This is a sequel to The Magic Number. You don't need to read it to understand the story, but it couldn't hurt.

 

"Hallie babe, we need to talk."

When my wife Linda says that, I know I'm in trouble.

"Oh, boy. I apologize for whatever it is."

"Hallie? Stop sewing, darling."

"Yes, dear."

I released the foot pedal and looked at my wife, being more sensitive to voice inflections since I retired as Harry and became Hallie. Either that or some primal protective instinct kicked in.

"Hallie, my birthday is coming up."

"I haven't forgotten. Being on the distaff side of the gender gap I have been magically imbued with the ability to remember birthdays, anniversaries and obscure federal holidays."

"That's the calendar app on your phone. We've been married too long for that line to work."

"As you say, dear. But I am aware that in two weeks you will turn fifty-eight years old, I even have a card tucked away in my pantyhose drawer. Or should I have developed amnesia when it comes to numbers?

"In this case the numbers are important. In one and a half years I can follow your sterling example and take early retirement without incurring the wrath of the IRS."

"A pleasant thought. Does that mean I will no longer endure your penetrating stare if I sleep in while you march off to toil in the jungles of industry."

"While you stay home and sew your little heart out. Good thing I don't like sewing or I'd be jealous."

"A gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do."

"Funny you should bring that up. There's something this gal's gotta to do."

"Do tell…"

"I'm sure you remember my wild and crazy hippie days."

"Actually, that was before my time."

"Stop interrupting. I've told you the story before. Since your feminine memory is so much improved you must have some faint inkling of the plot."

"Hmmm… Hitchhiking, a van full of guys, the Trans-Canada Highway, being broke, picking strawberries for days on end for sustenance? That story?"

"You were listening! Hallie, I want to relive the glory days of my youth when I retire."

"Hitchhiking? Who's going to stop for two old female farts loaded with instrument cases these days?"

"Just about anyone driving a VW camper. They're still living in the sixties."

"Do you really think you can find a van full of guys to take us across the country?"

"Hallie! Not a van, and RV. I'm too old to hitchhike and you're too ugly. If you showed a little leg at the side of the road you'd cause a pileup."

"I'm wounded to the quick!"

"Behave yourself our you'll be one step closer to transgender surgery without benefit of a licensed doctor."

"An RV? I seem to remember our one attempt at camping was not a great success."

"Hallie, a backpack and a pup tent in the middle of nowhere is not what I have in mind. Haven't you ever wanted to go on the road? We could buy a bus and travel, just like Willie."

"Willie barely missed spending a few years in the jug with his bus."

"We haven't done drugs in years, we'd be safe. Really, I've been wanting to go across country again for years. I want to see the Rockies and the desert and Yellowstone and places like that. I'm sick of winters, I want to travel and see the country."

"I like the part about running away from winter. That part's not crazy at all. Why not just take a week or two in the Bahamas?"

"And come back to a blizzard? You have to think big! No winter at all, we could go to somewhere in the South, go surfing in California, try to make it in Nashville. Anywhere but Florida, I'm not old enough to live in Florida. I hope I never will be!"

"You're serious about this, aren't you?"

"Of course I'm serious. We can visit the kids, get to know the grandkids for more than a few days at a time. We have the money, we'll have the time. Let's live a little, Hallie!"

"Well…"

"Think about it, sweetheart. What have we got to lose?"

"Our sanity?"

"Can't lose what you never had. There's an RV show this weekend and I want to go look at them."

"Sounds harmless enough."

"Hallie, I went along with your dream to live life as a woman after you're retired. This is my dream, to travel the country and see what's there after I retire."

"If you put it that way… What do we do with all our stuff?"

"You're just worried about closet space, Hallie. That's why I'm bringing this up now. I think we ought to see if it makes sense to do this. I want to get a weekend camper kind of thing so we can try it out this summer. I can take some of my vacation time and we can go camping in style. If we like it then we can think about something big enough to live in."

"It doesn't cost anything to look."

"That's where you're wrong, dear. There's a two buck admission charge."

"Two bucks to let them sell stuff to us? I suppose we can afford such an extravagance."

Damned it if her idea didn't worm it's way into my brain. The couple down the street had this big trailer and were gone most of the winter to warmer climes. And she was right, I was getting sick of winter. Shoveling snow with arthritis gets old, just like I was getting old. My son down in Austin kept posting pictures of picnics in January with the thermometer at 70°, the little bugger.

Then there were stairs. By the time I got from the basement to the third floor I was feeling it these days. Carrying a laundry basket up those stairs was a pain. Being the homebound spouse, I did the housework while Linda was working. Well, I always wanted to be a woman - you don't get to choose just the fun parts.

So the negotiating began. I rather liked having a home base, she wanted to travel without any roots. I was leery of selling our three story house and divesting ourselves of a lifetime of possessions to live in an RV while we traveled the country. We both wondered how we could find room for our obsessive wardrobes in the confined space of an RV, not to mention our collection of instruments.

We had both acquired a stable of doctors for various ailments and we wondered what to do about our medical needs. Would we be happy leaving our friends and family behind? At least we didn't have to worry about banking or credit cards - phone banking apps and ATMs have made going to the bank a quaint custom of the distant past. Writing checks? Haven't used one in years, everything's on line.

So it was that we found ourselves at the big RV show at the local fairgrounds, overwhelmed by rows of monstrous buses, fifth wheels and RVs. I'm not all that small, but I felt like a dwarf walking among the behemoths.

