Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Dreaming Little Stevie
In the dream, I'm in a roadside museum, looking at exhibits. At first, I'm the only one there.
Then the door opens, and a couple comes in with their way-gay teen son, waving hands and all.
“Gods, kid,” I think. “Tone it down.”
I listen—I can't help but listen—as he enthuses rapturously over the exhibits. I start to watch. He's no great beauty, but he's got that freshness of young things. He's smart and funny, rather appealing, really.
Suddenly he's there beside me, standing a little too close, and we're leaning together over the same case. He comments perceptively on what we're looking at. We talk. Our talk never turns personal, but I have a realization.
“I really like this kid,” I think.
From the door his parents call.
“Come on, Stevie, time to go.”
Young Stevie gives me an impudent grin and a little ironic salute.
Then he's gone.
Little Stevie, son and father, from across the long years that separate us, I—the man you grew into—salute you back.
Really, you've done me proud.
Happy Pride Month, folks.
We've come a long, hard way to get here.
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