Last night, a bunch of us with flags flying rode our motorcycles through our county in memory of the events and the people affected by what happened on September 11, 2001. By the way, as we were queuing up to ride, a sunbeam broke through the otherwise heavy overcast and shone on me. I truly believe that my Mom was smiling on me this evening. Man, I still miss her since her death on September 11, 1998, but am glad to know that she is still thinking about me and bringing me sunshine on a cloudy day.

Now, to the point of this post: September 11, 2001, is a date, not a number. It just drives me nuts to see it referred to as “9/11”. That term was invented by the media several weeks after the attacks, and has stuck because the media and people in general look for the lazy way out (short-hand) to refer to memorable events.

President Franklin Roosevelt said, “December 7, 1941, is a date which will live in infamy” when he spoke to the nation after the bombing of Pearl Harbor by the Japanese. Every year, we remember “Pearl Harbor Day” — NOT “twelve-seven”. Those of us old enough to remember talk about where we were when President Kennedy was assassinated on November 22, 1963. We don’t call it “11/22”. Okies refer to the 1995 “Murrah Building Bombing,” and the rest of us call it the “Oklahoma City Bombing,” not “4/19”. Get it?

So that’s my blog post for today — to ask that if you refer to the attacks on the U.S. that happened seven years ago, to call them that — the attacks that happened on September 11, 2001. Please don’t call it “9/11”. And remember, three locations were involved, not only New York’s World Trade Center. It also drives be absolutely bonkers when people only talk about NYC and forget that a plane was crashed into the Pentagon in Arlington, Virginia, and brave souls aboard United Flight 93 commandeered the plane and lost their lives when the plane crashed in Shanksville, Pennsylvania, on its way to who-knows-where, on that same fateful date.

September 11 has a very different meaning to me than it has for many others. That was the date in 1998 when my mother died. I will not be blogging on the 11th of September in memory of her, and for this post to last a little while longer.

September 11, 1998, was a Friday. I was at work. My Mom had just learned to use e-mail, and she sent me a very funny joke. I responded with a wacko-pun. She replied with a smiley. Such was a common interaction with a wonderful woman who at the age of 80 wasn’t afraid of learning new things.

The house in which my partner and I now live was completing final construction. I had gone to his apartment in Virginia after work to have dinner, spend the night, and then get more stuff together for our big move into our house later in the month.

As usual, I called my Mom. It was my routine to call my Mom every day. Just check in, say “hi”, ask if she needed anything, tell her about the day’s news, get her opinion on things, etc. When I phoned, there was no answer. Since she had stopped driving, it was not likely that she had gone out. I thought perhaps she was in the bathroom and couldn’t reach the phone. I called again a half-hour later and still there was no answer.

I became alarmed. I called my sister who lived closer and got no answer there. I kept trying to call my Mom, and the phone just rang and rang. My partner said, “let’s go over there.” I’ll never forget how agonizing the slow crawl through rush-hour bumper-to-bumper traffic was going from Virginia to my Mom’s home in Maryland (which was in a retirement community around the corner from where we live now.)

When we got to my Mom’s, my sister was there and the look on her face told me what I didn’t want to know. Our Mom had died of a cardiac arrest, peacefully at home, in her usual chair in the den. She had the plans for our house on her lap.

It was so neat the weekend before when my partner and my mother were talking about decorating our house and how the furnishings would be organized (and I was rolling my eyes, muttering, “I never got those gay genes”). Their interaction and conversation clearly indicated to me that they had bonded. I was so happy about that. It took my Mom a number of years to accept that she had a gay son and he was in a permanent relationship with another man.

Suddenly things were very different. How can one describe how one feels when you discover your own mother whom you loved very much, dead?

I don’t remember very much from that night. I do remember calling my sisters and a couple brothers, then lots of people started coming over. The police came (since my Mom died alone), then the coroner to pronounce death, then Lurch and someone else from the funeral home. My oldest niece (my Mom’s first grandchild) practically went to pieces. I remember walking with her arm-in-arm around the parking lot outside while they were removing my Mom’s body from her home. It was so surreal. So strange. And yet so “final.”