Not knowing where to start we just went in an open doorway and found ourselves in a luxury motor home. Luxury! What an understatement! Walnut wainscoting, ceramic tile floors, marble working fireplace, a Jacuzzi that slid out from beneath the queen size bed, complete kitchen (with an island, no less), a with large TV in the bedroom, an even larger TV in the living room, surround sound and Blue-Ray player. Jeez. We didn't even have anything like that in our house!

Naively, we asked the smiling salesman the price - just shy of half a million. Now between Social Security and pensions we would be pretty well off, but not quite in that class. I suppose he was used to such reactions, so when we explained what we were looking for and he directed us to the weekend camping size trailers.

As we looked at what was available I began to feel much better about life in an RV. Amazing what they can fit in such a small space. My HGTV addict wife kept mumbling "Tiny Houses" at me, but even she was surprised at what a well designed RV could contain. These were all brand new models, with price tags to match, but the salesmen invited us to come down to their lot and look at used vehicles. Used sounded pretty good, since we were only testing the waters, not putting on SCUBA gear and diving for sunken treasure.

The next weekend we visited Camping World, that's a national chain of RV dealers that we found at the RV show. Their salesmen had been low key and informative, so we started there. We ended there, too; the first trailer he showed us was just what we were looking for. We looked at several, but that first one was the one that made sense. It didn't have walnut, ceramic tiles or a Jacuzzi, not even surround sound, but the mattress felt good and the kitchen was functional.

It was a fifth wheel, which means part of it hangs out in front to attach to a big hitch in the bed of a pickup. It was 21 feet long and big enough for weekends, or even a two week vacation. At 10 years old it was looking a bit less beautiful than it's neighbors, but at only a few thousand dollars it would give us a taste of what life in a trailer was like without breaking the bank. Besides, if we did go whole hog we could trade it in on the bigger one and wouldn't loose much money. We had looked at renting an RV, but the weekly rental was outrageous, we could buy this one for almost what a summer's rent would cost.

So we bought it, then we bought the hitch, and the brake package for the pickup, and the… You get the idea. You just don't buy a trailer and go camping, you buy everything else you need to make it hook to your vehicle before you go camping. Then you buy some more stuff that you didn't think of at first. I was just glad I had kept my pickup when I had bought the little red sportster so we didn't have to buy a new vehicle.

Once all the shouting was done the itch was upon us. Having filled the trailer with the linens, towels and whatnot that had been hiding in the back of a closet for who knows how long, we dug the pots and pans and such that Linda's daughter the mandolin player had dumped in the basement when she left her college apartment. Then we dithered over what clothes to bring with us. There's an old saying that the Chinese ideograph for 'trouble' is two women under one roof. I don't know about that, but two women sharing a small closet is certainly trouble. As a lifelong crossdresser, I completely understand the need to have clothing for any occasion in your suitcase when traveling!

Oh yeah, we filled half the storage compartment with our instruments. With all the planning done we set out for our first weekend.

Memorial day weekend I was feeling pretty good as we punched our destination into the GPS and started out. Things went well until we saw the sign for the 10’8″ bridge ahead. Since we were pulling a 11’4″ trailer this was a problem. Naturally, this warning sign was posted after any road that would allow us to avoid the bridge and there wasn’t convenient driveway to use to turn the thing around. There is no simple way to turn a big camper around short of the Utah Salt Flats. There was, however, a good size field on the left so, shifting into four wheel drive we attempted to turn around. I got about halfway through the turn before getting mired in the mud, four wheel drive does no good if there’s no traction.

Linda and I got out and stared balefully at the RV, wondering if our first night of camping was going to be in the field when three pickups pulled over. Out piled several volunteer firefighters, in minutes one of them had hooked his four wheel drive to mine, another stopped the traffic and a third guy opined that "You should be able to get under that bridge." Some people just can’t do math, I guess.

We were soon back on the road, leaving only some impressive ruts in the field behind us. By the way, we now own a new GPS made for RV use with bridge heights and vehicle weights included in the route planning.

It was a good weekend, hanging out with folkie friends and singing around the campfire. We had a ball showing off our new luxury apartment (compared to our old tent, that is) and beamed at the jealous comments. We also got our first lesson in being careful when setting up. You have to remember to drop the tailgate before you pull away after unhitching the trailer. I was lucky we were on a downward hill, I only took off the molding strip on the tailgate.

The trailer took some getting used to, but on the whole we were satisfied with our first weekend. As we headed down the Thruway back home, there was a bit of a cross wind but overall the driving was pretty easy. I felt what I thought was an increase in the wind as we went, that is until people started honking and I noticed bits and pieces of something flying off the trailer. As there was no safe place to pull over without being too close to the driving lanes, we limped to the next service area and pulled to a stop where we discovered that we had blown a tire. Not only had we blown a tire, but the steel belts whipped around and tore up the side and bottom of the trailer, causing extensive cosmetic damage.

I stood there in my crinkled blue skirt and matching blouse, staring at a tangle of steel wire where our tire used to be. There was no way I was going to crawl under the RV, drop a 16″ tire, jack up a multi-ton trailer and replace the mangled ruins of the old rim. The role of helpless woman didn't sit too well, but I had absolutely nothing to wear that wouldn't be completely ruined before I finished. Note to self - include some grubby clothes in the trailer next time! Good thing the RV had four wheels or we would have been in a world of hurt.

At that point we happily recalled the platinum roadside service we had opted for when buying the trailer and out came the cell phone. Forty minutes later the cell phone was still out, plugged into the car charger as the battery was complaining.

"Hello?"

