In my search for everything GLBT here in New Hampshire, I stumbled upon a website that seems to be a great resource for finding things to do and meeting others in the community. GayNH.com has community calendar listings, resources for GLBT social and political groups in the state, and also information about the club scene here in NH.

My first memories of music go back to my parents listening to Mitch Miller. When my sister and I were very young we had a ‘record player’, something even the most astute youth today could not fathom. It was about 14” square with one speaker on the front of the player but did feature a ‘volume’ and a ‘tone’ knob. That was what the standard household boasted as an “extra” in the mid 1960’s.

As we age, the thrill of our youth fades as reality sets in and we focus on our careers; building our future and families.  Many of the desserts of our youth are shifted aside as we take a more serious approach to our lives.  Often, the music of our easy and free years is one of those treats that either evolves, changes with the times or leaves us stuck in rut of musical regurgitation that returns like Ground Hog Day.

We sit out on a deck, David, Gwynn and I, in the dark by the river, drinking beer and talking. I know I am not in New England. The smells are thick, foreign, and I've not heard insects so loud and persistent---not just in the morning and evening but all day long, even in downtown Lexington. My head is full of images of bluegrass expanses of gentle rolling horse farms, the few working tobacco farms, flat muddied areas planted with Tupelo, abandoned breweries that appear wrapped in thick foliage along the river that was once vital to the commerce of the area. I am thinking that I have seen a Passion Flower for the first time, up close, and have a great photo; I have touched the incredibly white, smooth skin of a young Shaggy Sycamore, and I remember Gwynn jumping up and down when she spotted a vestige of true Savannah, a place of hummocks and very old Shaggy Sycamore, clover...a limestone base in the soil. Stone fences are made of flat stone, some topped with the same stone standing upright. Fences that mark out expanses for precious, leggy horses and enclose majestic stables are painted with creosote. That is a scent I recognize in the steamy air. Mostly, I am thinking that I am glad I took this trip, nearly on a whim, almost abandoned last minute to my inertia.

I thought I'd write about something a little light-hearted tonight, on a topic that I've thought about quite often, oddly enough. Sadly, I don't have a rainbow sticker on my car yet, but that doesn't mean I haven't secretly longed to have one for many years. It's a big leap to take. Well, maybe just the whole running up to the store, picking one up, and then plastering it on my bumper with pride.

My close friend Mary rode the train down to NYC with me a few days ago. We spent three nights in a hostel on the upper west side and had a blast.

The hostel was in a mixed neighborhood, mostly working class, just a few blocks from Central Park West and that mix of beauty and obscenities (glorious architecture, gardens, people----and, yeah really---gyms and spas that cater to rich folks dogs. The dogs.)

The children and I left on an adventure on Friday. We traveled by car to South Carolina. I was a bit apprehensive about an 18+ hour drive with three children, but I like to drive and don't like flying. I felt a bit like Clark Griswald heading out with the family to Wally World, except our destination was a beach house to visit with our extended family. I was hoping to spend "quality time" with my children, especially in the car, just the four of us trapped together for a day and a half.