How I Met Jared

I had heard of him in sixth grade at Dag Hammarskjold Middle School. An eccentric student in my grade but not in my team of teachers. I had Englehart and Brown. I forget who he had. He had come from another elementary school - Pond Hill, I believe though I could be wrong - and so, I had had no interactions with him. Just his name and some hearsay.

I met him in seventh grade. We had both been placed with the same 'team' of teachers. The 'upper' level team of Mr. Germanese, Mr. Truehart, and Mrs. Economopolous (who we understandably called Mrs. E). We formed an odd sort of friendship that year. I, the geeky recluse; he, the eccentric outcast. I remember he began calling me an Irish potato bug, or something of the sort. And he had a habit of using polysyllabic words that confused even the teachers.

I specifically remember a time when he came over my father's house with his skis and ski boots to sled down the hill we had in the backyard while my brother and I use an inner tube - a very steep hill. After we had finished, we had dinner. My stepbrother was there, and he decided that he wanted to try on the ski boots. Jared matter-of-factly stated 'Please refrain from wearing my boots.' My stepbrother, taken aback by not only the politeness but also the language, literally guffawed and ran to his room, continuing his hysterical laughter. But that was Jared.

Our frienship continued through middle school and into high school. We both decided to play football. And we were always compared by the coach. Whether King of the Hill or Ball in the Ring, Coach Scott pitted the brainiacs against each other. Oh, and Jared may be shorter than I - well, now he is - but he's very much more compact than I. In other words, I normally got the worst of it. He broke his hand halfway through the season, and didn't return to football. Then again, in college he played rugby. He liked full contact sport.

But it wasn't on the field that we learned to be the best of friends anyway. It was in the school. We helped each other with anything and everything. He credits me with getting through Munley's precalc and Tetreault's calc classes - I still think he's full of it - and he did his share of helping me when it came to science, English, and even history. Because we had the same classes, we always sat together at lunch. Ribbing each other and our other friends. Talking about the latest news, whether political or familial. There wasn't a school day that went by when we didn't see each other.

Some of the times I remember best? Jared most likely wouldn't want me revealing some of them. So I will anway.

Freshman year in Mrs. Johnson's class - she looked rather like a white version of Yoda - Jared thought it would be funny to enclose himself entirely in his altogether ridiculously large bag. He actually zipped himself in. When Mrs. Johnson spied the bag moving in the back of the room, she - rather bewildered - sent him to the office.

I also recall a time when Jared did worse on a test than he expected - instead of an A+ he received a B+. He crumpled the paper and ate it. Yes, ate it.

In French class his freshman year, he decided that he would not take the name Francois. Instead, he would be Framboise - which he kept as his French name all four years. It means raspberry.

During high school, Jared would encourage all of his friends to scale the walls of Rock Hill school for no reason in particular. On Saturday nights. Yes, when others were out experiementing with normal things, we were finding ways to climb atop schools and not be noticed by the police.

Jared loved - and most likely still loves - paintball. I played only once with my friends. I had a slingshot and did rather well. Until the end, when I was outflanked, ran, tripped, and fell. Jared approached me confidently and fired at my stomach. I was pissed at him for a week.

During our senior year, he gave me rides to school. In the car, we listened to one of two things. They Might Be Giants or Rush Limbaugh. 'Nuff said.

Boy could he write. But, his handwriting? Completely illegible. I actually had teachers ask me to interpret his handwriting so they could grade his papers.

It turns out Jared was the valedictorian our senior year. By far. I was somewhere in the mix in that top percentage too, but he took the cake. The most intelligent and talented person I'd had the pleasure of meeting in my tenure at Lyman Hall.

He went to Middlebury, acing everything he did. Then he went to med school at Columbia. He joined the Air Force. And now he's working in Boston, eminently successful and as smart as ever.

We stay in touch. Maybe once a month. Well, normally longer. But that doesn't change the fact that he has been - and is - the best friend I've had the opportunity to know for the longest period of time. Almost twenty years...

How I Met Buddy

When Joseph and I adopted Cleo in August 2005, we wondered if we should just adopt two of the puppies to ensure that Cleo had a playmate. But we agreed that we really didn't know how much work it would be to take care of a puppy AND we didn't want to change the dynamic in the house too much or too quickly - the cats wouldn't have forgiven us.

We watched as Cleo grew from a puppy who could fit on my chest to a puppy who could just about collapse my chest.

