The Guncles

Today the Federal Defense of Marriage Act was struck down. Prop 8 was dismissed. The shifting sands of bigotry are filtering through a system of opening eyes. Gay rights is not just a movement I support. It is a story that lives within my heart because my best male friend is gay. This is our story.

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I had left the party and forgot to pay for my auction item. So I walked back into the courtyard and ran into a couple. Two men standing close to one another. Something happened we can't explain. We started talking and that was the beginning of a friendship sent from John Edwards. Not the politician. That would be bad. John Edwards the psychic. That's why I was going back into the party. To purchase the basket of DVD's and tickets to his seminar. If I hadn't forgotten to pay and returned to the party, I never would have run into the couple who would become my children's Guncles. Their gay uncles. 

Terry and Phil were fresh from Seattle. With raindrops still on their shoes they'd arrived in sunny Southern California. The party was at Eric Close's house, he was starring on Without A Trace at the time. It was a fundraiser for Africa Foundation (USA) that Phil's best friend Wendy Wood was heading. The evening was in support of building a school in Africa. We began talking about my mother's foundation event that weekend in support of wounded warriors with Rebuilding America's Warriors and immediately Terry was in. He showed up the next day and has been supporting our efforts ever since.

So here's the Kevin Bacon of it all. The first wedding I ever photographed was at Eric's house. It was his brother's wedding. Eric was the Best Man. I shot the wedding on a Saturday. On Sunday Eric called and said he loved the images I had sent his brother and wanted to show them on Martha Stewart during his appearance on Tuesday. He did. So my first wedding was on a Saturday and three days later they were on Martha Stewart because of Eric. Then my whole world changed. It's funny how one moment can change your life. Like when I met The Guncles. In the same place that changed my life. 

Phil's partner was Terry. Terry had just left a six figure job in Seattle to come with Phil to LA to follow a dream. Phil is a mortgage broker, but also an incredible singer and screenwriter. Terry had been in Corporate at Starbucks in Seattle and immediately became my most over-qualified assistant ever. He wouldn't accept payment, so I snuck Pottery Barn gift cards in his pocket at the end of the night after a long wedding or Mitzvah. Every job, no matter how large or small, became a play date with my friend in a sandbox. Like little kids, we giggled in the corner about something inane, then put on our work faces and continued through rigorous shoots knowing we were a team and nothing could bring us down. Until finally my spine did it for us. 

Job after job he would watch me through the evening. His hand on my shoulder and that look in his eyes. That he knew it was happening again. My back was giving out. But we still had the first dance and speeches to get through.  He would bring me water, sit me down. Give me a random hug. Because that's what friends do. Every job was an adventure. Every drive home was an animated recap of the day, complete with anthropological analysis  of guests. The brides and grooms were never the problem (barring one particular groomzilla). I was the luckiest photographer in the world to have the couples I did. It was the guests that could make me cry. And I did. Especially if I was having a difficult night physically, there would be one dismissive tone or remark that struck my heart, and made me wonder why I shot events. Then Terry would be the one to take my hand and gently remind me that I was meant to do what I did. That he believed in my work as an artist. I never thought of myself that way. But he did. And that was all that mattered. 

As my spine broke down more and more, I felt myself giving less. Feeling more vulnerable. My skin thinned with every job. And I realized my days were numbered as a wedding and event photographer. I'd built my business to a six figure salary of my own. A rare feat for my field. How do you walk away from a job that takes you from Cabo to Venice in five star hotels to shoot imagery? You walk away, when you can't walk anymore. When your best friend looks in your eyes and sees you're not there. 

December 26th, 2011 was my last event. I drove home with the numb exhaustion that comes after heaves of tears. I called my husband. I was done. The pain was too great. My right arm electrocuting me as I drove. My lower spine filled with razor blades. It was time to reassess. Stand back and know that life will go on, even if I stop. 

I stopped. Terry and Phil were always there, showering our children with visits and treats. Flowers after my surgeries and cards filling my days with gratitude. 

Everyone has a story. Terry's is a book in its own, but really not much different than mine. He'd built a career, a life, that to others was success. He had a wife, a son. Married for 20 years, he finally broke down. His world came to a halt. He could no longer carry the burden of pretending that everything was ok. He came out to his family and his co-workers that he was gay. His world shattered and expanded at the same time. He met Phil, moved to LA, has a loving relationship with his son and grandchildren, and works at Cast and Crew, one of the largest payroll companies in the entertainment industry. 

