"Earth to Hallie… Come in Hallie!"

"Huh?"

"You going to sit there lost in space or are you going to get out of the car?"

"I suppose I have to get out of the car."

"Cold feet?"

"The kids haven't seen me in years. What if…"

"Somehow I get the feeling you've reverted to your teenage years and are worried you'll get teased or bullied. By your own grandkids. You know Wes and Billie have seen Hallie before and didn't freak out, so why should the kids?"

"You're being logical, Linda."

"Hi Grandmas!"

"Hi Grandmas!"

I don't know how to do stereo in print, but that's what we heard when the door opened.

"Hi Dalton, Hi Calvin."

"Did you bring your guitars?" inquired Calvin. At least I think it was Calvin. Despite the three years between my two grandsons, they were the same height and had the same hair color. It was a bit difficult to be sure when I hadn't seen them in such a long time.

"This grandma brought her guitar," spoke Linda. "That grandma brought her autoharp."

"Cool!"

"Hey Dad!" shouted Dalton. "Grandmas are here!"

"It sounds funny when you say it like that," I commented.

"That's 'cause we have funny grandmas," grinned Calvin. Looking a little closer this grandchild appeared to be a bit more mature.

"I suppose you do."

"Hi Hallie, hi Linda. I see these two hellions have introduced themselves."

"Hey, Wes! Actually, we've been welcomed but not introduced. You didn't tell me you had twins."

"Not twins, but Calvin got your sense of humor and it stunted his growth.

"Dad!"

"Watch out, son. You listen to your grandmother's jokes and you'll shrink a couple of more inches."

"Don't listen to this punk, Calvin. He never could appreciate the finer points of humor."

"That's because you never showed me any, Hallie."

"I'm wounded!"

"He's right," Linda confirmed. "I love her dearly, but she has a sense of humor that could use some polishing."

"You'd have to hire a full-time staff of butlers and maids to polish it enough to present in public."

"Wouldn't fit in the RV. Maybe we could hire these two to make their Grandma more presentable."

"Wouldn't work," I answered. "I'd just indoctrinate them and help them to appreciate the finer points of humor. You kids ever watched the Three Stooges?"

"Who?"

"Wesley! You're a failure as a parent. I've got the complete collection, I'm kidnapping the kids and going to show them what they've been missing."

"Not before the turkey comes out, you aren't."

"Hi Billie."

"Did I hear you threatening to give us a weekend to ourselves?"

"If she's going to pull a Three Stooges marathon I may need to stay here for my own sanity," answered Linda.

"How can you have any sanity left after being with this strange person for so long?"

"She has other advantages. Helps to have her sing harmony when we perform."

"We'll have to get Calvin and Dalton to sing you some of their stuff after dinner. They do pretty good harmonies themselves."

"Awww Dad!"

"You like the Arrogant Worms?" asked Dalton.

"Love 'em. How did you hear of a Canadian group down here in Texas?"

"It's your fault, Hallie."

"Ahhh! A curse unto the third generation…"

"It's a good thing that Austin is the liberal part of Texas or we would have been run out of town long ago."

"Good to know your Mom and I raised you right."

"Let's not got too ambitious, parent of mine. And don't go blaming Mom."

"All right! I was a drunk back then. Your Mom mitigated the damage."

"Closer. But Linda seems to have made a new woman of you."

"Hey! Don't go blaming me! Hallie is her own woman."

"Are we going to stand here in the hall rehashing the past or will you come in and sit down?" inquired Billie. She knew when a distraction was needed.

I've kicked the booze and gotten my life back, but I truly know I wasn't the best father to my kids. We have found ways to get along, but we have a history - and my part in it is not something I'm proud of.

"My apologies - hash is the province of the day after Thanksgiving. I suppose rehash would be the leftovers of the hash on the second day."

"Make her stop, Linda! Please!"

"Beyond my control, Wes. The only thing I can think of that might work is stuffing her with turkey until she stops gobbling."

"Worth a try - when do we eat?"

"Wow, Hallie, I could get used to the new you. Washing the dishes without a complaint!"

"As I recall, I couldn't say the same for you in your younger days, either."

"Calvin, Dalton, close your ears. I was a perfect child."

"OK guys, has he ever told you about the time he tried to jump over the fan in his bedroom?"

"Slander! Fake news!"

"No politics on Thanksgiving, Wes," warned Billie.

"You're safe, Billie. The story is the absolute, unvarnished truth."

"Which has so many coats of varnish on it that you can't see the original shape of the thing after you've gotten through telling it over and over and over…"

"Has he ever showed you his scar, boys?"

"What scar, Pops!" came the excited query."

"You haven't seen it, that means it's not there."

"I've seen it, children. It's there, your father just grew his hair long enough to hide it."

"Betrayed by my own family. How pitiful."

"You were pretty pitiful after the incident, as I recall. It all started one fine afternoon when your father was up in his room playing. He was old enough to know better, so we don't know what he was playing with.

"So suddenly your Grandma Janine and I hear a loud thump and then some really pitiful whimpering."

"Another coat of varnish, Hallie. I wasn't whimpering."

"Could have fooled me. So anyway, before I was so rudely interrupted, we went upstairs and found your father on the floor with blood running out of his head. His room had two sections with a door in between. The door was five feet high and there was a nineteen inch fan sitting in it, leaving forty-one inches of clear space if my calculations are correct. My son the genius had decided to leap the fan and aimed a bit too high."

"Hallie, you and Mom always told me to aim high in my aspirations."

"And since when had you listened to either of us?"

"I guess about as often as these two listen to me."

"Then listen closely, you two, and profit from your father's experience."

"How much blood was there, Dad?"

"I couldn't tell, my eyes were closed."

"There was plenty. His hair was a lot blonder back then so it made a nice, gory sight. So, off we go to the emergency room, where I tried in vain to have them shave his entire head to put in the stitches."

"Awww…"

"Bloodthirsty little savages you're raising, eh?" I asked.

"Consider their bloodlines, Hallie"

"Hey, wait a minute! They got the good parts from me, Wes," answered Billie.

"For which we can all be thankful. Anyway, the doctors warned us about concussion and we took him home and put him to bed. Monday he seemed all right, so off to school he went. A couple hours later Grandma Janine gets a phone call to come and get him, he's turning red and acting confused. I got swatted when I asked her how they could tell he was any different from usual."