We enrolled her in puppy classes where she learned 'wait', 'sit', and 'take it' among other commands. We took her to dog parks and for walks whenever we could. At home we loved her and hugged her and played with her in the yard, and she loved every minute. Unfortunately for her, we couldn't play every minute of every day. We had to run errands and we wanted to enjoy some down time, never mind work. She therefore tried her paw playing with the cats, to no avail. The cats tolerated her to a point but then flipped up their respective tails and strolled to their kitty tower for a nap.

Joseph and I saw what was happening; we talked about a playmate for her. But Joseph wasn't as enthusiastic about a second puppy as he was about the first - not that he didn't want a second puppy mind you, but he was content with his little girl - and neither of us looked forward to the puppy issues like potty training, infections, and general training. At the same time, we realized that introducing another dog into a house where one dog already lives can be... challenging. If Cleo were to be overly territorial or protective, then the whole idea could be nixed.

Still, I wanted another puppy. I wasn't in a rush to find one, but I started some time after New Years 2006. Each day during my breaks at work and each night at home, I scanned craigslist and pets.com checking for pets. I saw rats and cats and bats. Okay, not bats. I read about goats and pigs and hens. There were snakes, lizards, tortoises. Even tarantulas. Ick. And of course there were dogs. Great Danes to Chihuahuas. Mutts of every breed.

I checked listings with and without photos. I even contacted a few people. But I had no luck. Until... At the beginning of February, I contacted a couple in Arlington, WA about a dog that they could not keep. The guy was in the navy and was about to be deployed to Iraq. And his girlfriend was pregnant and moving back to Ohio to be with her family. They said that they had rescued the dog from a kill shelter and didn't want to bring him back to that shelter.

After a few e-mails regarding the particulars, they sent a picture of their puppy, Buddy.

One look, and I was hooked. And when I showed Joseph, he was hooked too.

The only thing left to do was to see if Cleo accepted him. We planned a trip to Green Lake, which was approximately half way between our house and theirs. We would meet near the play fields.

When we arrived, we immediately recognized Buddy. Attached to him were a very young couple who were most likely no more than 20. We greeted each other and then let Cleo sniff Buddy's behind. She did. Then sniffed his face. She told him in dog speak not to piss her off and then she started sniffing the ground. We looked at Buddy's caretakers; they looked at us. We all shrugged. We all figured it was a success.

After transferring Buddy's crate and his other amenities to our car, we said goodbye and loaded the two dogs into the car. We rolled down the windows. Cleo took one side; Buddy took the other. And there's never been a problem since.

How I Met Cleo

I had returned from a month-long stay in Connecticut just in time to celebrate Joseph's birthday and to move into our new house. As we had agreed many moons before, it was time to start looking for a puppy.

We had been through all the questions. Well, all the questions we knew at the time. 'How big?' and 'What type?' We decided that we neither wanted a horse nor a rat. So, Great Danes and Irish Wolfhounds were out. Miniature chihuahuas and Papillons too. No yap yap dogs. Terriers weren't in our future. A good personality. That ruled out Poodles and Dalmatians. Still, we had a lot of breeds from which to choose. So we started looking.

We came up with a list of breeds we wanted. Pug (Joseph), Boxer (David), Husky (David), Cocker Spaniel (Both), Shar-Pei (Joseph), Bulldog - English or French (Joseph), Shiba Inu (David), Beagle (Both). After we made the list, we began looking for pure bred dogs on our list and discovered how much they cost. We proceeded to throw the list into the nearest lake.

It was then that we began looking at Petfinder and Craigslist. But it just didn't seem as easy to find a dog as it had been to find cats three years earlier. Most of the dogs were middle-aged, and we definitely wanted the excitement of a puppy. Well, that was a no-go.

We thus began our trips to animal shelters in the area. We went to the Seattle shelter first, and my heart sunk. I saw countless pitbulls with cropped ears and sad eyes. We wondered if we should just try to save one of those poor puppies. But the workers warned us that most of those pitbulls required significant training, and we weren't quite ready for that kind of load. We moved on.

We went to Kent and found saw a Golden Retriever mix that we took out to play. He was young enough, but also rather listless and disinterested. We weren't impressed. And there weren't many other options.

We went to Bellevue where we saw the cutest young black Cocker Spaniel. We inquired. Already taken.

We went to Paws somewhere up north and surveyed their facility. We saw an older husky mix named Rose. A beautiful dog, she had already given birth to a litter and therefore had dangling udders. We were willing to look past that little feature of hers, but we still couldn't get past the age. Yes, we were puppy agists. We told them that we would like some time to consider. They told us that we had a day. We never called back.

We went back to the Seattle shelter. We went back to Kent. We kept looking at Petfind and Craigslist. No luck.

