Pocatello Polka Dots

For some odd reason, LDS Conference Weekend was always huge at The Sun. Maybe it was all the missionary reunions, but something drew big, happy crowds down to the clubs of West Second South. 

On such a big Friday Night, I dreaded wearing the same old thing to the same old bar. I tried on several outfits leaving a pile of little flat people stacked on the bed. Nothing was doing it for me so I went to Crossroads Mall with Visa in hand.

I wandered through Nordstrom which was too pricey. Chess King was too trashy. I even went to ZCMI across the street but left lest anyone see me there. Weinstock’s always seemed to be the answer. I walked into their preppy party department and started thumbing through the racks. Then Lo, the angels sang and the heavens opened up. I looked up to see the solution to all my worries. It was a vision in white.

A mannequin sporting white pants, a white cotton shirt with grey polka dots, a silver and black bolo tie and suspenders was staring me right in the face. Throw in my pair of grey Topsiders and I was in business. I told the sales clerk that I wanted the entire ensemble. He bagged it up, sent me into debt and on my way.

I got home and couldn’t wait to put it on. I gawked at myself in the mirror as I constructed my Flock of Seagulls coif. A spritz of Drakkar Noir ...and Showtime!

As expected, The Sun was jam-packed that night, so I jostled my way back to the dance floor. I bought a G&T and managed to grab a seat on the stairway. The music was pounding out something that had the dancers going crazy. It must have been Eurythmics’ “Missionary Man.” I watched the mayhem for a minute until my eyes popped out of my head. White pants, a white cotton shirt with grey polka dots, a silver and black bolo tie and suspenders were standing not twenty feet away from me. I ran over to him and awkwardly laughed hello. We gave each other the once over and I asked him to dance.

His name was Steve. He was in town from Pocatello for The Big Weekend. Weinstock’s was his first stop. We danced a bit and drank a bit. We talked a lot and laughed a lot. Then we went back to my apartment.

In the morning, we didn’t know which clothes were whose.

A Toast to Toast

It’s all about life’s little pleasures.

My first memory of french toast is when my grandma made it for us one morning after a sleepover. She dusted it with cinnamon sugar and drizzled it with homemade maple syrup that bubbled on her stove. She was always a flurry in her tiny kitchen. But breakfast was a major event.

I learned to make french toast by myself as a boy. We had a heavy cast iron skillet that was impossible to wash unless it was soaked for about six hours after using it. Turning the toast was always a mess due to the non-stick nature of the pan and the slices always came out in a shredded, wadded pile resembling charred bread pudding. In my own version, maple syrup gave way to a mountain of strawberry jam. It was always accompanied by a glass of ice cold milk.

Today, I have it down to a science. Three eggs and a splash of milk whisked together with a dash of vanilla or a bit of grand marnier if I have any on hand. I like to use dense, heavy wheat bread. Seeds and sprouts are a plus. None of this Texas Toast sized stuff they give you in restaurants—it’s too bland, too thick. I prefer my french toast flimsy and nutty. For mine, I lather a big, non-stick skillet with about a huge slab of butter. I slice four pieces of bread on the diagonal, dredge them in the eggs and place them into the skillet in a pinwheel formation. That way, they all fit in the pan at the same time and you can turn them all with one mighty flip (if fate is on your side). There’s so much butter that they practically deep fry to a crispy crunch on the outside but remain moist on the inside. Dust them as they fry with a bit of cinnamon sugar as a tribute to Grandma, then slide the hot pinwheel on to a plate and add more dabs of butter. In the center (for presentation’s sake) plop a big dollop of apricot pineapple jam.

Few people have ever witnessed this epicurean wonder. It’s usually reserved for my Sunday mornings when I’m alone with my coffee and Tribune—listening to Kate Wolf’s buttery vocals. 

Maybe someday someone will be lucky enough to share it with me.