"I knew there was a reason I moved half a continent away from you, Hallie."

"You can run, but you can't hide. To continue, back to the ER, where they do an MRI and don't find anything, then home again and into bed. The next day half the school comes down with the virus that your father managed to get a day before anyone else. It had nothing to do with his acrobatics. We did send an awful lot of money to the doctors, though."

"How anyone with children can object to universal health care is a complete mystery to me," said Wes."

"Agreed, but the ban on politics forbids my saying anything else."

"Thank you, Hallie." Billie was appropriately grateful.

"There's only one thing I can do at this point."

"Do tell…"

Wes whipped out his smartphone and started dialing, then put it on speakerphone.

"Happy thanksgiving, great-grandma. It's Wes."

"That's dirty pool, son."

""Yeah, that's Hallie and I need help. She's been telling my kids embarrassing stories about when I was a kid and I need you to tell me some things Hallie did as a kid so I can get off the hook."

"Oh my," came a tinny voice from the phone. "I don't know where to start, there are so many!"

"Mother, be kind," I pleaded. By this time Calvin and Dalton were practically busting a gut to keep from laughing as they listened to their great-grandmother.

"Well, I suppose I could tell you the one where we were shopping at the K-mart and my daughter-to-be was pushing her sister in the cart while I stood in line at the checkout. I knew both my children were both behind me from the noises they were making. That was the time when Hallie thought she was a dog, so the woofing and slurping weren't anything I was concerned about. It wasn't loud, so I just kept taking things out of the cart and putting them on the register belt.

"Somewhere along the line the man behind us cleared his throat and said 'Ma'am? I think you might want to turn around.' There was Harry - uh Hallie - licking the packages of candy on the bottom shelf while Jessie laughed at him."

"I surrender, Mother. No more stories about childhood. Well at least while Wes is listening."

"You still try a mother's patience no matter what name you're going by."

"I've had lots of time to practice."

"You give those kids a hug for me, you hear?"

"I hear and obey, Mother. C'mere you brats and get your hugs."

Did I detect a little reticence from Calvin? Well, he was thirteen years old, hugging family can be embarrassing at that age. I hope that's all there is to it.

"Thanks, Grandma, I'll call you if I need you again."

"I'm always here. I'll send you some embarrassing baby pictures if you want."

"Yes!"

"I'll get someone to scan them in and send them to you in a day or two."

"Good, Hallie and Linda will be here for a month or more, so I'll be ready for the next assault on my dignity. By Grams."

"By everyone. Happy Holidays!"

Wes put the phone away with a smirk.

"Since there seems to be three generations of musicians present, this might be a good time to make some music."

"You do realize that Calvin plays the trumpet and Dalton the tuba?"

"Oh dear, my grandchildren have gone to the dark side."

"Careful - Calvin loves that cartoon."

"I'm partial to Bloom County, myself."

"I love Opus," piped up Dalton.

"Quit talking comics, people," Linda ordered. "We have music to make here!"

It's kind of hard to tell you just how much fun it was to play with my son and my grandchildren. Music doesn't translate to words, it bypasses the part of the brain that talks and drills right into your soul. The kids really could sing harmonies, and sing them well. The Arrogant Worms are funny people, but watching an thirteen year old and an eleven year old sing their songs was a whole new experience.

It didn't take long before we were working up six part harmonies to some great old Gospel songs. Kind of funny that; none of us but Billie were much into religion, but those old songs just cried out for great a cappella harmonies. My fears had been groundless; Thanksgiving was a complete success.

"Why you lousy little piece of…"

"Hallie… A proper lady wouldn't complete that thought."

"Good thing I'm not a proper lady. The… uh, stinking, lousy, pestilent wifi crapped out again. I'm going to go to McDonalds."

"My, you are desperate. A Big Mac Attack at this hour of the morning?"

"Well, maybe a McMuffin. I do like their sausage. No, I really need to use some reliable wifi. I have to hook up with some of the trans people here in Austin and get some advice about boob jobs."

"You'd better find a library, then. There tend to be mobs of kiddies in McDonalds and the graphics on some of the sites can get kind of graphic. You wouldn't want to be pursued by a mob of outraged parents."

"I suppose you're right."

"You might also look into getting wired Internet while we're here. If we're going to spend the next few months in one place it would be worth it to have reliable Internet."

"You're a veritable font of brilliance this morning, my love."

"And you're a font of bullshit, but I'm used to that. So you're finally going to take the plunge?"

"I think so, as long as you're good with it."

"If it makes you happy then it makes me happy. I may even get to find out what guys get out of fondling boobs - not something most women ever get a chance to think about."

"It does have it's charms, my love."

"So I've noticed. Rather pleasant from my perspective when you get the urge."

"I suppose I could put off my research for a few hours."

"Now, that's an interesting idea."

"Mmmmm….

There are days when I long for simplicity. Maybe not the simplicity of youth, when everything was black-and-white, good was good and evil was evil and the good guys wore white hats so you could tell who they were even before the background music let you know in the movies.

So actually getting breast augmentation surgery (to give it the formal name) is a bit more complicated than saying 'I'm going to get a boob job.' In my case it gets even more obscure since I've never had a formal diagnosis of gender dysphoria.

Really! Even though I've been dressing in women's clothes since I was old enough to know there was a difference, I never wanted to become a woman. I love the clothes, I think I think more like a woman than a man despite a body that makes looking like a woman a challenge. I did talk to a councilor back when my life was in the crapper, but that was more about being an alcoholic than being a crossdresser.

OK, I deliberately didn't say anything about the crossdressing in those sessions. Admitting I was a drunk and had screwed up my marriage was bad enough, but I never felt guilty about the crossdressing so I kind of let it slide.

So when I retired and became Hallie full-time I didn't ask anyone but Linda for permission. No job to lose, financially secure, friends who were mostly liberal as hell and had been known to march on the streets at gay rallies. The only legal business involved was the official name change and that wasn't anything major. We were already married so we were sort of grandmothered in, even if same sex marriage wasn't legal at the time.

Hell, it's easier to ask forgiveness than get permission. I just changed clothes and came out. I'm blessed with a high tenor voice, so with a bit of coaching I even sound credible. Not perfect, by any means, but Hallie doesn't cause riots and I'm immune to the funny looks.

