Happy Fourth of July!!!

Ando Hiroshige (Japanese, 1797-1858)
100 Views of Edo (present day Tokyo): “Fireworks Over Ryogoku Bridge”
Edo Period, 1856-1858
Color Woodblock Print, 33.2 x 21.8cm
Gift of James A. Michener, 1991
Honolulu Academy of Arts
Ukiyo-e Woodblock Artist

The 4th of July is a very very special day here at the Morgan house, but not for the reasons you may think. Today is the day that Tim and I met for the first time, seven years ago to the day.

The year was 2000, the day was July fourth, I was only twenty years old and the nanny to a pair of twins whom I had been caring for since I was 14. I had recently moved into this tiny efficiency apartment on 12th street, catty-corner from where the twins lived, and the twins’ parents wanted all of us to attend an open house party on 9th street. All they told us was it was the house of this guy who had just completed a full-scale remodel of this amazing house and we just had to see it. We said no at first and then after some convincing, we all agreed to go.

I was more than nervous because I didn’t know if I would know anyone there and what if I was dressed inappropriately? I looked down at my outfit just before we approached the front door. My toes were painted fuchsia, I had on a dark blue mini-skirt (mid-thigh), a tan tank top and these grey platform wedges that were at least two inches tall. At the time, I was still clinging to the notion that I really was a natural blonde and religiously dyed it to “enhance” my god given golden strands. I quickly panicked.

“I don’t know you guys, I don’t think we should go…”
“Come on Karen, let’s just go for a sec,” one of the twins pleaded.
“Okay, but let’s just stay for like 20 minutes,” I conceded. “I feel a little nervous for some reason.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess because I don’t know anyone that will be here; I feel intimidated.”
“Don’t feel intimidated. Plus if it’s really lame we’ll just leave after a few minutes.”
“Deal,” I said as I smiled at how well they knew me.

I reached up and rapt on the door three times. No answer. I knocked two more times…still nothing. The uncertainty of self compounded with the sudden realization that the silence from the other side of the door was becoming unnerving, I asked if they thought we should go, when all of the sudden, the door silently opened and my eyes locked with the man standing just on the other side of it. That was all I saw, those eyes that shone like rays of sunlight through a glass of hot whisky, all flickers of gold, amber, obsidian and smoky topaz. And in that moment, something ineffable happened that could only be explained as a psychic explosion. I couldn’t breathe.

Jasper Johns, (b. 1930)
Ventriloquist, 1983
Encaustic on Canvas, 75 x 50″
Museum Purchase with funds provided by the
Agnes Cullen Arnold Endowment Fund, 2000
Museum of Fine Arts

“Hey guys, come on in,” Tim said.
“Thanks! I said through a beaming smile.
“Hi, I’m Tim Morgan.”
“Hi, Karen Hassell, it’s a pleasure,” I said as I reached out my hand towards his. Do you know Niki and Simon? Emily and Berthold’s twins?” I continued as our hands joined in a firm handshake.
“Yeah, nice to meet you guys, I think your parents are already here.”
“Is this your house?” I asked
“Yeah, it’s almost done…”
“It’s so beautiful! Thank you for having us!”
“No problem. Come on in for something to eat and drink,” Tim said as he began motioning for us to move in towards the rest of the party.

My heart was hammering against my chest so hard I was fearful someone might be able to notice my left breast vibrating from all the commotion going on beneath my rib cage.
I took a quick peek down. Phew, no visible vibrating, but what about your hands? I held out one of my hands. Please don’t shake you nervous nelly! They’ll all think you’re a twenty-year old alcoholic! Oh shit, breathe deep, I told myself, breathe deep. We entered the kitchen and it was filled with a wash of gay men with a handful of women occupying the table.

I leaned over and whispered to Simon, “What’s with all the gay guys?”
“I don’t know, maybe this guy is gay too.”
“Yeah, maybe…” I said as I trailed off into the gray matter of my thoughts wondering if what I felt was a total hoax or absolutely real. It was just too strong a connection; I had to trust my instincts.
“Maybe they are all designers,” I suddenly said.
“Yeah, maybe,” Simon replied.

We all had a little something to drink and eat, took a tour of the house and then we tracked Tim down to thank him for having us. He was gracious and polite and asked if we would like to return to see the fireworks later.

“What do you mean?” I asked, genuinely interested in what he meant.
“You can see the fireworks perfectly from my backyard,” Tim smiled, “It’s pretty awesome.”
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Yeah, come back, “ Tim replied.
“We’ll try,” I said. “Thank you again for having us over. Everything was wonderful and your house is exquisite. You did a gorgeous job.”
“Thanks,” Tim smiled.

The twins and I left the way we came and I immediately requested that I go home and change so we could go back.

“We can’t,” Niki said. “Our parents want us to go to Standish and Mitchum’s house.”
“Damn,” I muttered.

So we ended up going to Standish and Mitchum’s house to watch the fireworks instead, and all the while I kept gazing over the horizon, wondering if Tim was still thinking about me the was I was thinking about him. I couldn’t think for him, but I was definitely pinning for him. Beneath all the explosions in the sky spraying electric colors into the heavens, I found myself sending my heart up to join them so that it too would combust and send burning embers into the night sky so that they might cascade down over Tim’s house like a weeping willow, delivering my silent swan call for love.

I didn’t see or hear from Tim for several months and considered the experience a complete emotional misunderstanding. He must have been a flamer for sure. Plus, I was so young he probably wouldn’t even consider me even if he were straight. I mean, he was in his late thirties for god’s sake! (There’s a 16 year spread between us.) So I tried to forget about the whole moment all together, but it just wouldn’t let go. And then it happened.

On September 21, 2000, exactly eight days after my twenty-first birthday, my phone rang. I picked up the receiver and the moment he identified himself, my heart was filled with helium. We decided we had to meet again and thought having some wine down in the courtyard of my complex would be just the thing. So he came over and into the cool of that September evening and we proceeded to drink copious amounts of wine as we spoke in muffled tones and laughed so hard my sides ached for more. Before we knew it, it was past midnight and we were suddenly seated next to each other, our thighs just barely touching, but enough to send our eyes into one another, through one another.

Then I invited him upstairs and the rest is history.

We’ve been together everyday since.

So the fourth of July is not just Independence Day for the country, it was the beginning of the end of my solitude.

Joseph Glasco, (1925-1996)
Untitled, 1995
Acrylic on Canvas
206.2 x 155.4cm
Museum purchase with funds provided by the
Caroline Wiess Law Accessions Endowment Fund
Abstract Expressionist

P.S. Yesterday, my mother and my sister and I baked two Old Fashioned Deep Dish Apple Pies and one Peach Cobbler. We had a wonderful time baking inside while it rained outside all afternoon.