The Treasure Hunt

Gomer and Suzie lived a block away from us on Indiana Avenue across the street from Quall’s Market. Theirs was a cute little house—its yard filled with gnomes, concrete squirrels and little wooden wheelbarrows spilling over with Johnny Jump Ups.

Suzie was a sweet lady who loved to crochet those plastic-faced dolls. Dozens of them sat perched in her living room on the couch, the easy chair, the shelves and on the TV, looking eerily like something out of “The Birds.” 

Gomer was a kind man, too. He was an old railroad worker with bleary eyes and aviator sunglasses tinted yellow that would be the envy of any hipster today. He spoke in a low, slurred mutter like that of someone talking in their sleep. He also had a skin tag dangling from his right eyelid that my siblings and I found to be quite ick.

Mom and Frank spent many afternoons at Gomer and Suzie’s swigging beer and talking about the railroad as the creepy dolls listened in. I remember the smell of coffee on the stove and the smoke of four cigarettes burning when we’d pop in to ask our folks for Dr. Pepper money. 

Gomer gave my mom the name of “Vudgickle.” She was walking home from the store one day eating a Fudgsicle, The name, albeit mangled, just stuck.

One morning after a night of railroad stories at our house, the phone rang. Mom answered. It was Gomer. “Hey, Vudgickle, have you seen my teeth?” Mom glanced over to the dining room table. “No, but I haven’t really looked. Are they missing?” she said. “Yeah, I must have lost ‘em at your place last night.” he mumbled, punctuated with a downcast “Godammit.”

“Well, I’ll take a look,” she said and sent me and my siblings out on a treasure hunt.

We looked everywhere—between the couch cushions, in the fridge, the garbage can and the bathroom with no luck. Our search took us outside where we looked on the porch chairs under the doormat and in the mailbox. I walked past the flower garden and looked down to see the world’s happiest petunia. It was smiling right at me. “I found them!” I shouted. Game over.

“Run them over to Gomer, “ Mom shouted back. A shudder ran up my spine. The only thing worse than his skin tag was this set of his slobbery choppers. “No way!” I shouted back. Mom stomped out to the garden and looked at me like I was some sort of wimp. She picked up the teeth and hauled them down the block. 

A mother’s work is never done.

I Owe It All to Mom.

Mom was the queen of the PTA poster. Her precise lettering style and a real knack for drawing clowns and elephants made her the maven of marketing for our schools bake sales, carnivals and parent teacher conferences.

She had a precise lettering style that was done with a ruler making every character straight as an arrow and perfectly aligned. She learned this at Utah Technical College where her portfolio consisted of various lettering projects, ink drawings and painting of a laughing witch flying in front of an orange crescent moon.

Our house had large picture windows that Mom would decorate every holiday. Christmas depicted a jewel-toned manger scene in faux stained glass. The neighbors would stop and point as they walked by. Thanksgiving was poster board pilgrims and for Halloween, there were giant versions of Frankenberry, Boo Berry, and Count Chocula. One of my favorite pieces of her art was a drawing of various objects all in a crazy tangled mashup—a spool of thread, a screwdriver, a few crayons—a mouse. The caption read “It’s in the Bottom Drawer, Dear.” I was amazed at her creativity and stared at that drawing many times wishing I could do that, too.

She eventually got a job at Wolfe’s Sporting Goods where she hand painted the pricing signs for tennis rackets, fishing creels and ammunition. The career was short-lived. I assume it was due to the lack of balloon bouquets and cartoon piggies where her talents truly lied.

Mom and I would spend evenings taking turns at the kitchen table in a drawing game we created. She would draw a monkey. I would add a banana to it. She would add a wedge of cheese to it. I would add a stopwatch. This went on for hours inciting all sorts of laughs at the random and bizarre directions these drawings would take.

I grew up and went to art school at Utah Tech where I, too, learned to hone my lettering, design and cartooning skills. Schooling took me to a career in advertising and publishing where I became burned out after 30 years or so.