Mostly.

I've read thousands of transformation tales over the years, enough to know there are hoops to jump through and bits of paper needed to satisfy the bureaucracy before a surgeon gets involved. So what does one do when one wants a freelance transformation, so to speak?

I know there have been a few cases of men getting boob jobs for silly reasons like winning a bet or the guy in Asia that thought women got better jobs so he needed breasts. Naturally, I started with Google - male breast augmentation sounded about right. What I found was mostly guys with gynecomastia who wanted to remove their boobs - not quite what I had in mind.

I have patience, and by the time I left the library I had a head full of new terms, a bookmarks section full of new sites and the names of a few clinics and a few trans groups in the area.

So I screwed up my courage and made some calls, feeling vastly relieved that I was only able to leave messages at the trans group's phones. So why, you may ask, was I relieved? Mostly because I had never really been associated with other gender challenged people before.

So my dirty little secret is out. I was a loner for much of my life. The groups I hung out with tended to be rockers and barflies, not exactly the kind of folks you confide in about your crossdressing. Since I never really felt guilty about crossdressing, I didn't feel the need to have a support group. When I found Linda and got my life back on a sane track, she was all the support I needed.

Sure, I had a bunch of on-line friends, but I've never met them in the flesh. My ex was grudgingly helpful, but I never left the house dressed while we were married. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself after we split to try to go out, I stayed at home and drank in my skirt when I wasn't at a bar. By then I was realizing I had a problem, and had dropped out of the rock scene. Without the party atmosphere I drank alone, but it wasn't until I went to Wes's first public performance and found a music scene that didn't suck up the booze as part of the atmosphere that I found something to try to emulate.

I really don't know what Linda saw in me when we first met, I must have been pretty pathetic. Trying to live up to her expectations was a powerful incentive to change the direction of my life. So here I was in Austin, Texas feeling good about being with my son and his family and enjoying life. Not bad for a reformed bum, eh?

But that still wasn't getting me any closer to making the next step and getting real artificial breasts.

Wait, that doesn't make much sense.

Well, that's life. I just have to wait for a call back and see where the next step lies.

 

So much for the smug satisfaction of putting off something you're a little leery of doing, the callback came twenty minutes later. So I explained my situation to the encouraging voice on the other end of the phone and we agreed to meet for coffee the next day. I suppose you could call that another form of procrastination, but looked at from another angle it was progress.

Just why was I so nervous about meeting other crossdressers? I had been living as a woman for several years now; almost everyone knew that I was born a man and either thought I was nuts or didn't really care. I suppose it says something about my choice of friends that people weren't burning crosses on my lawn or hiring hit men to chastise me for being a perverted freak. If anyone was going to be compassionate about my life choices, a fellow crossdresser would be the one.

I guess I am just plain nuts after all, but it works for me.

We met Joanne at the Golden Corral, a chain buffet close to where our RV was parked that was big enough for an anonymous conversation. They served decent food, but I had to discipline myself to stay away from the chocolate fountain at the dessert bar or I would be needing a new wardrobe.

Joanne appeared to be a tall, slim woman with long, dark hair wearing a gingham skirt and ruffled blouse. I had been surprised that the cowboy look wasn't too popular in Austin; people mostly dressed like everyone else we had seen in our travels. I guess we all have a mind full of stereotypes that fail in comparison to reality.

"Hallie?" she asked.

"Joanne?" I answered.

"Welcome to Austin!" she said, taking my hand.

"Thanks. This is my wife Linda."

"Pleased to meet you."

No handshake here, Linda went straight to the hugging. I grew up in the fifties and sixties where men didn't hug, so I still have a noticeable hesitation before embracing a stranger. I'm working on it.

We passed through the line and found a table in an isolated corner before hitting the buffet. An all-you-can-eat buffet comes as a challenge to Hallie. In his wild and crazy days, Harry took the buffet as an invitation to out-eat anyone in the place. If you can't out-drink your companions, macho demands you out-eat them. I look back on those days with a mixture of horror and pride. I was a champion at the table!

Hallie had given me a new outlook on life. With a more than a trace of feminine pride I started with the salad bar, firmly squashing what was left of Harry gibbering about the steaks on the grill.

Looking back, I think of Joanne as one of the shining lights in my life. By the time the meal ended I wondered just why I had been so reluctant to seek out others who shared my proclivities. We were invited to a gathering (Joanne said they avoid the word 'meeting' because it sounds too formal) the following week where we could get to know some of my sisters.

Which brought me face-to-face with another of those spots in my psyche that an enlightened liberal gender-bender should be ashamed of - thinking of other crossdressers as 'sisters' came hard to me. Yeah, I know - I am one and yet…

It's ironic, really; if you had been sitting at a table nearby to ours in that restaurant, you would have no trouble identifying me as less than fully feminine, but would have raised an eyebrow or two if you were told Joanne started life as a man. And Joanne is a lovely woman, no matter the genetics involved; I'm happy to call her my sister.

Somewhere during our talk I came to realize that, while I had been living as a woman for some years now, I hadn't really committed myself fully to being a woman. As abhorrent as the thought was, I could go down to Walmart and buy some trousers, a button-down shirt and a tie and walk out of the place as Harry if I put my mind to it.

Disgusting, but true.

Surgery was commitment. For life.

I was ready for that commitment, I could never go back to being Harry and be myself. I thanked my lucky stars or whatever you want to thank that I had a wife who understood me and was willing to love Hallie just as much as she loved Harry. I came away from that meeting with a new appreciation for my own prejudices, as well as a promise to have Joanne e-mail me some references for surgeons.

There's a fine old phrase, slow as molasses in January, which didn't have quite the impact here in Austin as it did back in a New York winter, but it described my progress toward that boob job. Doctors are busy. Doctor's receptionists are all too ready to hang up on you when you say "this won't be covered by insurance." I finally arranged an appointment for the first week in January. I guess most people were planning to have hangovers that week and didn't schedule time at a doctor that couldn't prescribe a hangover cure. Good thing I stopped drinking.

So, with time on our hands we headed for the SOCO district. That's Austinese for the SOuth COngress area, where you will find all kinds of small shops and eateries with a vast array of interesting non-big-box type stuff. As we strolled along we came upon at Salvation Army Bell-ringer, surrounded by three guys with picket signs.

