spaghetti Language isn’t going to win a contest; it’s more likely to attract an individual editor and publisher who gets its quirkiness.

Most importantly in today’s mail, I got my unemployment check and claim card, forwarded by Libby, who wrote that she’s gotten over the flu. I filled out the claim card and made out a mail deposit of the check as I ate my lunch sandwich and carrot sticks.

Then I went to Buffalo with Liz. Finally I got to go to the Johnson County library, which had Netscape. If I’d known they had an Internet connection, I would have gone there more often.

I did a search of the Mercury News but was disappointed I couldn’t find a reference to my Grandma Sylvia article either on their site or on Nexis.

At the post office. I sent off my package (boxes of xeroxed papers) and other mail, and then at Rexall’s, I found out I weighed 146, which means I haven’t gained that much while I’ve been here – although I do feel fatter.

After getting a roll of quarters at the Bank of Buffalo and several newspapers from the racks, I walked to the IGA on Fort Street to buy a few groceries and then to the Sinclair station on Main Street, where I got a Diet Coke, which I sipped at the bench where I waited for Liz to pick me up.

As we started driving back to Ucross, we heard a thunderstorm alert on the radio and could see dark clouds and feel cool breezes coming from south of town. By the time we got back to the ranch, the air was turbulent and the ozone energized me.

For a while I played frisbee with the dogs and then, sure enough, a severe thunderstorm began, knocking out the power for a minute and causing hail to dance around the roof. The rain caused tonight’s ranch tour to be postponed until tomorrow at 2 PM, Sharon said when she joined us for dinner.

On Friday we’re going on a day trip, either to Devils Tower or to Ten Sleep Canyon on the other side of the Big Horn Mountains.

---

Saturday, May 30, 1998

7 PM. Seeing the date, May 30, just now, reminded me that May 30 also fell on a Saturday in 1964 when I had my big bar mitzvah reception at the Deauville Beach Club.

For some reason, I started talking about the “affair” last evening at dinner. Although it was thirty-four years ago, I remember a lot of that night, including hoping how I kept wishing it would end, knowing that it wasn’t for me and seeing how ostentatious and ridiculous it was.

I spoke to my parents last night, and all that did was make me wish I didn’t have to stay with them after I leave Phoenix.

Although I distinctly told Mom the last time we spoke that I’d be heading up North after getting my stuff (and my head) together, she somehow assumed that I was going to be staying in Fort Lauderdale until I left for grad school in Maryland in August.

The rage that I felt toward my parents when I lived in South Florida last fall is starting to return, but I’ve got to remember that this visit is only temporary. As cold as it sounds, I don’t want to see them very much from now on.

Certainly I’ll see them more often than Mom saw her parents. She can never criticize my lack of attention to her because I’ll explain that, like her, I’m seeing my mother as much as I can. (Mom didn’t see Grandma Ethel for the last four years of her life.) For my own mental health, I need to keep my distance in actual miles as well as emotionally.

When I called Marc later, he said he liked Phoenix – “if only I can make a living here” (an echo of Dad’s life-is-terrible credo). But Marc will do okay once he shakes himself from our parents and Jonathan. He said he could easily walk into a $7.50-an-hour job in a warehouse, but they tell him he’s overqualified for some jobs and underqualified for others.

Still, he’s learning Microsoft Word and Excel at an employment agency (his lack of computer skills are a big handicap) and I’m sure he’ll get something soon.

The directions he gave me were different from those on the Web, but that may be because a new freeway, the 202, recently opened. I have an idea of how to get to his apartment from the airport, however.

I received a letter from Thien that was very touching, most of all because his English is so tortured. He assumed I would forget him. Thien is happy because he met a 29-year-old gay Vietnamese man, and he hopes their friendship will become the love he so desperately wants.

But he also wants to have an American friend to practice English with, though he thinks he can never have a relationship with an American because of the communications barrier.

He’s frustrated because in Vietnam, he was one of the best writers in his school, and in America, he knows he writes as if he were a child. I want to stay in touch with Thien and encourage his education.

Thien expresses such a deep longing to return to Vietnam. With California’s referendum on abolishing bilingual education on Tuesday – of course it will pass – there’s been a lot of talk about how today’s immigrants don’t want to give up their culture and language.

But my great-grandparents who came to America as young adults a bit older than when Thien did, never really learned English, either.

Bubbe Ita, who died when I was five, spoke mostly Yiddish and had no non-Jewish friends – or even friends among Jews who’d been in America since childhood or birth.

(My step-great-grandmother, Bessie, must have come over as a teenager because she seemed very Americanized.)

Thien’s little nieces and nephews will go to school here and will be at least as assimilated as my grandparents, who came here when they were young.

Of course, for my relatives – unlike the Mexicans, Cubans, Haitians, Vietnamese and others who come to the U.S. now – there was never any question of going back to the “old country” where they were persecuted.

In the summer of 1965, Grandma Sylvia remarked to me that she couldn’t understand why Mom and Dad were going on a trip to Europe: “When I was a girl, I couldn’t wait to get out of there.”

I’m going to put Thien’s letter in “The Silicon Valley Diet,” which right now is more of a series of notes toward a story than it is a story. But eventually I know I’ll write it.

I still have lots to do before I leave Ucross.