Mom is still going strong painting gourds, furniture and wall murals—creating everything from rock art to embroidery patterns. Her friends and family are constantly amazed at her wild imagination and prolific output. She spends her days on two acres of property where a lifetime of work is on display. She sold gourds for a while but now just gives things away as gifts. The best gift she gave to me was a a talent and a career in the art world. 

Thanks Mom. Don’t forget to wash out your brushes.

My Life as a Banker

I paid my way through college working as a banker—not the stand behind the counter type, more like the sit at a glorified adding machine getting paper cuts in the middle of the night under the watchful eyes of the evil overlords banker. It was by all rights an easy job, if you didn’t mind wearing a tie and sporting shiny shoes, but for those of us whose tastes gravitate toward the more bohemian, it could prove to be sort of tricky.

I worked in the Proof Department of First Security Bank, the place where all of the check deposits go after the branches close. It was my job to make sure all of the days deposits added up. It was pretty mindless since the machine did all the work. I also handed out work, sent out correction notices and answered phones. I would say: “Proof, this is Scott.” The caller on the other end would occasionally think I was saying “Poof! This is Scott!” I actually did so on a couple of occasions just to break up the monotony.

We had quite a variety of people there. Take Helen—she was in charge of the whole floor on the swing shift. She was a no-nonsense sort of woman, who rarely cracked a smile. Helen didn’t like my making fun of the insipid Numbers Skills Class we were required to take for a week. She did not like one bit that I would crank Dan Fogelberg on my boom box—and she certainly did not like the White Russians I made from the milk machine in the cafeteria and Kahlua from across the street.

Trish and Jean did their best to run our zoo of a department which included a body builder, a scab picker, and the reincarnation of Judy Garland. Carolyn and Billie sat at the front desk and laughed at my stupid antics—but Kevin was my real partner in crime. On Fridays, we’d bring our guitars to play on break. Kevin was much better than I was. His “Landslide” was sublime and together we did a pretty sweet version of Cat Stevens’ “Father and Son.” Eventually, we ended up doing hour-long concerts in the conference room attended by everyone in the department. Helen hated that, too. Kevin went on to a career in the music industry thanks to his training as a First Security Proof Operator.

Working the night shift, we shared the same space and time as the cleaning crew. One April Fool’s Day, Kevin thought it would be funny if I put a fake dog turd next to my garbage can. My coworkers thought it was hysterical, too. The only ones who didn’t find it funny were the cleaning crew, who spoke no English and had no idea what April Fools’ Day meant. The outraged and embarrassed janitor grabbed me by the neck and threatened something to me in Spanish. Then he promptly quit—along with the rest of his family. That night, I asked security to walk me to my car and swore I would never play a practical joke again. (Well, one more—I called my Dad and his wife on a Mormon mission, but that’s another story.)

Anyway, I guess it wasn’t a bad way to earn a living. After all, my Aunt Doris worked there for nearly 50 years. But personally, I’m not cut out for dress codes. I’m perfectly content telling you these stories as I work from home in the comfort of my top hat, thong and bunny slippers. 

White Russian at the ready.

Whooping it up in Wyoming

It was the Bicentennial Fourth of July Weekend (and my 14th birthday) and Mom and Frank decided to load up some of the kids and the dog and head to Wyoming. They were always big on spontaneity and the kids were up for an adventure, too. The problem was that there is no such thing as a vacant hotel room in Jackson Hole on the Fourth of July weekend, let alone the Bicentennial or my birthday. We found that out upon arrival.

We rolled into town with suitcases and duffle bags in hand and stood stymied in the middle of Town Square wondering what to do. The sheriff happened by and Frank asked if there was any place for a family of six and their dog could stay for the night. The sheriff mentioned that there was a guy who had a room above his house where we could crash but that was about it. “All right!” Frank said and we headed up the street.