"How may I help you, Ma'am"

"We've blown a tire and need some help."

"I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am. Are you in a safe place?"

"Yes we are."

"That's great. Where are you located?"

"On the New York Thruway just east of Utica at the Schuyler Travel Plaza."

"Just a minute, ma'am. Let me locate that."

It was more than a minute. It seemed like hours.

"Hello, ma'am?"

"Yes, I'm here."

"I can't seem to find your location."

"On the NY Thruway just east of Utica at the Schuyler Travel Plaza."

"I don't have that on any of my references, ma'am. Could you tell me what mile marker you are at?"

Those rest areas are humongous, and we were in the very back with all the 18 wheelers. Insert long pause here as I hiked nearer the road to find I was at mile 227. Insert another longer pause as I hiked back. Insert yet another pause as she tried to find someone to help.

It's enough to give one pause…

"Hello ma'am?"

At last!

"Yes, I'm here."

"Ma'am, I haven't been able to find a working crew yet. Since it's Memorial Day it's hard to find anyone available. Please hold while I try again."

Wonderful! Once again Linda and I were preparing to spend the night camping in an unusual spot until help could come when a pickup pulls up next to us and the guy gets out and asks if he could help. Could it be that two morose women staring at the remains of a tire invited pity? I sure hoped so!

Believe it or not, he worked for Camping World, the chain where we bought the trailer, ferrying RVs across the country. So while Linda and I entertained his three year old son he changed our tire for us. (Good thing a horse transport pulled in next to us while he was working, it was very entertaining for the three year old.) One look at the spare tire told us that it would be chancy at best to make it back to home without blowing another tire, so we left the trailer at the Syracuse Camping World for repairs and went home to Rochester without it.

Despite all the problems it was a good weekend. There is a world filled with people who live the Good Samaritan story and we got to meet several of them. The world may be going to hell in a handbasket, but we are going to have some very good company as we travel.

With our first trip a technical success, we booked two weeks at Allegany State Park (That's in Southwestern NY if you don't know) and we started using up Linda's vacation time before it evaporated when she retired. We reached the park and discovered the driveway to our campsite was only about a foot wider than the trailer’s wheels with some serious ditches on either side. I was a newbie at backing this thing up and I was not at all happy about getting in there. The good part was that your neighbors when camping are almost always willing to lend a hand and I soon had a guy who drove 18 wheelers for a living directing me into the site. Amazing how a man can't resist telling a woman how to drive a big rig. I'm used to such things after a couple of years being a woman in public, but it still gives me a bit of a snigger when it happens. It still took a lot of backing and forthing but he really was a good guide. After a while we were in place.

 

Aside 1: Trailer Technicalities

Before we go on I have to explain how the leveling system works in a fifth wheel. You open the side storage and push a button and listen as an electric motor makes the gears lower two legs at the front of the trailer. Eventually - you’re moving a couple of tons of trailer, it isn’t going to be fast - the legs hit the ground and raise the trailer. After a little more time the trailer raises high enough to disconnect from the hitch in the bed of the pickup. Once the pickup is driven away you push the button and lower it until the thing is level. Sounds simple, eh?

 

"Uh oh!"

"What's wrong, Hallie?"

"I think we should have gone to Florida."

"Florida? For a week of camping? I thought you didn't want to hang around with old farts."

"I'm not worried about the old farts, I think the trailer wants to be a stork."

"What?"

"You notice the trailer is standing on one leg."

"Do you suppose it wants to build a nest?"

"If we can't get it on both legs we're going to spend the night in the pickup."

"A nest might be more comfortable, but that idea is for the birds."

"Owl agree with that."

"So what do we do?"

"We take everything out of the front compartment and get the flashlight, then see if I can find out what's wrong."

It was starting to get dark by this time, and there I was unloading the front storage compartment to peer inside with a flashlight. It was fortunate that Harry had made his living as a machinist, as Hallie I had inherited all of his mechanical skills. I discovered there is a bar running from the powered leg to the unpowered leg so that they turn in unison, but the connecting bolt was broken. Not a difficult repair, but it was after 7 PM on a Sunday night with a 20 minute drive into Salamanca, the small town just outside the park's borders. Anybody want to take bets on the odds of finding a 1/4" bolt in time to stabilize the trailer so we could sleep in it?

The trailer seemed to be OK on only one leg, even if it was obviously twisted a bit, so we fired up the pickup and headed for town. For once the Travel Gods were feeling generous and we reached the auto parts store minutes before they closed. They even had a bolt that would work, so I bought two, just in case.

Returning to the campsite I removed the broken bolt and threaded in the replacement, only to find the original bolt was a metric thread and I had an English thread. I have a well equipped toolbox in the pickup, so there was a battery operated drill and the correct taps to put new threads on the gearbox.

Picture, if you will, the scene. Here we have a rather large, mature woman in a white skirt and pink blouse awkwardly half kneeling on a rug to protect the skirt, half crouching with her artificial bust pressed against the lip of the storage compartment under the front overhang, the top of her body inside the storage compartment. The mature lady is mumbling around the flashlight in her mouth while trying to avoid puncturing her silicone breasts as she brings the drill into position to replace the failed bolt. The romantic essence of femininity, to be sure."

"Can I offer you some help, ma'am?"

I damn near took off the top of my head when I started at his voice.

"Mumble, grunt, thippt." I removed the flashlight. "I certainly could. Would you like to hold the flashlight?"

I quickly wiped my spit off it, wouldn't do to gross out a helpful neighbor.

"Surely. What's going on in there?"

