Back on January 18, I bought a small fixer-upper house and had begun the process of renovating it so that I could add it to my rental inventory for community heroes. My partner and I had cleaned it out. We replaced the windows, including the frames. I was just about to tear out the old electrical system and install a new one when I fell and broke my leg.

During the time I have been stuck at home and unable to lift a finger to do any real work, I didn’t want the house to sit vacant and be significantly delayed in being lived in once again. I did what my best friend said that I should have been doing all along: I hired contractors.

I sent nephews, cousins, and some friends over to check on their work and to take pictures for me. I intervened twice when I thought some work was not being done correctly or to my specs. But most of the work was done quite well.

I saved the electrical work for myself. See, back in the time when I bought my first “Harry Homeowner Special,” (a local reference to an old house requiring significant renovation), I was a poor, newbie teacher barely making enough money to make ends meet. I couldn’t afford to hire an electrician. So I studied and took the exam for an electrician’s license and got one. I kept it current by taking occasional coursework and by doing a lot more actual electrical work on my own homes as well as for friends and neighbors. I even installed all of the wiring in the house that I live in while I was building it, which was no easy feat (my house isn’t enormous, but it isn’t a cottage, either.)

Since electrical work is something I truly enjoy doing and was my first successful experience in a skilled trade, I just couldn’t imagine hiring that work out. I compromised: yesterday, my partner and I went to the house and I explained to my partner what he needed to do, especially when it came to fishing wiring in the walls. A good buddy who is a Master Electrician also joined us for two hours. Believe it or not, you need two good feet for running wiring in a house (as well as two good arms, good eyesight, and patience.) I remained in the basement near the circuit panel box with a fluorescent flashlight helping me see what I was doing. I connected the wiring to circuit breakers in the box following the circuit pattern that I designed for the house.

Unfortunately, I pooped out earlier than I thought that I would, so I had to come back home in the early afternoon. I also got involved in watching response to the earthquake in Chile and the tsunamis in Hawaii.

Today, I plan to return to the house to finish up. I will lay on my side on floors to connect electrical outlets and face plates while my partner will install switches and a few overhead lights that I cannot reach because doing so requires climbing on a ladder.

My licensed master electrician buddy will come by late this afternoon to inspect my work, and then connect it to the power company’s line. We will not turn it on, though, until the county inspector checks it out on Monday. I’m sure it will pass inspection. After all, the work was done right and according to (and often above) the adopted code.

A cleaning contractor will come on Wednesday. I will have my partner bring me over on Thursday evening to check everything out. Provided all is well, then I will begin the process to identify eligible community heroes in need of affordable rental housing, and go from there.

Yes, it can be done remotely. It cost me a lot more than if I did the work myself, but … I did what I had to do.

Life is short: get ‘er done!

This case of a double negative means… sigh… while my orthopedic specialist who saw me yesterday said, “for a guy your age, you are healing well,” he didn’t authorize much change in my current condition. I still have that damn, heavy, lunky cast on my leg.

He did say that I can begin to put some weight on it, which means that perhaps mother-hubbard-partner will let me get out, even a little bit. He worries so much about me. I love him for that, but also will begin to put my (left) boot down and begin to assert myself in going out to some essential, critical community meetings provided a friend provides transportation.

I am doing okay, really. I have no pain at all. I am not sleeping well, but mostly it’s because the cast wakes me up since I can’t move while I am sleeping. If I turn, it twists my leg and just wakes me.

Oh well, so begins the three-week countdown.

528 hours
31,680 minutes
1,900,800 seconds

Life is short: three weeks sounds the shortest.

Glossary:

• Boot•less•ness. noun. The state of being without boots on one’s feet, as in “bootless.”

• Lea•ther•less•ness. noun. The state of being without leather, as in “not wearing leather.”

One month ago, on a chilly, wet afternoon, this Boy Scout wearing a full leather uniform (consisting of leather jeans and a leather jacket) and strong, sturdy Chippewa Firefighter boots was escorting a little old lady from his truck to her home. He was burdened with some heavy bags of groceries.

The Boy Scout was lazy. He piled the groceries into two large bags, and put the lady’s arm in his arm. He could have spread the groceries out into three or four bags, and made two trips to the truck. But nooooo… he had to try to carry everything at once.

The Boy Scout felt the little old lady teetering, and he steadied her. She remained upright, and the Boy Scout was upsot. “Crack!” went the fibula. The rest, as they say, “is history.”