The room was just a room. It was tiny and had one bed and lots of floor space. We threw our sleeping bags on the floor then headed out for our big night on the town. Rather, Mom and Frank had a night on the town, each kid was handed a handful of money and told to fend for ourselves.

Mom and Frank headed for the Million Dollar Saloon— a place they had always heard about and was one of the few bars in the west they had never set foot in. Ray and David took off to the park with Scamp. Mimi and I opted for something more cultural. We strolled down the wooden walkways ducking in to an occasional gift shop filled with bronze cowboys and dreamcatchers. We ended up in a little restaurant and ordered a couple of hamburgers and milkshakes. When we were finished, we walked back to the Million Dollar Saloon where Mom and Frank were whooping it up to a bluegrass band. They gave us another wad of cash and the bum’s rush.

Next to the burger restaurant, there was The Pink Garter Playhouse. “The Unsinkable Molly Brown” was playing that night. Having an entire evening to kill, we bought tickets and went inside to take our seats. That show was my first exposure to live musical theatre and I couldn’t wipe the smile off of my face. The feisty leading lady, the small but rambunctious orchestra, and the brilliant scenery sent this budding theatre queen to the moon and back. I held onto the program and the memory of the dreamy leading man for years to come.

Mom and Frank eventually decided it was time to get back to the kids and staggered up the street to our room. They walked up the rickety steps only to find the place completely empty. No kids, no dog. Just a bunch of rolled up sleeping bags. They scratched their heads, looked at the clock and went back out to the street to find the four missing kids and terrier. Then, off in the distance, walking up the street toward them, here they came. It looked like that classic scene from “High Noon”, but it was closer to twelve midnight.

The next morning we posed for a quick photo in the park under the antler arch then  headed for Yellowstone.

***

Yellowstone National Park was just like everything I had seen on the postcards—majestic Old Faithful, the bubbling mud pots, the lush forests—we even saw a lone black bear. Our family spent the better part of the day exploring the park by car and on foot until it was time to find a room.

In West Yellowstone, we found the Mammoth Lodge. It was a cavernous log building filled with all the trappings you’d expect from a western hotel. Antler chandeliers, metal trout lamps and plenty of wildlife taxidermy. The only thing they didn’t have was a staff. Turns out that everyone was on strike that weekend. There was one solitary man running the place who showed us to our room and gave us some pointers on what to do in the area.

One of the suggested activities was Movie Night. All of the families staying at the lodge sat on the floor that night and watched “The Attack of the 50 Foot Woman” along with a collection of old commercials from the ‘50s and ‘60s. It was a hoot. But by the time it was over, we were all sound asleep on the wads of blankets and piles of pillows. 

The next day, we headed south for home, stopping in Twin Falls for the night. Mom and Frank dropped us off at our room and headed downstairs to the hotel bar. We were left with nothing but an ice bucket, a bunch of Shasta soda pop and a TV. “Willard” was on—a horror movie about a wimpy guy and his bunch of nasty pet rats hell-bent on revenge. It scared the bejeebus out of us and we took turns running down to the bar to get Mom and Frank to come back to the room. Eventually, they did but the movie had since ended and by then we were deep into our nightmares.

***

Morning hit—and after pancakes, we loaded up the Suburban. Mom and Frank in the front; Mimi and I sat in the middle seat; David, Ray and Scamp were in the back. By the time we had reached the Utah border, Mom and Frank were puzzled by all the strange looks other drivers were giving us as they passed. Some pointed to the back of the car, others just gave Frank the stinkeye. Frank pulled over to see if there was something wrong with the Suburban and walked around to the back of it where he found David and Ray doubled over in laughter. They had been showing a piece of paper out the window to the passing motorists that said “Help! We’re being kidnapped!” We actually could have been by someone else on that trip, but our less-than-doting parents would probably had never noticed.

As Frank told us years later: “Don’t blame us for the way you kids were raised. We were at the bar.”

Thar She Blows!

What could be better than camping on a Mexican beach in tents furnished with cots and fresh linens?