Not your usual sight, so naturally I was curious The turned out to be a gaggle of goofballs with too much time on their hands had decided that there was another 'war on Christmas.' This one was more egregious than most, they were actually harassing the poor Bell Ringer.

"Linda, my love," I said in a sickly-sweet voice.

"Hallie, you have that look," She answered.

"Look?"

"The look you get when you're going to cause trouble."

"Trouble? Why, it's the holiday season - a time for spreading love and joy. That poor bell-ringer doesn't seem to joyful at the moment. You know I have little love for the sanctimonious folks at the Salvation Army, what with their campaign of hate for anyone of the LGBTQ persuasion, but really! This poor schmuck, however misguided, is just standing there in the cold trying to do some good for his fellow men, and I suppose women, too."

"Hallie, I can practically see the empathy dripping off of you."

"You know me so well. Now why would three upstanding Christian gentlemen be berating a Salvation Army volunteer simply because there is no explicit message stating 'Merry Christmas' on that tripod?"

"Because they're assholes?"

"I know I married you for your brains. Right the first time."

"As always."

"Even though I am now on the distaff side and am privileged to occasionally win an argument, I bow to your seniority."

"Cut the crap, Hallie. What are you planning?"

"A bit of street theatre."

"I suppose since we are on the street that would make sense."

"Perhaps in the spirit of giving to you fellow man you could run over to the Starbucks and get some coffee for all of us. I'm sure these fellows would appreciate a hot drink in this chilly weather."

"What are you, Lady Gotbucks. You know how much those pirates charge for coffee?"

"In their famous Holiday Cups, my love."

"Hallie, you're a genius!"

"So nice to hear you say it! Oh, let me borrow your scarf. I need some costuming for my part in this little show."

"If the police get involved, it will make it easier to strangle you."

"Just get the coffee and pick an opportune moment to deliver it."

"This had better work…"

And off she went. Taking the scarf I tied it around my head babushka-style. In my working days, one of my fellow-workers was an immigrant from Russia, one Mikhail by name. He had a love for country music and often had a radio tuned to the local country station by his machine. When things got quiet in the shop, you could hear him singing along with the choruses - in Russian.

We got along pretty well, he taught me several Russian vulgarities and outright profanities - useful to know if there weren't any Russian speakers around when something went wrong. Over the years I was able to develop a fair pseudo-Russian accent and we had some fun with people who didn't know us.

So in my babushka I took on the personality of a naive Russian grandmother. I'll spare you a phonetic spelling of my side of the conversation, but feel free to use the accent in your head.

Since I had recently been extolling the virtues of the Three Stooges to my grandchildren I'll christen them Curly, Larry and Moe, but any comic genius they displayed was purely accidental.

"Excuse, please," I interrupted their dialogue. Or should that be trialogue - there were three of them. "I am hearing you say about War On Christmas?"

"That's right, lady. This is a Christian country and we need to put Christ back in Christmas." said Curly.

"Is a good idea, but how can you do this when you do not even know the right day to celebrate Christmas in this country?"

"Huh?" Larry looked confused.

"Da! I am Orthodox Christian, the proper date of Christmas is January seven on your calendar."

"What? Lady, Christmas is always on December twenty-fifth!" exclaimed Moe.

"Da, but you use wrong calendar. We do not use calendar by Catholic Pope Gregory. Real calendar is Julian one, so proper day for Christmas is on your January seven."

"That's nuts!" Curly took his turn in the pecking order.

"No. God has told us so."

"Maybe God is telling you that, but Jesus is what Christmas is all about and he was born on the twenty-fifth." Larry sounded very sure of himself.

"That is date people think, but Bible doesn't give date. Date comes from Emperor Constantine in Rome, way back in history, just after everyone else was celebrating Saturnalia. Constantine was smart cookie, da?"

"Look, lady, I don't care who picked what date - the whole idea is we need to put Christ back in Christmas and stop all this 'happy holidays' nonsense and making it a day for big sales in the stores."

Moe was incensed. I was sorely tempted to make a joke about Orthodox services and incense but I knew none of them would get it.

"This sounds right to me, no argue about date, OK?"

"You got it, lady!" Curly now had a smile on his lips.

"But why you mad at this man? He is soldier in Christian Army, da? He out here in cold to help raise money for charity, so what problem?"

"That's just it! There's not one word about Jesus or Christmas or anything here. How can he ignore Jesus like that?" Larry was back to the core problem.

"So Salvation Army is fighting this War On Christmas?"

"I don't know, but my preacher and the guys on TV know that there's a war on and we need to fight it." Moe said triumphantly. All we needed was a band of angels singing in the background.

Just then Linda came back.

"Hey guys - the USO is here! Have some coffee, it's cold out here!"

"Thanks, lady… Not in those heathen cups! Them jerks at Starbucks hate Christmas and Christians. Look at those cups!" Ah, Curly had a new target.

"What hate?" I asked, innocently. "They red and green like Christmas, and have pretty snowflakes."

"That's just it - not a word about Jesus! They're making a war on Christmas and are on the front lines!" Larry may have been adamant, but he was sipping his coffee anyway.

"Really? Asked Linda. "I guess the Republicans needed a war they're actually willing to send their kids to fight."

See why I love my wife? I realized I might have been relegated to straightwoman in this conversation.

"You some kind of libertard?" Moe cried.

"I'm a liberal, but at least I know how to use proper English."

"Is not easy, I said in my pseudo-Russian accent. "I have hard time finding right word in English. Is not easy for someone not from your country."

"You're doing quite well, Ma'am," replied Linda. "It can't be easy to leave everything you have and move, only to find stupid people when you arrive. Why, the state of Texas is trying to stop a family of Syrian refugees from resettling here. Our wonderful politicians said they were too busy with Christmas to think about a Middle Eastern family with no place to stay for the night."

"If you don't like it here then leave, lady," shouted Curly. He could do truculent almost as well as the original Curly.

"I like it just fine because anyone can sound off about anything, no matter how knowledgeable they are. First amendment and all that. Next thing I know you're going to be complaining about Santa Claus."

"Santa Claus is not part of Christmas! He's a pagan idol and we don't need him!" I was surprised Larry was so knowledgeable.