To wrap up the Kevin Bacon, Eric Close now stars on "Nashville". My husband was Production Supervisor of Season One. Perhaps they are even paid by Terry. Who knows. But the circle of our friendship is one we no longer question. That besides my husband, my best male friend is an example to my children and myself of how good a person can be. He's the person who passes out a ten dollar bill randomly just to make someone smile and wonder why they don't do that too. His hand still remains on my shoulder, even if I'm not shooting events any longer. We are both embracing our lives of discovery and thanking John Edwards for the serendipity of our friendship. 

Life is a twisted mass of random connections. I am grateful for mine in all its convoluted glory. And for our Guncles.My children gave them a rainbow prism this that hangs in their kitchen, in the hopes that whenever they see the colors dancing on the walls, it will remind them of the joy they've brought to my family's life. Every family should have Guncles. And every friend should have a Terry, who holds your shoulders so the weight of the world has no place to go. Who turns you away from the raindrops on your shoe and shows you the rainbow in the sky, reminding you that life is magical, even when it stops.

 The Guncles at Emma Jane's Family Dance

Mr. Pickles' Solo

Today's blog has little to do with photography. It is about a bird. It's about friendship and loss, but most of all, it’s about hope.

It was an unlikely friendship that began 9 years ago when my dad adopted my ornery Cockatiel who went by the name Mr. Pickles, because he was a sour one, the epitome of the angry bird. With two children and a baby on the way the last thing I needed was sniper spitting seeds at the back of my head. Dad, having recently retired as an airline captain, figured it might not be a bad idea to have someone else around the house wear the wings for a while.

Dad flew his Mooney down to Los Angeles and carried Mr. Pickles home in a box.  Upon their arrival, it was clear that Mr. Pickles was going to be a project in patience. He squawked incessantly when ignored, and he should have been named Pig Pen. He wasn't a Cockatiel, he was a Tazmanian Devil. My dad resorted to opening the cage door to see if he would calm down outside of the cage. He did. He flew, and flew, and flew. He dove in circles around the living room, through the bedrooms, down the hall, avoiding mirrors and expertly navigating to one particular bookshelf. It was there where he stopped, chirped, and found what was to be his favorite spot in the house.  

Dad always whistled when we were kids. As a gracefully silver gentleman, it is now reserved for grandchildren, and for Mr. Pickles.  The Woody Wood Pecker theme song became their duet, and when dad walked by, Mr. Pickles would offer a stretched-neck ovation complete with tune reserved for buxom blondes outside construction sites. But his favorite was Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits. That one got Mr. Pickles every time. Dad would begine the song, and Mr. Pickles ended it every time with perfect pitch.

On any random evening, you'd find Mr. Pickles slip-sliding his way to the rim of Dad's Gin, his wings grasping for balance, his nose flaring as he inhaled the vapors rising to his beak. Each morning, Dad would wake to the tip-toe wobbles of his feathered friend bobbing on his chest, warbling like a rooster in a headlock. 

Every time Dad was on the phone, you would hear the echoed chirp of Mr. Pickles, announcing his presence like a jealous mistress coughing in the background of a boyfriend's phone call.

Then one day Dad called me. The background was silent. Dad's voice was short to the point. He was once again the pilot on the PA knowing there was a major problem, but refusing to cause alarm. Mr. Pickles was gone. It was his fault. He was on his shoulder. He walked outside. He bent over. There was a big wind. He struggled to fly back to Dad. Mr. Pickles was gone.

My dad rarely cries.

Life's tables turned, and it was me trying to convince him all would be ok. Mr. Pickles will come back, I'm sure he's found a Robin Red Breast by now and shacked up with eggs on the way. Nothing could make it better.

Nightfall came. Dad answered his phone the following day, wind muffling the speaker as he walked the neighborhoods with hundreds of flyers flapping in the wind. It was March with freezing temperatures mixed with high winds and unpredictable weather. He knocked on every door, slipped flyers in mailboxes and posted them on telephone poles. No one had seen Mr. Pickles. Each inquiry was met with a curiosity of the devotion this man shared with his missing friend.  Every hour that passed, the possibility of recovering Mr. Pickles got smaller and smaller. Then Dad knocked on the final door of the day. A woman answered. She had not seen Mr. Pickles but would keep on eye out for him. She then offered Dad one shredded thread of hope. She suggested he visit the animal control center.

The pilot had one last place to search for his friend, and that place was in fact, behind the airport. He called the center. They had two cockatiels. The odds were a million to one. The center was 10 miles away.

Dad walked into the shelter, and there he was, Mr. Pickles, sitting in the corner of a steel cage. Dad whistled, Mr. Pickles whistled. Mr. Pickles began to manically pace the cage like a drunken sailor, his head bobbing and weaving. His friend had found him. His solo was over.

The phone rang. It was Dad. Mr. Pickles chirped in the background, morphing with my father’s voice. Mr. Pickles was home.