For a guy who enjoys wearing leather almost every day, especially in the winter, this was quite a way to test his resolve and to determine, once and for all, if leather is simply clothing or a fetish interest, or both. Since the leg was broken and there has been a progression from splints to a big, heavy, fiberglass cast on the leg, this Boy Scout has been both bootless and leatherless for the duration of his recovery so far.

Well, correction on that: I have been able to wear one boot on my good left leg. But I still can’t put on a pair of leather jeans, as the cast won’t fit through the leg. I guess if I were really having a bad case of “leather withdrawal,” I could wear chaps. But I have found that an old pair of bellbottom denim jeans works fine … much better than wearing PJ bottoms, that’s for sure (LOL!).

Do I miss wearing boots and leather every day? Well, let me put it this way: I miss having that choice. Since the cast prevents me from wearing two boots, much less standing on my own two feet, and it also prevents me from wearing normal pants, I’m kinda stuck with accepting what I can wear.

Does it bother me? Am I having serious leather withdrawal? Are my feet protesting being in a long-term non-booted state? Am I unable to have sex with my partner? …

Poppycock. Well, the poppy anyway. I’m fine. My partner remains as frisky as ever, and we’ve learned not to let the cast get in the way of some “fun” (evil grin). Since I am not using any pain meds, my performance is not affected. (smile.)

I would like to return to having the choice of putting on my own clothes, and choosing to wear boots and leather in this cold weather. But I’m surviving. I’ll be okay. Remember, to me, leather and boots are functional clothing and footwear. They’re really not fetish, as they are function.

I am climbing the walls, but only because the confinement during a period of really bad weather and NOT being able to get out (or anywhere even within my own house) on my own is driving me bats. But you know, it really could be worse. I keep telling myself that, and know it in my heart. I have a nice home, comfortable surroundings, a wonderful partner who cares for me deeply and tends to my every need. I have friends and neighbors who care and check in on me regularly. I even have some lovely casseroles of mysterious stuff in the fridge.

What more could a guy want?

I will be okay in my current state of leatherlessness and bootlessness. Thanks for your concern.

Life is short: wear your boots and leather if you can!

Ongoing readers of this blog know that I broke the fibula in my lower right leg on 24 January, and I am recovering in a cast, waiting for it to heal while at home on disability leave from work.

Some people have inquired about how I am doing. I appreciate the inquiries, and caring concern.

I am doing okay. Really. I am finding ways to keep busy, from preparing income tax returns for senior pals (40 out of 50 completed), to getting the Boot Wiki going, to continuing to support my current job, to searching for a new full-time job, doing some consulting which keeps my brain busy with new challenges, and writing a book (I won’t give away the plot just yet).

I don’t like to have to be confined to sitting in a chair all day with my leg propped up, because I cannot walk… yet. I am uncomfortable sitting in an awkward position using a TV tray as my laptop computer’s “work station,” but it works. I have burned up more cell minutes than I want to, and am finding a way to make my regular home phone more accessible, so I can use it as my primary means of communication and avoid cell overage charges.

Most of all, I am not in any pain. I would say that most of what I am feeling is soreness, as the use of crutches and relying on my one good (left) leg and hip just makes me sore. By late in the day, the soreness and confinement both make me a bit grumpy. Some of my family and friends have noticed that when they have spoken with me on the phone, so I have to work on that.

However, soreness isn’t the same thing as chronic pain or bone pain. I have none of that. My leg was painful for the first few days, and last week when I accidentally bumped hard in the bathroom and fell (but didn’t break anything), my left side was painful with a big bruise. But generally speaking, I am not in any pain now that a couple of aspirin can’t handle.

I am glad about that. I like my mind (what’s left of it) to remain clear, and my gate to be as stable as possible as I hobble on crutches to the bathroom and to the kitchen, plus once a day to and from the bedroom. Narcotics have a funny way of messing with your head, as well as with your physical strength.

The doc gave me a prescription for enough narcotics to take 4x/day for a month. I really wondered why. That’s an awful lot of pain pills. Everything I can find on the internet says that the pain that occurs with the type of break that I had lasts for perhaps as much as one week, unless you have to have surgery, which fortunately, was not required in my situation. I am fortunate that my pain didn’t last but a few days.

Unlike prescription antibiotics, which are to be used as prescribed until gone, with prescription narcotics, you should take them only when you really need to do so. And I really don’t.

I searched on the internet, and respected government agency websites specifically say that the type of drug that I was prescribed should not be flushed down the toilet. It is a very popular drug with abusers, so it shouldn’t be discarded in the trash, either — though some sites say that if you mix it with kitty litter or coffee grounds, that might be an option. Well, not having a kitty nor being a coffee drinker, that is not an option for me.