I explained about the avian tendencies of the trailer and he joined me in the recesses of the storage compartment, rather intimate contact for two total strangers. With the light pointed in the right direction the job was much easier and soon I had the hole drilled and tapped. He was even kind enough to push the button while I lined up the connecting bar and screwed it in place. Somewhere a little before ten o’clock we finally were able to go inside and draw a sigh of relief.

What a way to meet your neighbors! I know I don't pass as well as I'd like and am resigned to it, but sharing a storage compartment in the dark with a total stranger was a bit daunting. Not a sight you see every day, I suppose.

At my age women in the skilled trades are still an unusual phenomenon; people tend to stare at women doing this sort of thing and our neighbors were no exception. I have to give our truck driving neighbor points, though. I must have been exuding femininity as I drilled and tapped in a dark hole; I detected nothing unusual in his attitude. Nice to know I'm so comfortable in a woman's role it works even at close quarters in the dark.

Wait a minute, I think I may have created a false impression there…

 

"Well, that was an interesting experience," commented Linda.

"You should have been there with your falsies almost falling out if you want to talk interesting."

"Hallie, you of all people should know I'm not the one sporting falsies in this marriage."

"Should I take off your bra and check?"

"Not until we get the bedroom opened up. Maybe you should try gluing the things down like they do in those stories."

"Been there, done that, have the scars to prove it."

"Funny, I've never noticed any scarring and I've examined the subject closely."

"So you have, and maybe I'm exaggerating a little."

"Honey, there ain't nothing little about your falsies."

"And therein lies the problem. You ever picked one of them up?"

"On occasion. Not exactly pumping iron, but they do have some heft to them."

"That they do. Before we met I tried gluing them on, but hanging a couple of pounds of silicone off you skin puts a lot of strain on the glue. Some little slip of a thing with a 32B bra can get away with a few ounces and go jogging or bouncing on a trampoline without any problems, but when a couple of pounds of silicone hanging off a more, uh, mature frame causes the glue to fail it takes a significant amount of skin with it. It bloody well hurt! I couldn't wear a bra for weeks until it healed."

"Oh, you poor baby. Maybe you should consider implants."

"Don't think I haven't thought of it, but so far the falsies have been enough."

"If you're happy then I'm happy. Lets get this place set up and we can remove each other's bras."

"Mmmmm…"

 

People who love camping are our kind of people. Even the twenty-somethings who sit around a fire and guzzle beer by the case tend to be friendly (sometimes a bit too friendly.) but goodhearted; willing to help but not being overly curious about the exact relationship of the two women in the trailer. We were often invited to share a campfire when we were in the park and were never disappointed when we joined our fellow campers.

Naturally, it rained most of the first week, but we had a great time anyway. There's something deeply satisfying about being in a nice, warm RV listening to the rain falling. With a refrigerator, stove, microwave, TV, computer loaded with good music and a couple of E-books full of our favorite authors you can ignore the weather and live the good life in the wilderness.

The weather did cooperate for a visit to the Cattaraugus County fair, a wonderful rural fair that has most of the traditional events of a rural fair. We loved seeing the 4-H kids and their animals, the quilts and handcrafts, the horses and simple, home-made exhibits. Looking at all the sewing and craft projects gave me an irrational urge to run back to my sewing machine. I did still have several projects waiting in my order book. I wonder if I could enter one of my creations in the Monroe County Fair. The county is not too agricultural any more, but they did have textile competitions. Hmmm…

I found that hiking in a skirt is very enjoyable, our neighbor's dog loved it and must have run three times the distance we walked. Evenings around the campfire were fun, Linda and I could usually get everyone singing.

We had a great time with the little girl next door and her mother; we had a nail painting party and tried out several colors. I had my hair enthusiastically braided by the precocious little urchin while Linda and her mother tried to keep a straight face as she explained how to braid hair. Our little friend and her family were delightful neighbors. By the end of the two weeks we felt at home and had pretty much figured out where to store things and how to dance around each other in a limited space. It was starting to feel like home.

It turns out that we took to our mobile home with gusto. If we were in a park we could go hiking or fishing, if we were closer to civilization we could play tourists and still go home to our own bed. By the end of the summer we were sorry to winterize the trailer and have to wait out the cold until we could use it again. By then we had no doubts we could live in a larger RV as a permanent home.

We spent much of the winter sorting stuff. One pile to keep, another to give to various relatives, another for the VOA or Goodwill, still another to leave at the curb. How is it you keep so much stuff that just plain isn't worth anything; stuff no one in their right mind would want to have when you give it up? I would have laughed at Linda's pain at downsizing her wardrobe to fit into our new home, but I was crying right along with her as I winnowed my own clothes. We had a 20 foot long enclosed porch off the upstairs bedroom, and between the two of us we had filled it all with feminine frippery. That's in addition to what we had in two bedroom closets and several dressers.

In January I once again hit a magic number: 62 ½. I filled out the forms for Social Security and started collecting checks. Turns out you can still work while you are on SS if you don't earn too much. It made a nice addition to my retirement check. Having been in a good union, my defined benefit pension and Social Security made for a very reasonable income.

Springtime was occupied by painting and other fixup around the house. It may seem ridiculous, but I have a painting skirt. I don't know if it helps, but it does make some boring tasks a little more tolerable. When people came over for the stuff we put on Craigslist, you'd be surprised how many men don't want a woman to help them move furniture. As the weeks passed the house got more and more empty. Not the back room though, it kept filling up with garage sale stuff.