What could be better than pulling an icy cold Corona out of the cooler and chasing your lunch of fresh fish and marinated artichokes?

What could be better than a nighttime stroll looking at the glowing phosphorescence in the mangrove thickets then getting up early to watch Comet Hale-Bopp through a telescope?

I’ll tell you what—Whales! Dozens of them during calving season in San Ignacio Lagoon 300 miles down the coast of Baja. It was a trip sponsored by the Utah Museum of Natural History when we went to play with the grays for a few days.

Twice a day for three days we’d gear up and board the 20-foot motor boats—seven passengers plus a guide and a boatman. This was no ordinary whale watching experience where you board a big boat or ship and shout “Thar she blows” from afar. No, this was a trip where we’d get up close and personal with them. At first we saw them spouting in the distance and spyhopping. That’s where they stick their eight-foot face out of the water and eerily peer at you with one big eye. There were also lots splashy breaches and flukes—the things that postcards are made of.

Eventually, they would approach our boats. They were as curious about us as we were about them. One mother gave her calf a piggyback ride to show it off to us. Another gray ducked underneath our boat exposing a blowhole the size of a halved papaya. Some of my fellow boatmates even touched one and stroked its baleen. As for me, I was a fingertip away on one occasion and thought for a minute about diving in. Two problems: First, I can’t swim. Secondly, I remembered the fates of Jonah and Geppetto.

Sleeping at camp was sublime. The sounds of whales spouting could be heard through the night. One morning when I awoke, I heard something that sounded like a whale blow. But it was echoed seconds later by the sound of water rushing out. I lay for a few minutes wondering if it was the sound of the surf or a bunch of whales outside my door. When I unzipped my tent, I discovered one lone whale—snoring about fifty feet from my bed.

One afternoon, we bounced on choppy water under cloudy morning skies to Shell Beach. Since the beach was a half hour away on the other side of the lagoon, we cruised faster than a whale watching speed, but still managed to keep pace with a school of dolphins.

Once ashore, we wandered among the sand dollars and seagulls. Swirling in billows around my knees, the sand made me feel like Lawrence of Arabia as I walked around the dunes to the Pacific Ocean side. The beach was dark silver and so fine that its wet surface reflected the sky like a mirror. I stood for half an hour with my face to the afternoon sun watching silhouettes of gulls and pelicans against the gleaming water with tide washing over my feet. My grandma had recently passed away and I couldn’t help but wonder which gull she was now—keeping an eye on me. 

 

Our final day found us speeding across the lagoon one more time where our van was waiting to take us to a distant village to say our goodbyes. Even that last boat ride was a rush. Bouncing on the waves, squinting into the sun—it’s nearly impossible to keep salt water out of your mouth when you’re smiling from ear to ear.

If there is a heaven, St. Peter wears an orange life vest.

When cows fly.

One afternoon, I was at the Gateway Plaza food court with my friend Dawn and her two kids. It was the Days of ’47 celebration and the rodeo was in town. The big show was being held at the Delta Center arena about a block away.

As the four of us sat eating our Panda-on-a-Stick, I caught something flash out of the corner of my eye. It was a man on a horse galloping full speed along the walkway. Maybe not so odd given the events of the week, but we were on the second level. All of a sudden a portly cowboy threw open the food court doors like it was a saloon. “There’s a loose bull out here!” he crowed in an Andy Devine beller. “A loose bull! He came up on the escalator!” We were ordered to stay inside and not venture out to the plaza. 

We ventured out to the plaza.

We looked to the right and saw a bunch of cowboys leaning over the second floor wall. I was hoping to see the bull on the downward escalator looking like Ferdinand —one hand on the rail, the other clutching a Bath and Bodyworks bag. 