"Saint Nichols was a pagan? Imagine that! You know, according to a new poll, most Americans think that Santa Claus is a Democrat, which is odd, because when you think about an old white man who hires unskilled labor he doesn't even pay, you think Republican.

"Da! Oligarchs in Russia think same way. That why I'm here, get good job and nice apartment."

"Congratulations! That's hard to do in Austin," Linda said.

"Da. Share with family and mother, hard to fit twelve people in house, but we do it."

"You're as bad as those Mexicans!" Now Moe was able to expand his prejudice.

"Mexicans nice people, two families live in apartment next to mine. Have good parties and invite everyone. They have big Christmas celebration, too. Hang big thing from ceiling and whack with big bat."

See why I love improvised street theatre?

"That's not Christmas! Christmas is pine trees and holly!" exclaimed Curly.

"And Jesus! Don't forget Jesus," cried Larry.

"I guess you're getting closer," broke in Linda. "Christmas trees are from a pagan holiday in Germany that celebrated the solstice. Some say it was Martin Luther who started bringing trees indoors, but Christians adopted it to keep the faithful from celebrating the pagan rituals. Jesus had been dead for centuries by that time. Besides, down here there's no snow and the pine trees around here make lousy Christmas trees."

"Like song I hear," I said. "White Christmas - means snow, da?"

"I'm dreaming of a White Christmas…" Linda sang. "Just not as white and not nearly as depressing as the Republican party."

"Why do you keep talking about politics, lady? We want to talk about Jesus."

"Because people like you keep shoving Him into the mix. OK, let's compromise. You can keep Christ in Christmas, but you have to take him out of politics. Deal?"

"You're crazy!" Moe exclaimed.

"Is something I heard," I interjected. "All holidays matter, da?"

"Absolutely! You're well on your way to being an American, ma'am. Shall we go somewhere and talk about it and leave these folks to their religious insecurity?"

"Da! I would like!"

Complacency can be a bitch. I was feeling pretty good about life - Thanksgiving went well, my little piece of street theatre was a definite upper and having decided to go through with getting real boobs I was feeling like life was going my way. I was looking forward to being settled in Austin for a while, getting to know my grandchildren better and letting life in retirement just unreel before Linda and me.

Fat chance!

Life is full of unintended consequences and, although my impromptu bit of street theatre was cause for some good belly laughs, there was a serious side. It introduced the subject of religion into my relationship with my grandson Calvin. Granted the relationship was a bit tenuous, with him living a couple of thousand miles away and (gack!) him being thirteen years old. It couldn't be easy for him to relate the stranger who was his grandfather turned grandmother.

There's a Biblical reference somewhere about visiting the sins of the fathers on their children and their children's children, to the third and the fourth generation, which is appropriate because my son and his son were going through the same trials as I did at that age. Naturally I'm quoting Bible verses because the trials involve religion - or the lack of it.

Now I don't claim to be a Biblical scholar (after all, I had to Google that quote) but my parents tried to raise me a Christian and it was a disaster. That was close to fifty years ago and it still rankles. So here's the story:

I have been a skeptic for as long as I can remember, and how my parents - or I - survived my passing through thirteen-years-old remains one of life's mysteries. This was about the time I was discovering I was happier wearing women's clothes than men's, but those Confirmation classes told me that I was a sinner and an abomination unto the lord. Pretty heavy stuff when you're discovering your sexuality and trying to figure out where you fit in the world. So at the conclusion of the mandatory confirmation classes at my parents' church I announced I didn't buy it and I wasn't going to be confirmed.

All hell broke loose.

Scandal! What will the neighbor's think? How can you do this to us? God is going to get you! The shame of it all! You have to do it!

Strangely enough, not one word about thou shall not lie or to thine own self be true. My feelings and integrity were steadfastly ignored and I was badgered into standing in front of the congregation and lying about accepting Jesus when the minister and my parents damn well knew I was lying.

I lost all respect for my parents, the church, the minister and just about everything. That's when I threw the teenage rebellion into high gear. Rock & Roll in a garage band, as loud as we could crank it. Booze when I could get it. Shoplifting when there was a crowd of us to egg each other on - until we got caught. Fortunately, I wasn't the one who got pinched, but they made us call our parents to come get us from the security office at the mall.

It was many years before I met some real Christians that made me realize that Christian and hypocrite were not synonyms. Oddly enough, it was my first wife's parents who truly lived their faith and didn't try to ram it down my throat. Sure, they tried to tell me about what they believed, but they soon realized we could live together in peace and each have our own beliefs.

When the wife and I found ourselves coping with our own thirteen-year-old skeptic we handled it much better than my parents did. (You're welcome to pat me on my sanctimonious back If you have a mind to. Patting the snaps helps remind me I'm able to wear a bra full time nowadays.) The kids went to church with their mother and Wes attended confirmation classes to learn about the faith, but we gave him the free choice as to what he would do with it.

He chose not to be confirmed and while his mother was disappointed she accepted his decision with good grace. Now Wes and Billie, the proverbial third generation, were at that crossroads, but Calvin was unwilling to even attend confirmation classes. I have to admit he is a lot like me, but more so. If Calvin wasn't interested in something (like homework) he refused to put any effort into it, and Calvin hated church.

This time Billie was the believer and Wes the skeptic, and history was repeating itself. They were at their wit's end, so guess who got drafted to talk to the stubborn bugger? Which is how on an improbably warm December Sunday Calvin and I ended up seated on a bench by the lake at a park improbably located about a mile from the Austin airport. The main runway conveniently pointed away from the park so it was a remarkably quiet place to watch the ducks swim about. One of the advantages of December in Austin is there are enough warm days to make hiking a pleasure.

"Thanks, Grandma Hallie!" My erstwhile grandson was grinning from ear to ear, even if I had just brought up the religion bit. "I just can't figure out what Mom sees in this Jesus stuff, but I'm glad I don't have to listen to it again this morning."

Trust a thirteen-year-old to just come out and say what's on his mind - as long as his parents aren't in earshot. He had no idea this was the result of collusion by the adults in his life.

"Going to church is good for your soul."

"Fat chance! The only soul I've got is on dad's CD collection."

"You sound like your father."

"Aaaarrrgggghhh!" The kid had talent - a good six syllables in a one syllable word.