Then the day came. It was a Sunday in late August when we set out from our house. Our destination? Bellevue. And then we had a few other shelters we were considering. Further away, but new, at least. We traveled down Bangor and took a right on Renton Ave S. We traveled down through Skyway and then past the airport. The road zigged and zagged a few times before we found ourselves on N 3rd Ave. At the intersection of N 3rd and Sunset Blvd in Renton, Joseph and I looked for a sign that pointed to I-405. There was none. I had looked at the directions before I left but didn't print them out. 'I thought you knew where we were going,' he said. 'I did too,' I replied. 'And I thought there would be some kinda signage to tell us where to go.' I turned right. I should have turned left.

As we slowly discovered that we were going the wrong way, we argued a bit before deciding that we'd just go to Kent and then double back to Bellevue. We wouldn't need to double back.

We arrived to a very animated shelter in Kent. The front lobby seemed to be teeming with people. We whisked past the people to the door that led to the dog runs. And in the first cage to the left was a litter of honey-colored puppies that couldn't have been more than a few weeks old. They were climbing all over each other and pulling at their makeshift multi-colored collars. I walked down further to find yet another group of puppies, darker in hue and equally adorable. But Joseph hadn't budged from the first cage. And so I made my way back. Joseph was putting his finger into the cage to the delight of the orange and red-collared puppies.

Joseph popped up, excited as he could be, and made his way to a volunteer. 'Can I see the one with the red collar?' 'Sure, just a sec,' she said as she finished with someone else. A few moments later, she came over and asked which one. 'The red collar,' Joseph said.

'I was looking at that one,' another woman declared from behind us. She had the kind of demeanor that might make you want to hit her car with a bat just because she was there. But this was too happy a day. And we weren't in the mood to argue. 'Can I see the orange one then?' asked Joseph. No one seemed to have secretly claimed that one, so Joseph and I took the little she-puppy into a 'visiting room'. Once in there, Joseph held her to his chest. And she, with her tiny claws started inching up towards his neck while whimpering ever so slightly. Yep, there was no doubt. She was ours.

We left that day without her because she needed to be neutered, but Joseph left early from work on the following day to retrieve our little girl.

The name? And no it's not Chloe. Nor is she named after Cleopatra. And, good God, no, she isn't named after Miss Cleo. In fact, her name comes from a disagreement that Joseph and I had after our visit with her on that Sunday. We were deciding when her birthday had been, the day she had actually been born. And if it were four weeks prior to the end of August, then it would have had to have been the end of July, which is Leo. But no, Joseph thought she was older and was actually a Cancer. So, we decided to combine the names.

And that's how I met (and how we named) Cleo.

How I Met My Partner

So before I tell you how I met who I met, I would like to acknowledge the 'Sunday Scribblings' blog that you will find under 'My Blog List'. It was within this blog that I found this prompt, and it is my intention to use this prompt in the future to describe how I met a number of my friends, enemies, family members, acquaintances, famous people, and even pets throughout the years.

As for this evening, I think it appropriate that I tell you how I met my partner, Joseph. Some of you may know the story. Others may think you know the story but really don't. And yet others have never heard any version of the story. For that I apologize. But no matter your circumstance, I shall give you the story this evening.

The date: March 2002. I lived among seminarians at St. John's Seminary in Boston, MA. But it was in March 2002 that I knew I was no longer one of them. Earlier in the year - either late January or early February - I had made the decision to leave the seminary after my second year of pre-theology. It was not without some hesitation and certainly some regret that I had made that decision, but between my spiritual director, my counselor, my vocation director, and me, we mutually agreed that I would better serve myself and those in the Church by taking my leave. It did not need to be a permanent leave - and I wanted to believe that was true - but it did have to happen.

Meanwhile, I was trying desperately to understand who I was. Why God had made me who I was. Why it was in the seminary of all places that my struggles with my orientation were exacerbated. Why it was my prayer that told me I should leave. Why I couldn't just be normal. And so, I turned to the internet to understand. I sought out people who might help. Medical sites. Alternative living sites. Dating sites. Any site that might help me to understand myself better.

I read incessantly. I posted questions. And I even called one of those dating sites. A national site, as I remember. I spoke to people from Texas, New York, Florida, Wisconsin, California, Washington. I asked questions. I listened as they asked me questions. It was never my intention to date, mind you, just to talk. To discover. To understand.