I cried, I wailed, and was heartbroken. My partner was so very good to me, and so very supportive. He supported me even though his own heart was broken. He really loved my Mom. Bless him for he quietly dealt with being shunned in the first four years of our relationship.

Then we found “the notes.” My Mom, the ultimate planner for everything, had left notes. Who should receive what… and how she wanted her funeral to be managed, why In the Garden [listen to it by clicking on this link] was the only song she wanted sung at her funeral by our vocalist sister, and why I should stop crying (calling me out by name) and give her eulogy.

She asked in one of her notes that my partner be a pall bearer, which was a big deal. He was the only “in-law” to serve in such a position, the rest of the pall bearers being grandchildren. Her acceptance of my partner by this recognition spoke volumes.

I gave the eulogy at her funeral on September 14. I was never so nervous, but never so proud to do one more thing for Mom.

So while the world will recognize September 11 for other reasons for what happened in 2001, I will remember it for something much more personal to me, and to my family. Ten years ago I lost my mentor and champion. I live my life today through the lessons that she taught me from Day One, and for all of her gifts, I am enrichened beyond belief.

Life is short: show those you love that you love them, each and every day.

Values drive one’s very essence of being. Values define who someone is and how he lives his life.

As I was musing about what to blog about today, I was thinking about a conversation I had with my partner as we were watching the sun rise on Sunday morning. As different as we are in personality, our core values are the same. That’s really what keeps us together, and continues to serve as the foundation of our relationship.

1. We value each other by respecting that each of us is different, but has much to contribute to the other. We appreciate that our differences make us who we are. We trust each other. Most of all, we are still both deeply in love with each other.

2. We value financial independence and common sense. Simply, we don’t spend what we don’t have. We act responsibly when it comes to money.

3. We value financial security. We each have a “rainy day fund” that can provide for our living expenses for at least 12 months should something happen to our respective sources of income. We also have been pretty good at saving for retirement since long before we met and have a diversified retirement investment plan.

4. We value family. My partner cares for his mother who is a rather difficult woman to love. I provide regular care and supervision for an elderly aunt. I’ve blogged a lot about my family, and certainly our love of family is deep and devoted.

5. We value caring for others. There are a number of people who we have included in our lives in a variety of ways. Often, we just sit and listen. Sometimes we help out with household repairs. Sometimes we provide transportation to medical appointments or the grocery store. I send countless birthday cards, “thinking of you” cards, and make tons of phone calls. Caring for others is a core value that my partner and I developed independently, but share equally.

6. We value integrity. We live honestly, openly, and with trust and confidence. We become very annoyed and sometimes angry with liars and cheats.

7. We value discipline and decisiveness. While I may seem to lead a very disorganized life with a zillion things going on and being rather forgetful, generally speaking, I don’t dither on a decision and if I say I’m going to do something, I do it. My partner is equally reliable.

8. We value patience. Goodness knows, the man in my life must be patient. I can be hard to handle; sorta like the Tazmanian Devil in the Looney Tunes cartoons. My partner also has his dark and moody periods, driven by chronic pain. We both have learned how to be patient with each other.

9. We value intelligence. We both do not suffer fools well.

10. We value others who share the same values. We gravitate toward others who share the same values of respect, integrity, and trust. That is among the reasons why I am so close to “AZ”, Clay, UTBR, and David [Bamaboy] (names of guys on “Boots on Line”) whose core values are beyond question. (If I haven’t mentioned you, it may be because I just don’t know you as well).

Am I a Boy Scout? Is my partner a saint? Nope… to either question. We’re both loaded with faults and frailties. But this statement of values expresses who we are, what we are, and what drives us to be “us”.

Have you thought of what you value? I tell ‘ya, this was an interesting writing exercise for me.