"Stretching words like that could qualify you to sing Gospel music, you know. You ever listen to Ron Thomason and the Dry Branch Fire Squad?"

"Sure! Like 'Kiii-iii-iii-nnnn-ggg Jesus is the stone that was hewed out of the mountain!' " The kid nailed Ron's solo on that song, stretching the word like it was a piece of taffy. "I like to sing Gospel, it's listening to some boring old bugger talk about the stupid stuff in the Bible that I hate."

"You don't have to convince me, Calvin. I decided long ago that it wasn't for me. Problem is, you have to learn about what's in the Bible before you can decide if you believe it or not."

"Gee - you sound like Dad."

"You do realize I raised him, don't you? It's what I told him when he was your age. His mother was a lot like your mother; they both believe in Jesus and God and all that stuff. That's part of the reason why your Grandma Janine and I split; I don't buy it and she does. Even though we didn't agree about religion we did agree that your dad and your aunt needed to learn about religion and make their own choice."

"Yeah, but how much more learning do I have to do?"

"A very good question. I suppose it's up to your parents."

"That doesn't help. If it were up to me it would have been over long ago."

"You done the confirmation thing yet?"

"I'm supposed to go to confirmation classes in the spring."

"Give it a fair shake. I managed to live through it and even learned some interesting stuff."

"But Dad said you don't believe in Jesus."

"He's right, I don't. I'm an atheist - I don't believe in any god, but that doesn't mean I'm not interested in religion."

"Huh?"

"As far as I can see, religion is hardwired into most people's DNA - I just seem to have missed that gene. Still, I find it fascinating how so many people can come up with so many gods and so many ways to try and get those gods to do what they want them to do, and so many nasty ways to force people to do what they say their god wants everyone to do.

"Huh?"

"Make it simple - religion is crazy but fascinating."

"It's boring!"

"Religion or going to church?"

"Whatever!"

"Lord have mercy! Whatever are they teaching in school - or Sunday school - these days?"

"What's that got to do with it?"

"If you can't separate the abstract concept of religion from the specific instance of organized worship then you certainly haven't learned about logic. You're gonna flunk geometry."

"Hey - I aced geometry!"

"I bet the test was multiple guess and you never had to write down a proof in the whole thing."

"C'mon Grandma! I did too!"

"So - tell me what's the difference between faith and an organized religion?"

"Uhhh…"

"Smartass kid. Gotcha, didn't I?"

"C'mon…"

"OK, I'm being a smartass old fart. I'm sure you got the lecture about gender and sex when I decided I wasn't going to be your Grandpa and was going to be another Grandma. I bet you can spit up that definition without too much trouble."

"Less trouble than I think you had changing gender. Gender is between your ears and sex is between your legs."

"Not bad for a smartass teenager. There's a bit of a parallel here - Faith is what's between your ears - assuming your brain hasn't atrophied when you turned thirteen - and organized religion is what other people think. Everybody saw me as a man for far too many years but in my head I was more like a woman. For a long time it was easier to go along with what everybody saw and not correct them, but there came a time when I just had to act on what I felt.

"Maybe you're at that point about religion, but I wonder if you're just being too lazy to learn about it before you reject it. Your mom is a believer and your body has been going to church every Sunday to make her happy. It may be time for you to tell the world what is between your ears, but right now there appears to be a theological vacuum."

Right about then a miracle happened: my run-on-at-the-mouth-teenage-grandson was silent. I may have to do some re-thinking about this stuff myself.

"Does this silence mean you're thinking?"

"I think so…"

"So tell me, oh child of the Digital Age born with a thumb drive in your mouth - what did you do when your folks told you I was going to be your grandmother? I mean after you stopped thinking 'that's gross!' and other such stuff."

"Well, we did learn abut that stuff in sex ed but I kinda spaced on it. I didn't think it would affect me."

"They taught you about transgender in Texas?"

"We do live in Austin - it tends to keep the yahoos outside the city limits, Grandma."

"Maybe that's why I haven't been roped and hogtied by the cowboys yet."

"You are about the size of a calf, so I'd be careful when the rodeo is in town."

"Now wait a minute, you smartass kid!"

"Blame the genes I got from you."

"You aren't going to change the subject that easily. So, what did you do when you found out about me?"

"I Googled it, of course."

"In other words, you needed more information before you could think things through. So how come you want to decide about being a Christian before you know what the whole thing means?"

"I didn't know diddly squat about transgenderism but I've spend a pile of Sundays getting Jesus poked at me. I'm not completely ignorant."

"Does the phrase a little knowledge is a dangerous thing ring any bells?"

"Church bells?"

"The kind that scare away the bats in your belfry. Tell me - you're disarming a bomb and you know you have to disconnect a wire to do it. Is that enough information to decide if you should yank the red one or the green one?"

"I get the point."

"So do us all a favor and take the confirmation class, then decide. Your Mom won't be happy if you reject her faith, but she's an intelligent person and it won't mean she stops loving you if you do. You already know your dad has made his own choice and will back you up when you make yours."

"I'll think about it, Grandma."

"Good enough for now, Calvin."

Grandma?"

"Yes?"

"Why did you decide you had to be a woman?"

"How much time you got? That's not a simple answer, no more than theology. In fact, the two of them can get pretty well mixed up."

"What? God told you to do it?"

"Smartass kid! She's remained silent on the subject, unlike many of those who profess to know her will."

"She?"

"Why not? As far as I'm concerned she doesn't exist so I don't think she'll be offended, unlike some bible-thumpers. But that's neither here or there. I grew up with parents who believed in Jesus - at least in public. I sort of absorbed the theology through the skin. Even though Jesus never said a word about gays or trans people, there are a lot of people who want to use religion to tell you you're wrong no matter what you're doing."

"I figured that part out for myself. That's why I want to dump the whole church thing."

"Can't say I blame you, but think about this: the bible-thumpers who hate me for being trans are acting out of ignorance. Do you really want to be like them and dump the church before you've really learned what it's all about."

"You're trying to be logical."

"A criminal offence in most states. Know any good lawyers?"

"Are there any good lawyers?"

"Such a cynic! Your Grandma Janine's friend Suzanne is one. I wonder if she'll work pro bono for an old friend."