The painful part was parting with my tools. After our summer trials I knew I would need a well equipped toolbox in the pickup to keep up with trailer maintenance. Paring down to the essentials was as painful as pairing down Hallie's wardrobe, but it had to be done.

Memorial Day will henceforth be known as the start of Garage Sale Hell. Fortunately, the sun was shining and the weather clement. Every table we owned and anything we could borrow was out on the lawn. Everything we hoped not to own any longer was on the tables. Then there were the bookshelves. The books (somewhere around 3000 of them, I didn't count) had been donated to the library. E-books had collapsed the used book market, you just couldn't sell them even to the used book store. Many months on the computer had put the essentials on our new Nook E-readers. (I only pirated the ones to replace the physical copies.) ((well, mostly.))

Linda had her Boutique on the porch with the better clothes we were leaving behind. I had my Tool Crib in the driveway. Bazillions of CDs were on the tables (the music safely on the laptops we had gotten for the road). We put prices on stuff, but we were easy to bargain with; it all had to go! Friends helped with the CDs (the little round plastic kind, thank you), a young man just starting out in the contracting business was overjoyed to find a home for my wayward parts. There were even several larger women who approved of my taste in clothes. By the end of the first weekend we had made a considerable dent in the pile and had close to $1,000 in the till. Sounds like a lot, but $1,000 for the accumulations of a lifetime - pretty sobering.

The next weekend was not so great, but we gamely set out our wares and hung the signs on the light poles near the house again. The crowd was smaller, but we cut prices drastically and things sold. Sunday about noon it started to cloud up and the weatherman was promising rain, so we just plain gave away anything that was left to anyone who would take it. It still took four trips in the pickup to transfer the leftovers to Goodwill, but at last the garage, the back room and the yard were clear. Time to call the Realtor.

I mentioned that Linda is an HGTV addict. I don't think there is any twelve step program for this particular addiction, and if there were she probably wouldn't take advantage of it. That's OK, even if I can't bring myself to watch TV in general and HGTV in particular.

About ten years ago I was thrown off a galloping horse and spent two weeks in the trauma ward recovering from multiple injuries - six broken ribs, two fractured vertebrae, a broken shoulder blade and a broken collar bone, not to mention a detached lung. Linda was right there at my bedside, watching HGTV, while I couldn't move far enough to get the remote without hurting. The worst part was I couldn't wear a bra or breast forms for many months without considerable pain, even now I get occasional twinges where the ribs broke.

Not that I'm complaining (much!) but when it came time to sell our home it paid off. With the junk gone and the house staged it took a miraculous four days to sell the house. It went on the market Tuesday and by Saturday we had two offers, one with no contingencies and even $100 more than the asking price. We took it and celebrated by heading out to Camping world with the RV in tow to see what we could find for our new home.

It wasn't quite so easy this time, we didn't take the first one we saw, but found a really nice Keystone Montana, 37 feet long and only five years old. The cool thing is that it had four slideouts, bed, kitchen, desk and couch/dining table. When you're traveling the whole thing folds up neatly, leaving no room inside; when you push the button a hydraulic pump whines and the slideouts slide out to open up the inside to a surprisingly spacious area.

The previous owners must have been neat freaks, the light tan carpeting was pristine, as was just about everything else. What sold it is the bedroom closet that extended the entire width of the trailer. We would still fight for space, but our pared down wardrobes had a place to hang. Too bad Linda and I are different sizes, it would have been nice to share clothes, but real life doesn't always work that way.

Another thing we hadn't anticipated - my trusty F150 pickup couldn't haul the bigger trailer. At eight tons we needed a bigger vehicle to tow it with. We soon found out that used diesel pickups (it had to be diesel for the power needed) were like hen's teeth; people who buy them run them into the ground, they don't trade them in every year. There just wasn't anything used available.

In the end we found an F350 diesel that had been on the dealer's lot for almost a year so they gave us a pretty good price. Pretty good means it cost more than our house did when I bought it twenty years ago. Even after trading in my beautiful red sportster, the 401(k) took another hit but came out ahead when the house sold, it had appreciated considerably. We were ready for our new life.

It's a good thing we had a neighbor with a very wide lot two doors down from us, the new 5th wheel would not fit in our driveway. It's also a good thing we were friendly with the neighbor, who let us park the RV there for the time it took to finally empty the house and fill the trailer. This required a few more trips to Goodwill, as we had overestimated what we could take with us. The generous neighbor also made out quite well in the deal as he got much of what we couldn't fit. We found a cheap storage place to keep some family furniture and such that we didn't want to get rid of in case we decided to settle down somewhere, put our good mattress in the RV and the RV mattress in storage and spent our last night at home in the trailer a couple of lots away with an extension and hose connected to our neighbor's place. I know that doesn't make sense, but that's how it worked.

 

Aside 2: The cats.

We have two cats, Curious George and Harry Houdini. We didn’t intend to have cats - in fact we had to give away our cats shortly after we were married because my cat allergy was making it difficult to breathe. I hated to do that because I’m a cat person. (Linda is a dog person. She’s also a horse person, which is why I spent those two weeks in the hospital, but we fortunately have no place to keep a horse!) In any case, one fine June day a few years ago I went to the garage to get something and found three tiny gray blobs wiggling on top of a pile of stuff. The gray blobs were kittens about four weeks old, one of the stray cats in the neighborhood had apparently moved her litter to our garage not many hours before.

