Away back about sixty years ago I was in love with Hugh Stanley. He certainly wasn’t handsome; no way could he have been a porn star even had there been any porn available. But he was what I wanted in my vague, amorphous hankerings. Such were complicated by the firm knowledge that homosexual activity was condemned by my peers, my family, and my state. Remember back in those days, there were no Gays just homosexuals, queers, and cock-suckers. The result was no overture was ever made, so I at least was never rejected.
Hugh was a brain. He made practically all “A’s” at least enough to be selected to become a member of the School of Chemistry equivalent of Arts and Sciences’ Phi Beta Kappa but without the age or memorability. Unlike most scientific types, he liked to read literary novels before going to sleep. I remember in particular WAR AND PEACE, VANITY FAIR, and I, CLAUDIUS. It must [have] taken months to read the first two in thirty minute bouts. In I, CLAUDIUS, there is mention of the Spintrians, a group of Gay Romans. He referred to a similar group on the campus by that name in disparaging tones, but such remarks did not end my hunger.
He received a handsome fellowship from the Department of Defense. To this day, I remember the title of his thesis: The Synthesis and Thermal Decomposition of Symmetrical Bi-Methyl Hydrazine. The sponsorship came about because hydrazine was an early rocket propellant. I worked in the library of the School of Chemistry; actually my pay was in the form of a scholarship from the school. This method of payment didn’t bother me as long as the money came. True, you will have trouble finding someone with a scholarship in chemistry who knows less about the subject.
Meanwhile in all my turbulence, I was taking a course in Shakespeare. The test on MACBETH had a question like, “Discuss the motivation of MacBeth.” In the storm and stress of my soul, I decided that his love for Lady MacBeth drove him to all of his deeds most foul. I cited lines from the play to buttress my view. Written upon my test by the professor, Hudson Strode, were words something like this: “While some scholars accept this view, most believe that it was ambition. Also, Mr. Bethea, the character’s name is Lady MacBeth and not Mrs. MacBeth.” Every reference to the woman was at least consistently Mrs. MacBeth. It does loose something in transition.
This tale ends decades later. A letter from Hugo arrived. He had found my name on the internet. Wanting to be sure that I was the right Cecil Bethea, he recounted our friendship in school so that I could identify him, a totally unnecessary exercise. I replied with a lengthy letter. I said that I was Gay and a bit about my thirty-five years with Carl. After all I couldn’t hide him in a closet like a bastard child.
Hugo’s letter arrived sometime in August. We’d already decided to go to Alabama that October. Not only is the heat less, but Carl had never seen the fall leaves down South. Carl readily agreed to a change of route to go by Gulf Shores, down south of Mobile. So I proposed to Hugo and Laura, his wife, that we would like to take them to dinner at a place recommended by AAA. Also I stated that we'd be sleeping at a certain motel suggested by the same.
The next week Carl and I, for some disremember reason, went to the Home Depot away out on North Washington with a Wal-Mart across the street. As I parked the truck, the battery died. We did our shopping and called AAA. The man said the battery was dead, dead, dead. Carl then took out the battery; he carried enough tools to make most any repair short of removing the engine. With the battery in a shopping cart, I went over to purchase one at Wal-Mart. Why this unexpected purchase at $67 should irk me more than any other I don’t remember, but it did irritate intensely. Walking in August across two parking lots on a hill, I remembered “Into every life a little rain must fall,” and other equally puerile philosophic mottoes. By the time I had reached the truck, I had reconciled myself to the notion that unexpected purchases or setbacks are part of human life.
When we reached home, there was a letter from Hugo. I fixed myself some coffee and then sat under the tree in the front yard to read it. The first sentence was disheartening. Something like: “Your visit won’t work for me," "his being too much of a Victorian," "I’d never displayed any such symptoms at school,” and other such statements. After reading the letter, Carl said, “Well, we can go home by Memphis.”
My problems with the battery and the resulting homilies set me up for the worse that was to come. Two, decades earlier I had learned that not everybody would love me.
Hugo’s letter was our last communication. After Katrina, I wanted to know how he had survived but refrained. There is a limit to how many lost causes one can pursue.
© 1 August 2011
About the Author
Although I was born in Macon, Georgia in 1928, I was raised in Birmingham during the Great Depression. No doubt I still carry invisible scars caused by that era. No matter we survived. I am talking about my sister, brother, and I. There are two things that set me apart from people. From about the third grade I was a voracious reader of books on almost any subject. Had I concentrated, I would have been an authority by now; but I didn’t with no regrets.
After the University of Alabama and the Air Force, I came to Denver. Here I met Carl, who picked me up in Mary’s Bar. Through our early life we traveled extensively in the mountain West. Carl is from Helena, Montana, and is a Blackfoot Indian. Our being from nearly opposite ends of the country made “going to see the folks” a broadening experience. We went so many times that we finally had “must see” places on each route like the Quilt Museum in Paducah, Kentucky and the polo games in Sheridan, Wyoming. Now those happy travels are only memories.
I was amongst the first members of the memoir writing class. While it doesn’t offer criticism, it does offer feedback. Also just trying to improve your writing helps no end.
Carl is now in a nursing home, I don’t drive any more. We totter on.
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