"You're pretty good at changing the subject yourself, Grandma. I asked why you decided to be a woman."

"Easy to get sidetracked when you're my age. The simple answer is that I've always thought of myself as more female than male, but I wasn't unhappy enough with the situation to make such a major change when it would affect my job and family and friends so much. Once I retired I realized I didn't have much time left if I wanted to do it, so I talked it over with your Grandma Linda and we decided we could take the heat and trouble if I did.

"As to why I wanted to live as a woman, I have a hard time answering in a way anyone else can understand. Why do you want to play music? It's something you need to do, but could you explain to someone who is tone deaf? I wish I were born a woman, but I wasn't. The things doctors can do these days weren't all that available when I was growing up so I just tried to ignore my needs and live my life as best as I could.

"Try to imagine what life would be like if you lost the use of your fingers and couldn't play any more? You'd still live and be able to do a lot of things, but there would always be that ache in you to pick up the trumpet or guitar and play! Does that make any sense to you?"

"I think I get it, a little bit."

"That's called empathy - when you can understand and share someone's feelings even when you don't feel the same need. That's in short supply these days. When you think on it, that's a nice way to sum up the 'trustworthy, loyal, helpful' and all the rest in the Scout oath."

"Maybe… Dad said you were the pack leader when he was a Cub. Did you want to be a lady even then?"

"Deep down, yes. These days the Scouts have figured out that you don't have to be male to be a good leader. Back when I was a Cub leader they wouldn't let women lead a pack, they could only be den leaders. Being a role model and a good example has nothing to do with your gender; if even the Scouts have figured it out it shows that we're making progress."

"Will you come to the Court of Honor in a couple of weeks when I get my First Class?"

"Wouldn't miss it. We'll see just how tolerant the Scouts actually are, won't we. It can be hard to live up to your ideals."

"You sound like Dad again."

"Get used to it, kid. By the way, knowing a bit about the bible has come in handy when I run into a bible-thumper who is certain I'm an abomination to the lord because I wear women's clothes. I'm no expert, but I know a few verses I can throw back at them when they cite the same old crap at me about how men shouldn't dress up. You're going to keep running into self-righteous buggers who will tell you you're going to burn in hell if you don't believe what they believe, so it's nice to be able to have ammunition from their own book to use when they get annoying."

"I never thought of it that way."

"That's what grandparents are for - to give their grandchildren helpful hints so they can be annoying to other people. Not that you seem to need much help in that area. You ready to go home?

"Yeah, but I'm getting hungry."

"I know a hint when I hear one, we'll stop for lunch first. What'll it be?"

"Lobster?"

"Fat chance. I'll spring for a fish sandwich, though."

We had plenty of time to spend with the grandkids over their Christmas vacation, or should I call it a Holiday vacation? Wouldn't want to start another war on Christmas.

We wanted to take the kids somewhere interesting, so naturally we turned to Google. One of the things we found is that there are several caves not too far from Austin. Having visited the Luray Caverns on our way down, we figured that would be interesting for the grandkids.

Any of you who have raised children know how tentative that opinion can be when you have a thirteen and an eleven year old to please. It had been a while since we had visited; Austin is a long way from New York and somehow the time slips away. Linda and I had been pleasantly surprised how friendly the kids had been to the almost-strangers who claimed to be their grandparents, so we hoped an outing with them would turn out to be fun. But you never knew…

Turns out there are several caves near Austin, and the Cave Without A Name had a very interesting feature that we had never come across. It had an actual concert hall under the ground that sometimes featured folk music. The kids were impressed by all the fantastic formations we saw, but seeing an actual stage before him, Calvin couldn't resist jumping up and setting forth a sweet "Aaaah" to ring within the marvelous acoustics of the cavern. That brought a smile to the guide and the others in our tour group, but his grandmother was no less tempted and I joined him with my own "Aaaah" a third above his tone.

We hadn't spent many evenings singing together in vain, so brother Dalton soon joined in and Linda wasn't far behind as we filled the space with a four part harmony. Calvin knew he had an audience and launched into the the Carter Family's Wildwood Flower, one of the favorites of our family sessions, and it sounded simply marvellous. The applause was heartfelt and the guide was effusive in her praise of our little concert. Something like that had never happened before on any of her tours.

The trip back to the kids' home brought to mind similar trips when I was a kid. My dad, rest his soul, did love to sing and I enjoyed singing in the car on family trips until I got old enough to be embarrassed by such things. The cool kids wouldn't be caught singing Moonlight Bay and I wanted to be one of the cool kids almost as much as I wanted to wear dresses when nobody was around. The shrinks call it compartmentalization, holding two completely incompatible ideas in your one little mind. Worked for me - for a while - but it did screw up my life for a long time. If I hadn't fallen in with Linda and her circle of friends I'd probably be pushing up daisies instead of singing with my grandkids. Too bad Dad didn't live to see me straighten out my life, but then again he probably wouldn't have been thrilled with me as Hallie.

I think my train of thought just derailed worse than The Cowboy Fireman managed to do with his trusty lariat. (Don't know the song? You can listen to the wonderful Faith Petric on YouTube.) Somehow my good intentions always seem to go astray.

Lest you think I've forgotten, the first week in January finally rolled around and I got to see the plastic surgeon. Believe me, there was very little else on my mind on the days leading up to the appointment.

My path from Harry to Hallie was certainly not the usual one you read about in these stories. Maybe it's because of my rebel nature, maybe it's because I couldn't admit I needed help, maybe it's because of who knows what, but I have never seen a shrink about my crossdressing. Why go to someone to fix your head when you know damn well what you're doing is perfectly OK? Fuck You! has always done pretty well for me if someone didn't approve of what I was doing. (OK, there's one exception - if the objector is wearing a uniform and carrying a gun I usually was more diplomatic, depending how sober I was at the time.)

When I retired, all I did was get my hair done, put on a bra and a dress and took all Harry's clothes to the Goodwill. Then I spent the next month explaining to the multitude of confused people in my life. A little more effort on my part and I probably could have developed a comedy routine and gone on tour with it. Somewhere in the nooks and crannies of the gray matter between my ears I rather expected getting my own breasts would be much the same.