But no, this bull took a more dramatic exit from Level Two. He jumped over the concrete wall landing squarely in the middle of Happy Sumo a floor below. Tables and topiaries were strewn in bits and pieces all the way to the jellybean kiosk. Security guards ran this way and that. Babies were crying. One woman lie sobbing on a bench trying to recover from the sight of the hulking bovine as it descended like a bomb onto her and her Sunshine Roll.

There was no sign of the bull, though. The patio umbrellas broke his fall and he surprisingly made a break for it down 300 South where he was eventually tranquilized and taken back to the rodeo where things were a bit less rowdy. 

Yee-Haw.

I can’t walk through The Gateway anymore without remembering that afternoon. I also can’t eat teriyaki beef.

Meine Kleine Oma.

One afternoon, about 20 years ago, I took my Grandma out for a Sunday drive. We took her Monte Carlo up Little Cottonwood Canyon to see if the leaves had started to change. There were a few smatterings of reds, oranges and neon pinks in the scrub oak. The aspens were still holding out, not quite ready to let go of summer.

On the way back down the canyon, I noticed that Oktoberfest was going on at Snowbird Resort. I’d never been, neither had Grandma. I asked if she’d like to take a peek. She did so I turned into the parking lot. We parked the car and started what turned out to be a longer than expected walk to the festival. It was slightly uphill and we were both  getting a bit winded. Grandma stopped to lean against the trunk of a car to catch her breath. I asked her if I should go back and get the car to take her the rest of the way. She smiled and shook her head saying “I’ll be fine.” She hiked the rest of the way in her usual bootstraps fashion.

Once we got there, we took a look at the mass of people, the bright white tents and colored flags. The tram was heading cloudward as we jostled our way to the food stands. We loaded our plates with bratwurst, German potato salad, rotkohl and sauerkraut. I opted not to grab a stein of cold beer even though I desperately needed it after our long hike. We got lemonade instead.

We found a spot at the tables and had our lunch. It was far too much for Grandma to eat, but she did her best, making sure to at least have “just a little taste” of each.

Arthur Brogli and his Bavarian band was playing on stage trying their best to be heard above the crowd. The yodelers were clad in lederhosen and backed by an accordion, clarinet and the oom-pah of a tuba. The music echoed off the green and rocky hillside. I halfway expected the Von Trapps to come tromping over Hidden Peak. Grandma’s feet tapped a bit and she clapped sweetly at the end of each song clutching her purse as she always did in the crook of her elbow. 

When the band was finished they announced that cassettes were available for purchase. “Oh, let’s get one. That was really nice,” Grandma said, and we made a beeline for the merchandise table. The woman taking the money said that Arthur Brogli himself would autograph it for her so we stood in another line. When we got to him, you’d think she was meeting Cary Grant. Her eyes twinkled and her smile beamed as he scribbled away. She said a polite thank you and shook his hand.

We headed home back down the canyon with Grandma gently holding on to the cassette. “...and he autographed it for me!” she said on more than one occasion on the ride home.

A couple of times when I stopped by her house for a visit, she had the tape playing on her little boom box as she puttered in the kitchen or ran a dust rag around the living room. She just loved it. She loved it so much, in fact, that it earned a place of honor for all of her remaining years—proudly propped up on the top of her piano right next to the leggy philodendron, the envelopes of family photos, and her naked lady rain lamp—the one that made the grandkids giggle.

Meine kleine oma. A little old lady who.

Manic Depression and Me: A Bipolar Primer

I was thinking about my barrage of Facebook posts yesterday. Tirades, jokes, rants, and silliness—all in the span of an afternoon. It’s called bipolar. It’s called rapid cycling.

It’s not a matter of being in a good mood one day and down the next. It’s much more intense, sometimes more rapid and always exhausting.

For me, the ups can feel like you’re in the spin cycle of a washing machine with a pair of tennis shoes thrown in to beat you even harder. Spin, spin, spin. Throw in the noise from Chuck E. Cheese and a carousel turned up to 11 and you may start to get the idea. It gets so bad that you just want your claw your way out of your body to escape.