Since we didn’t need three more stray cats in the neighborhood I brought them inside. All right - they were so freakin’ cute there was no way I could resist them. The plan was to raise them until they were big enough to find new homes, which involved running out for kitten formula and little tiny kitten baby bottles. We hand fed them for several weeks and took them with us everywhere as they needed to eat every five minutes or so - at least it seemed that way.

Curious George has an obvious name - from day one Georgie investigated everything and was on a lap as soon as anyone sat down. Harry Houdini was the one who escaped from the cage no matter how many exits we blocked. Harry is the original scardy-cat, she makes herself scarce when strangers are about. Oh yeah - they’re both female, but the names were attached long before we found that out. Does that make them transgendered? I suppose that would be appropriate.

 

We wanted to take the cats with us on our travels, but we had left them home in the smaller RV because it was just too much to handle in that small space. Now the challenge was to see if we could turn our two outdoor prowlers into house cats. First decision was what to do with them as we traveled. Looking at the trailer we decided to let them travel in the bedroom. A little time with the a friend's table saw ( I had sold my own)and I came up with a construction to block the space between the bedroom door and the staircase so the cats couldn’t escape.

After finally getting the trailer leveled we opened the bedroom door, but there were no cats. What we hadn’t noticed was when the slideout for the bed was slid in there were two large holes opened up beneath the bed, holes perfect for unhappy cats to hide in. When the slideouts are in there is absolutely no space in the trailer, so until we could get the cats out we couldn’t open up.

In frustration, I ended up fishing a broom handle through the holes and determined we could slide the bed out without puréeing the cats, so we carefully opened up, then slid the bed back in a few inches. Linda solved the problem with an inspiration - one can of cat food by the hole and they came out in only minutes. The cats usually have only had dry food, so the treat of canned food brought them running. The cats now travel in the shower - no way they can get out of it while we're moving.

Over the first week we solved such problems as where to put the catbox, and found that cats are truly nocturnal. They love to race from one of the trailer to the other. Oddly enough, both cats didn’t seem to mind being indoor cats, neither one attempted to escape for the first few weeks.

 

Aside 3: Odors in small spaces.

RVs come with large vent fans in the ceiling for good reason. With a small space it is pretty easy to fill it with one objectionable odor or another. (Hint: there's a dedicated exhaust fan in the toilet.) In cold weather you need to be careful about how much garlic you use in cooking. In hot weather you need to take the garbage out regularly. It was soon obvious that when the cats used the catbox you needed a gas mask even if you were in the bedroom with the door closed and the catbox was at the other end of the trailer.

I've alluded to the collection of tools necessary to keep up with maintenance in an RV, so I put said tools to use after a trip to Lowe's hardware. We now have a repurposed dryer vent fan connected to the catbox with a light dimmer to control the fan speed. (I didn't want to blow all the heated air out with the odors.) Works fine and problem solved.

 

Our first stop was a visit to Frank Lloyd Wright’s Falling Water, the incredible house built over a waterfall in Pennsylvania. Many years ago I watched a film showing how the house was retrofitted with modern materials to keep the outhrust porches from falling down into the water. Wright was a genius of an architect, but a lousy engineer, so many of his buildings have needed extensive renovation and updating to keep them standing. Of course he didn’t have our modern hi-tech materials that would have made his life easier.

The tour was fascinating and we learned a lot. Linda and I had read a book called Loving Frank some time ago about Frank and Mamah Borthwick Cheney, whose long term affair was a very popular scandal of the times. Ever since we have had an interest in Wright.

I've always harbored a secret love for the women's fashions of that era. The formal division of all things into "men's work" and "women's work" does trouble my feminist soul, but damn, those formal dresses look great! I know from experience that the corsets of that era are purely hell to wear all day long, but the result still looks wonderful. Talk about suffering for fashion! Girdles in the fifties and sixties were an improvement, I suppose, but I'm glad to be able to just wear a bra and be comfortable.

We were so impressed that we became members of Falling Water and Linda got an official Falling Waters hiking stick. We could now visit several Wright houses around the country for free, many of them on our intended travel path.

Onward into West Virginia and a beautiful state park on the Ohio River. As we left the first morning Curious George made a break for freedom and disappeared into the woods. We figured she would be back and left for the day, but we didn’t get back until about ten that night and when we got out of the pickup there was Georgie atop the trailer howling forlornly. How she got up there remains a mystery.

How she got down is less of a mystery, I climbed the ladder with a flashlight in my mouth, enticed her close enough to grab and descended the ladder with a very unhappy cat in one arm and clutching the ladder with the other. I did have the foresight to wear my heavy coat and use the leather work gloves I save for chopping wood and such. All the way down I was hoping the coat was thick enough to prevent her claws from getting into my breast forms as I clutched a very unhappy cat to my bosom. Georgie did not attempt to escape the trailer for many weeks thereafter.

In the Cincinnati area there was another Wright house, so we visited it and were once again impressed by his ability to design beautiful and functional homes. One of Wright's quirks was that he hated clutter, so he invented the carport. His customers needed a place to protect the newfangled automobiles but he hated having any walls to encourage cluttering in the garage. We could have used that philosophy in our old home!

Poor Frank, the carport at both Falling Water and Wescott House had been enclosed to make a visitor center. Wescott House had required extensive restoration as it had been cut up into apartments when the Wescotts fell on hard times and sold it. A few decades ago no one placed any special value on such architectural treasures, they were just buildings to be used as wanted or torn down if they were in the way.