One night, I came across a charismatic guy named Joseph. He lived in Seattle, WA, had been in the navy, was black. He came from Massachusetts by way of Memphis. He was a paralegal. He worked for a company that did something with bankruptcy. He lived in a rather spartan apartment in West Seattle. He didn't drive. He liked to go out to the bars. He had tons of friends. I hung up that night thinking I'd never hear from him again.

I called about a week later and across whom did I come but the charismatic Joseph once again. I hadn't remembered smiling so widely and so often, as I spoke to him. We agreed that some odd fate had decided that we should be friends. And so we traded phone numbers and e-mail addresses. We began to correspond regularly.

I told no one, fearing that I was doing something wrong. Cheating on the Church, on Jesus. After all, the choice to call that dating line and to explore my orientation... well, they weren't the actions of a true Catholic. Ironically, as I isolated myself from the other seminarians and from my dreams to become a priest, I concentrated on correspondence with Joseph and on my school work. I very nearly achieved a 4.0 that semester. A single A- prevented that feat.

Graduation came and went. I received a paper saying I knew something about philosophy - meaning only that I knew that I knew very little - with a bit of Latin thrown in for good measure. My fellow classmates bid me adieu. I was finished with the seminary. In my heart, I knew it was for good, however much many of those around me hoped that it wouldn't be.

Meanwhile, my friendship with Joseph increased in intensity. We talked at least once a day, causing both his and my phone bills to skyrocket. But not in my wildest dreams did I think there was any remote chance of anything akin to a relationship. The closest we came to that discussion was his insistence that he would venture out to the east coast to visit.

I went home to Connecticut in turmoil. I had been two years out of student teaching with no good leads and no real experience in teaching. I had a history degree and a philosophy degree - not particularly helpful degrees in the work force. It was time to pound the pavement. I wasn't good at it. I went to interviews for God knows how many positions with no confidence and no experience. No thanks, they all said. And I was damn well not going back to the likes of supermarket work if I could help it.

Joseph continued his insistence that he would visit. I felt an odd excitement at this possibility. We traded Fed Exed pictures, letters, knick knacks of all sorts. I called every night on the rotary phone in my grandparents' basement. I sent e-mails when I could get to a computer with internet access. And Joseph encouraged me in my job hunt, convincing me to try again and again.

I got my first job (after the seminary) selling Cutco knives. Whether you know me or not, please know that I am NOT a salesman. I was terrible. Uncomfortable. Not confident. Soft-spoken. Utterly abyssmal. I came home each evening feeling more and more useless, broken, saddened. I was slipping into despair. Until I prostrated myself before God and asked Him what I should do. I heard a reply. I hope to this day it came from Him. Leave...

And so, I started planning. My grandparents knew. My father knew. Not why... no, not why. I was too afraid. But that's another blog entry unto itself. I just knew that I needed to leave. To find myself. To explore. To understand. To do all those things I didn't think I could do in the place where I had grown. I learned the hard way that you can never truly go home again.

I told Joseph I had to leave. And neither of us had to say to which destination I would be going. Our relationship had evolved. No, we hadn't yet met each other in person. But that wasn't particularly important. Could he have been an axe murderer? Yep. But, to him I could have been a raving meth addict. I think we both knew better. It had been four rather intensive months, after all. Joseph and I grew more excited at the very talk of my intention.

I set the date. I would leave on Monday July 8th. And it was my intention to arrive in Seattle before Joseph's birthday on July 14th. As the day approached, I said my goodbyes, feeling badly about my deception but also not knowing how to say what it was I was doing. It is my worst vice, that lack of communication which is itself deceptive. But it was also who I was at that time, for better or worse.

The day came. My grandfather saw me off at 5 a.m. I shall save the trip for another posting as those three days proved to be pivotal in my life. Suffice it to say, I arrived in Seattle, WA a little after 6 p.m. on Wednesday July 10th. I called Joseph from a payphone - now defunct - on 8th and Olive. He dropped the phone on his end when I told him where I was, i.e. a block from his apartment. I walked as casually as I could to the front door of the building. He exited the building with a whoosh, stole a glance at my face, and plummeted back into the building equally as fast. I wondered - if only briefly - if this guy was crazy. But no, he re-emerged and greeted me warmly with a quick kiss.

I often think back to that first meeting, wondering how it is that we're still together after more than six years. The law of averages says that we shouldn't have lasted. That this relationship should have fallen apart at the first sign of trouble. But no. Don't get me wrong, we've been involved in our share of problems. But I think we just complement each other so well. We love each other and put ourselves in God's care. Isn't that the point? Love of God and each other in the midst of the struggle to be good, decent, just men.

And that's how I met Joseph...