I called my local health department, and couldn’t find anyone who could tell me what to do. I decided, then, to call my tenant who is a police officer, and ask him. He said that when they seize drugs from nefarious people, they enter the drugs into evidence. Since I am not a drug-dealer and have these drugs legally, he said would ask for me. He called back later and said that our county has a program where drugs could be returned to a pharmacy and they would dispose of them properly. So that’s what I will do.

I will remain, “drug free.”

Life is short: be drug free and live it as fully as you can.

As I continue on the path of recuperation to care for my recently broken leg, I have a lot of time to think about a lot of things. I truly feel that one can have the advantages of “small-town community” within suburban sprawl if he wants it to happen.

I know a bit about growing up in a small town. When I was a kid, we lived six months each year on my mother’s family horse ranch in rural Oklahoma. The nearest town was 14 miles away. And even then, “town” was one traffic light, one lower school (grades 1-8), one high school, one grocer, one “druggist,” and one library. Everybody knew everybody. You couldn’t snitch a cigarette in the back of the hardware store with your buddy without someone tattle-taling to your Mom. You couldn’t have your eyes on a pair of boots in the western store without the store owner having “a chat” with your Dad. You weren’t really “from” there unless your grandparents were buried in the local cemetery. You always bought or traded everything you needed with your neighbors. It was just that kind of place. Everybody knew everybody, and there was a strong sense of “community belonging” and cohesion.

When someone was down on their luck, sick or injured, or someone died, all of the neighbors would rally around and offer help. True help — the kind you needed when things went wrong. They brought food, helped do housecleaning, provided childcare, did laundry, or whatever needed to be done. That is what neighbors in a small town do for each other, even to this day.

Some people love that kind of life. Some others do not. There are trade-offs. You have no privacy. You have no sense of individuality. It is very hard to come out and be accepted as a gay person, especially if the majority of the community residents are “Christian” (quotes on purpose.)

I began to live permanently within suburban sprawl, north and east of our nation’s capital, when I was ten years old, after my Dad was stationed permanently in Washington after working in Europe six months of the year for a long time. We lived in Maryland, which borders Washington, DC. We visited Oklahoma in the summers instead of half a year.

Almost one million residents call our county “home.” There are few defined cities. We ramble from one zip code to the next. There is a lot of history here, but you have to know where to look for it. Most people who live here came from somewhere else. I am among the few who can point to the local cemetery and show the graves of my parents and paternal grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins….

It is easy to be anonymous among all of this sprawl. Rent an apartment or buy a house, then go to work, come home, go out to eat, make friends of co-workers who live in outlying suburbs. This is the common way of life for many of my neighbors. The anonymity happens due to the dearth of local connections. Some people like that. Personally, I don’t.

I have always felt that the small-town feeling of closeness to your neighbors is important. Therefore, throughout my life, I have worked hard to make my sprawling ‘burb a “home.” I have gotten involved in community life. I was elected to a non-partisan position that works on many community issues. I have gotten to know all of my neighbors, not just those on either side of my house. I have grown deeply involved in a large retirement community that is near where I live. This is where my “senior buds” and my aunt live. I’m over there all the time.

Over 40 years of local “community building” has resulted in my truly having a home where I live, with a casual and mature kind of tolerance. My partner is accepted completely, as I am — as gay men among the local residents. We are not the “token” gay couple by any means. Good thing about living around here is that most folks “live and let live.” I know my neighbors. I know their kids. I know the names of the regular employees at most of the local stores at which I shop (but can’t tell you the names of the barista at the Starbucks or the server at the local chain restaurants frequented by the yuppie set, ’cause I choose not to go there).

I can tell you the names of the cops on the local beats, and the firefighters at the local station, and the faculty in the local schools. I mean, this is my home. This is where I live. This is my community. This is MY LIFE.

Man, I’m so lucky to live in such a wonderful place. Rich with life, with diversity, with ideas, with acceptance, with community spirit. Both my roots and my boots are planted deep.

When I had my recent set-back in breaking the bone in my leg, my house has been a non-stop beehive of business — of neighbors getting to work to help out. It brings tears of joy to my eyes, and a song to my heart, to know that we can and we do have a strong, vibrant, local community because we have made it that way.

It is possible…even while living among suburban sprawl. It is what you make it to be. And I can show you the rich rewards that the investment of community-building has brought to me, and to my neighbors, friends, and senior buds.

Life is short: love where you live!