The next day we spent at the National Underground Railroad Freedom Museum. The museum is a brilliant tribute to the men and women who suffered and gave their own freedom and even their lives to end the abomination of slavery. The juxtaposition of the best and worst of humanity is strangely fascinating and thought provoking. If you ever get to Cincinnati it is well worth a visit. As a man learning to be a woman the frequent reminders that women were regarded as little more than chattels for much of history was personally sobering.

Then things got really fun - our old friend Jasper was performing in Cincinnati. If you read about the night that Hallie first walked into the outside world, you'll remember that Linda and I opened for the wonderful Canadian folksinger, Jasper. He was vastly amused at the reaction of the promoter when I showed up as Hallie, and even invited Linda and I to join him as backup singers for a couple of songs in his second set. That was a very good night, it's not often you get to sing with someone as accomplished as Jasper.

Naturally, I had been prowling the Web to see if anyone we liked was performing near where we would be, and this was the first time it happened. We got there early and scored front row center seats. You can do that pretty easy in folk music, the venues are pretty small and I've never run into assigned seating.

If you're not into folk music, you probably don't realize that folk audiences will sing along lustily on the choruses. Linda and I are no exception, so we joined in the first time Jasper sang a chorus song. After the applause faded jasper leaned foreword and scanned the first row.

"I know those voices! Is that you, Hallie? Linda? What the heck are you guys doing here?"

I was amazed, Jasper remembered our names after only meeting us once. Linda was quick to reply. "I always wanted to be a groupie. We're stalking you!"

Looking back at the audience Jasper filled them in. "These guys are from upstate New York and they opened for me a while back. It was a memorable night and I never thought to find them here." Looking back at us, "I'll catch you guys at the break."

Wow, could this be our fifteen minutes of fame? So that's how Linda and I ended up singing backup on a couple of songs in the second set and being invited to the party after the concert. Folkies are the same wherever you go, we sang our hearts out until two in the morning.

The farther south we got the warmer it got. The warmer it got the less comfortable having silicone breast forms pressed against my chest became. Traveling was just fine; the pickup has AC and so does the RV, but 80 and 90 degree weather made for a clammy chest. Even worse, wriggling or trying to shift my breast forms in public was not good form. At times like these I thought longingly about having real breasts.

Naturally, Linda noticed my wiggling and not-so-surreptitious efforts to unstick my forms.

"So Hallie, have you discovered one of the downsides to wearing a bra?"

"Not so much the bra, but all this plastic on my chest does get rather annoying in the heat."

"Too bad they're so many people around, you could reach over and squeeze some of the sweat out of my boobs. You're not sweating alone."

"Normally an offer I would not refuse, my love, but people would stare."

"And they're not staring at you already?"

"Well, no more than usual, I guess. I would appreciate being able to wear something with a plunging neckline on a day like this."

"Maybe you should reconsider having that boob job."

"It still seems like a fantasy that isn't practical."

"You want a practical fantasy? My, you are a walking contradiction!"

"My life is a contradiction. As long as I'm fantasizing, why not a smaller body and a nice set of hips?"

"I've never heard of a 'hip job.' "

"And you certainly don't need a boob job."

"But maybe you do. If you're determined to stay Hallie then why only go half way? It's worked better than I thought it would, and I don't think I would freak out if you had real breasts."

"You wouldn't?"

"Maybe I could come to appreciate why you like to play with mine so much."

"It would be nice to see what it's like from the other side."

"I like it from this side, sweetie."

"The warmer it gets the more I wish I had a body that could carry off those skimpy blouses you can wear."

"Just don't think sleeveless, old girl. Your manly shoulders are just to damn masculine I'm afraid."

"Do they do arm jobs?"

"Only if you're into reincarnation."

"That would involve diapers - not my kind of kink."

"For which I am profoundly thankful!"

"You really wouldn't mind if I did something so permanent?"

"As it only involves secondary sexual characteristics I'm OK. Admit it - you do want to have your own breasts. You need to make some phone calls when we get to Austin."

"Think we can find a plastic surgeon who will do it without a note from a shrink?"

"Remember that gambler that got a boob job to win a bet? I think he still has them twenty years later. If he can do it, so can you."

"I do remember. A couple of years ago he was talking about having them removed, but I couldn't find anything on the Net that said he actually did it."

"You have been thinking about implants, haven't you?"

"You tempt me. How about a nice rose tattoo around the nipple?"

"Don't push your luck, Hallie!"

 

My wardrobe had changed since I retired Harry for Hallie; for that matter it had changed several times in a lifetime of crossdressing.

Naturally, I started by swiping my mother's clothes - what crossdresser didn't, at least if there wasn't an older sister handy - and graduated to miniskirts and sexy stuff when I finally had a place of my own. Then there was a dry period when I married my first wife - convinced that marriage would 'cure' me of the need to crossdress.

It hadn't. When my first wife was in the hospital with our first child, the urge overcame me and he spent those two days in skirts. Soon afterward I realized that Hallie wasn't going to go away, so I did what I thought was right and told my wife.

She wasn't thrilled, to say the least. Coping with a new baby is stressful and my timing was downright lousy, but we managed to cope. Over time we worked out rules we could both live with, but it hadn't saved the marriage.

What it had done was improve my wardrobe - nothing like your wife wincing at your purple skirt, green blouse and red platform shoes to start you thinking about how a woman of your age should dress. Still, I favored more dressy outfits and bold jewelry, but in those days Hallie seldom left the house so it didn't matter, even if almost all the woman of my acquaintance wore pants and casual clothes out in public.