I had done my research; I knew the surgeon I had selected would do breast enhancement on men without the need for a note from a shrink. (This sort of thing for a man was often euphemistically referred to as for professional reasons. In plain language they wanted to become strippers in the kind of bar I had no interest in frequenting even in my drinking days. I refuse to speculate on what other activities for which a man might need breasts to perform.) In my naivete I rather envisioned a medical Wal-Mart, walk in, plunk down a pile of greenbacks and exit bouncing in my bra.

OK, anyone on this site has to have a rich fantasy life, but really - I should have known better. Actually, I had no trouble convincing the doctor that I was ready for the surgery and knew the consequences of my actions. What I hadn't spent enough time researching was the plethora of ways to accomplish my desires. It felt like there are more choices in getting boobs than there are choices of bras to put them in. Saline vs Silicone vs Gummy Bear.
Gummy Bear? Right - that's thicker silicone, not gooey sugar candy. I'm gonna say it and you're gonna regret it: sucking on Gummy Bear breasts is no different than sucking on the natural kind. Don't ask how I know, OK?

Then there's the surface of the implant (smooth or textured) the shape (round or teardrop) where they are implanted (under or in front of the pectoral muscle) and where the incision is made (along the areolar edge [peri-areolar incision], the fold under the breast [inframammary fold] and in the armpit [axillary incision]).

That doesn't even consider how big you want your breasts to end up. Cup size? Nope - they measure that in cubic centimeters. Which is how I found myself filling a pair of stockings with rice and stuffing my bra when I got home. I haven't done that in decades, but 1 cup of rice is about 250 cubic centimeters. You feel damn stupid asking your wife if your boobs look big enough, I can tell you.

For a while I considered putting all of these choices up on a wall and tossing darts to make the decisions, but thinking of what a dart would do to a breast form dissuaded me of that option.

After a thorough discussion we left the office with a depleted credit card and and actual date for surgery less than five days away. I thank the patient who developed the flu for doing so and letting me take their place in the schedule.

I spent the next five days gaining an appreciation for those who are afflicted with bipolar disorder. One minute I couldn't wait for my very own mammaries, the next I was freaking out because some bugger was going to slice holes in my body. That sort of thing brought on memories of some bad acid trips in my days of stupid self-destruction, not a good thing at all. Then I thought of looking in the mirror and seeing real cleavage without wearing a bra!

Linda put up with a lot from me, and she is fully qualified for sainthood. I think that was her I heard cheering when the nurse pushed the plunger on the anesthetic and I went out before they wheeled me into the operating room.

 

You might remember that we have a couple of cats rooming with us. Most mornings around daybreak I will wake up with one or the other of them curled up on my chest and, with a complete lack of subtlety, informing me that the food bowl is empty. Twelve pounds of cat riding on your chest is enough to make breathing a bit difficult. In my confused state as I came out of the anesthetic, I wondered just how the damned cat had gotten into the doctor's office.

Not that my implants outweighed the cat, but they weren't filled with helium either. My comments on the subject were utterly inaudible, but some kind soul put a little crushed ice in my dry mouth and my tongue finally got unstuck. Then the kind soul wiped the glue from my eyes and I could see Linda looking down on me with a smile that would have done the Cheshire Cat proud.

I wasn't in any pain, the stuff they pumped into me took care of that, but I was weak as a kitten (I can't seem to get away from the feline, can I?) but in a little while I was ready to try and sit up. Those hospital beds with the push-buttons are a great invention, as I didn't have to strain my stitches. Everything seemed to be working by then, including my bladder, so with the nurse standing close by, I toddled off to the facilitates. (Don't want the patient to do a face plant and sue the doctor, so we?) No balance problems in walking, after all I had been wearing a bra and falsies full time for years, I was used to the weight and balance. Besides, I had that rolling pole with the saline bag on it to use as a walker.

A few hours later Linda helped me into a loose double-knit dress and a pair of flats and we headed home, where I loafed and whimpered as needed while the incisions healed. Breasts sound like a great idea but they have some drawbacks. They're heavy and when you start out male you don't have enough skin to cover those big lumps so your skin will stretch! When it stopped hurting it feels odd as your skin tries to work into it's new shape.

The biggest problem was the cats. When I was wearing falsies full time I was always nervous of those sharp little claws could do to those expensive forms when they decided to perch on my breasts and get friendly. Years of trying failed to break them of the habit. Now I didn't have to worry about punctures as much, but I dare you to be friendly with a cat who is straining your stitches. A bra does just fine in supporting my breasts, thank you, but they just aren't made to support a cat - even the heavy duty surgical ones I was wearing.

I wasn't too thrilled with the surgical bra, but taking it off was a lousy idea because my body didn't know how to support those supposedly wonderful breasts I now had. After the first shower I kept the damn thing on while the water poured over me and changed once I got out of the shower.

It took about a week of healing before I could move without being constantly reminded of the newest parts of my body. The pain I had been fearing in my overworked imagination was nothing after what I went through when I got thrown from the horse. I didn't even have to resort to the heavy duty stuff the doctor had given me four doses of. Doctors are careful prescribing the high-powered stuff these days.

The swelling had started to go down and the bruising was fading from livid purple to a disgusting yellow brown. I was starting to think the damn things might someday be as feminine as they seemed to me before surgery.

When the bruises faded enough I loved standing in front of the mirror and looking at my new breasts. Somehow they weren't as attractive as Linda's, but the doctor said it takes time for everything to settle into place and the look would slowly become more natural. When the pain was mostly gone I spent some time in front of the computer screen ordering some much more sexy bras than I had been wont to wear - I had needed something substantial to be sure the forms wouldn't go wandering away somewhere if I moved the wrong way. With real breasts I could enjoy a plunging bra and actually show some cleavage.

Eventually I was feeling good enough to accept Wes's dinner invitation and, still wearing my accustomed high neckline blouses, spent a fine evening with my family. The only drawback was that I wasn't up to placing an autoharp against my breasts to play and singing was still not too comfortable. The inserts were still riding rather high on my body - it would take weeks for them to settle down to their final position.

By the time we were ready to leave Austin in early May, I was fully healed and was able to wear a low-cut sundress without any problems as I climbed into the pickup. I set the GPS, tooted the horn to our neighbors and we left for the Southwest. It gets hot there and I was looking forward to wearing a bathing suit and shocking the neighbors as I dove into the pool. Life is good!