Gay 'n Gray

Can pigs fly? Can fish walk? Can swans sing?

Well, I don’t know about the aerial capabilities of pigs, but I do know that catfish can maneuver across land from one pond to another in an upright position using their tail for locomotion. I also know that the trumpeter swan can make complex convolutions of the windpipe to produce a loud sonorous cry. In literature this cry of the swan is fabled to be a melodious song at the time of death. Over the years the term "swan song" has come to equate to the finale, das ende, or le grand exit.

In the opera Lohengrin, the swan plays a unique role. In the final act a large hollowed replica of a swan is lowered onto the stage by wires. The star of the show, Lohengrin, is supposed to step into the swan to be whisked off to the Castle of the Holy Grail, or Valhalla, or wherever all good tenors and all good swans go when the show is over.

At one famous performance at New York’s Metropolitan Opera, when the role of Lohengrin was being sung by Laurence Melchior, the leading Wagnerian tenor of his day, the swan departed from the stage and headed for Valhalla while Melchior was still on stage singing his final aria. Unruffled, Mr. Melchior paused and in a loud stage whisper asked the audience, "Does anyone know when the next swan leaves?"

All of this is a fancy way of saying to my Letters readers that it’s time for my swan song. I’m not headed to Valhalla, nor am I consigned to the good swan graveyard, however, more than a year ago my partner and I moved to Fort Lauderdale and my status now in Rehoboth is that of an occasional visitor.

Whenever I return I’m reminded immediately of the unique way in which Rehoboth impacted my life. I’m ever thankful for the weekend respite it offered during the years I was in a high stress Washington job. On the Friday evening drive over the Bay Bridge the problems of the week simply faded and were left behind. The serenity of woods and the quiet of the cornfields that lined our route worked their weekly magic. Then there was the beauty and comfort of the beach and the ocean—larger than me, larger than life and hinting at the eternal. Add to that the pleasure of meeting old friends or making new ones at the Moon, or Harlow’s, or the Cloud and it’s easy to understand why I continue to treasure Rehoboth.

But since I like to relate what I write to the local scene, I’ve found it increasingly difficult in the past year to continue writing for a Rehoboth publication when I live in Florida. References to Sebastian Beach, the Lauderdale equivalent to Poodle Beach, or Chardee’s, which the Washington Post referred to as, "…an internationally known supper club for older gentlemen," and which is equivalent to nothing else, get lost in translation except for Rehoboth folk who visit Lauderdale during the winter months. The truth is that I’m not skilled enough to write about life in Fort Lauderdale and publish it in Rehoboth and assure that it has the relevance that I would like.

If Letters were on tape or CD this would be the point where you might hear a "loud, sonorous call," which appropriately interpreted would be my convoluted windpipe offering up my swan song. However, it also might be interpreted as an attack of gas coming from one end or the other. Either way, this is my last column.

It’s not possible to sing my swan song without expressing my genuine appreciation to Steve and Murray and Kathy and the Letters staff for allowing me the pleasure of participating in a great and wonderful adventure—CAMP Rehoboth.

I look forward to continue reading Letters, which is available here in Fort Lauderdale at the Stonewall Library, located within the Gay and Lesbian Community Center, and I look forward to seeing Rehoboth friends and colleagues when they visit the Venice of America.

Editors note: John has been a great friend to many of us in Rehoboth for many years. We will miss his unique perspective on life in our wonderful beach community.