The downs are crushing, like the weight of a thousand cement bags being placed upon you one by one. You feel like crying for no reason at all. You’re paralyzed. There is no sound. Death can’t come soon enough.

Both of these moods can happen in succession over the span of a month or a week—even an afternoon.

Mania can result in all sorts of crazy behavior. Heavy drinking, drugs, maniacal laughter, risky sex, lots of shopping, crazy racing thoughts (good or bad), delusions of grandeur,  or just skittering from one direction to another getting absolutely nothing done.

Depressive behavior doesn’t result in much of anything—just isolation, despair, sometimes even feeling too down to cry.

For me, a regimen of drugs has helped (60 pounds later), so has therapy, but I still have my moments when nothing or no one can snap me out of it. I just have to wait for the insanity to pass. I crawl into bed or sit in a chair clutching onto the arms for dear life. It can take an entire day or more of just sitting and breathing to recuperate from one of these episodes. I’m doing that today, as a matter of fact. As I said before—it’s exhausting.

I was diagnosed as bipolar 20 years ago. I had a one-sided crush on a guy that sent me over the edge. I was suicidal and shopping myself into a frenzied debt. I was the life of the party by day and curled up in a ball at night. One night while bowling I was in all of my hysterical glory. I had my whole team laughing. I went to roll the ball. After I did, I turned around and hated every one of my teammates and just wanted to go home.

This is my life as a Jeckyll and Hyde.

People toss around the terms bipolar and manic-depressive flippantly when referring to their or others’ ups and downs. This cavalier attitude drives me nuts. They don’t toss around cancer or diabetes with so much nonchalance. This is a real disease, folks, a life threatening one.

So please do me a favor. Next time you see me and I’m down, don’t tell me to smile. Give me a hug instead. Next time you remind me how funny I used to be, know that I was probably being tortured from the inside. These days, I’m doing better. The extremes are gone but I still have my moments and probably always will.

Anyway, I hope this post isn’t a downer. That it isn’t isn’t a funny, wistful walk down memory lane. I just wanted to show you another side (or two) of me.

Thanks for your time.

One Tuesday in Sydney

The Salt Lake Men’s Choir was in Sydney for the International Gay Games as part of their cultural festival. It was October and spring was on its way. The jacaranda were breathtaking and the locals were beginning to mill about in shirtsleeves,

We were scheduled to do a little performance at a train station. None of us were too crazy about singing to a handful of people with all the background noise and hubbub, but we did our best to sing over the din of the masses. We sang show tunes, folk tunes, and spirituals. The performance was just so-so since we could barely hear ourselves. The crowd could barely hear us either. They just hurried by and paid no attention to our music. They had better places to be.

But the mood changed when a woman came up to us afterward. She had been sitting on a bench a few feet away from us listening the whole time. She thanked us for the music and told us that “Climb Every Mountain” was one of her brother’s favorite songs. A month prior, he had announced to the family that he was gay and it didn’t go well. He committed suicide. As she sat on the bench and listened to us sing, she was overcome with the feeling for the first time that her brother was at peace. We all cried together. She missed her train and that was okay.

On the way back to the hotel, Kim and I stopped to do some shopping and ended up at a pub across the street where a bunch of the choir guys were having drinks. As we sat there, two girls walked by with the medals around their necks they had just won. For swimming, if memory serves me correctly. We asked where they were from and they answered “Australia!” Silver medals didn’t gain the acclaim for them that gold would have so we decided to honor them ourselves. We stood them on a chair and belted out the Aussie National Anthem with all our might in tribute. The crowd went wild—except for an Italian gent who brooded that we hadn’t sung anything in Italian. We treated him to an a cappella version of “Va Pensiero.” He cried. So did the rest of the crowd.

That Tuesday in Sydney was one of the best days of my life—good friends, great music and lots of hugs. Funny, after all these years, that an afternoon spent making people cry can bring such a smile to my face.