That changed when Harry retired; Hallie's wardrobe became more causal in order to blend in more effectively. I still favored long skirts - varicose veins are so ugly! - and blouses that helped conceal the arms of a man who made his living as a machinist, but for everyday wear my wardrobe became yet more casual. Not that I didn't enjoy wearing the fancier things in the closet, but the opportunities became more limited.

Casual dressing had its limits, even when wandering the country in an RV and living in campgrounds. I just didn't like to wear t-shirts, the darn things just emphasized my all too masculine body too much. Years of effort had gone into my feminine image, (having a high tenor voice helped) but I still drew curious glances and occasional hostile ones.

What was an even greater help was living in two of the most tolerant communities in the world. The people drawn to folk music are pretty odd to start with, we have more than our share of oddballs and fragile people. I got amazingly little pushback when I came out publicly as Hallie on the stage for all the world to see.

Then there's those of us who go camping. The kind of person who abandons city life to spend a weekend in the woods has a very different outlook on life than most people. Those of us who chuck it all and live full time in an RV are pretty flexible in their outlook. We have to be - being rootless is not for everyone. Once again, I've gotten plenty of strange looks, but no overt hostility since we have been on the road.

Which leads us to some doubts on my part as we spent the fall wandering, gradually heading toward Texas as the spirit took us. I came of age during the height of the civil rights unrest - the image of the fat Southern cop and the violent redneck are still in my brain. I'm happy to report that's just where they remained - the people south of the Mason-Dixon line, at least those we ran into, are just people - not much different then those up north other than the accent.

As denizens of the frozen north one of the inducements of traveling was to escape the winter. While heavy sweaters and woolen skirts have their charms, I could do with about two weeks of winter around Christmas and then back to the seventies. Barring that, heading South sometime around October to escape the snow will do.

On the other hand, doing so involved a major decision. I was completely happy to live as Hallie. Linda was, well maybe 'ecstatic' would be overstating the case, but she was comfortable with me in a dress. But Thanksgiving was coming and we had been invited to my son's place in Austin for the holiday.

My son has known about my crossdressing since his teenage years, but he hasn't seen me dressed since I was the Bearded Lady at a circus themed Halloween party when he was seven. Yeah, I had a beard back then. Since he's pushing forty that's a long time ago. They knew in the abstract that I was Hallie now and if we joined them it would be as Hallie & Linda, Harry's clothes being long gone. I knew the family was going to have to meet Hallie sometime after I retired and the time had come.

 

"Hello?"

"Hi Wes, it's Dad."

(Silence)

Oh wait, I had grown so used to speaking as Hallie I didn't sound like 'Dad'.

"These days known as Hallie. Sorry to confuse you."

"Oh, that Dad. Not like you haven't confused me most of my life."

"Just doing my job, son."

"You're retired."

"Never going to retire when that job is so much fun."

"Oh joy…"

"As a matter of fact I've been pretty joyful since I retired Harry. Hallie is a lot more fun."

"I'll take your word for it."

"Good. I called to see if Hallie and Linda are still welcome for the Thanksgiving dinner you offered. Harry is one with history, but I don't want to make you or Billie uncomfortable."

"I guess you were serious when you said you weren't going to retire from the job of confusing me."

"Seriously, I'm Hallie from now on. I know it doesn't make sense to anyone that doesn't feel the need, but that's the way it is. I meant it when I said I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. If you don't want to meet me as Hallie then I'll live with that."

"You aren't going to be the bearded lady again, are you?"

"You remember that, do you?

"Kind of hard to forget. You made one ugly woman."

"Thanks, son. By the way, the beard and chest hair is gone permanently."

"Just doing my job, Dad… Or is that Mom?"

"Well, Dad seems to be a bit out of place at this point. Whatever you're comfortable with."

"Let's stick with Hallie. You won't mind if I slip once in a while?"

"We modern women haven't worn slips in years."

"Don't skirt the issue."

"Your humor hasn't improved since you moved south, has it?"

"Yours hasn't improved since you lost your mind, has it?"

"Nope."

"Good."

"External changes only, at least as the physical is concerned."

"Mental changes… Damn that was one tempting straight line you gave me, Hallie."

"Well, I am straight, you know. Despite what some people might think. Just not in the closet any more."

"Speaking of closets, how do you and Linda fit all your clothes into that trailer? You had more clothes than Mom in that attic closet you thought we didn't know about."

"With difficulty. Having a keen sense of fashion and accessorizing my wardrobe helps."

"Ask a foolish question, get a foolish answer."

"You doubt me? I'm cut to the quick!"

"I seem to remember a parent who lived in grubby jeans and T-shirts. Besides, I've seen the pictures of you in your closet, Hallie."

"Pictures from my callow youth, when my idea of femininity was yet undeveloped."

"It would have been better if those pictures stayed undeveloped."

"I have to agree. I will have you know that I now dress and comport myself as a mature woman."

"Mature? Now there's a word I don't often associate with you, Hallie."

"You always were a smart-ass kid. Glad you haven't changed."

"Well I can't say I'm glad you've changed, but if you and Linda are happy we can live with it."

"Thanks, son. I see from your Facebook page you've started doing house concerts."

"Yeah, I guess I've inherited that music gene from you. Nothing big, but every couple of months we invite someone over to play."

"And I bet you manage to find a way to back them up."

"Hell, I make them let me open the show. I have the power…"

"Since you're such a powerful promoter, how about having me and Linda for a show while we're there."

"Send me your resume and a demo tape and I'll consider it."

"Looks like that power has gone to your head."

"The world takeover is scheduled for Thanksgiving evening when everyone is sleeping off the turkey dinner."

"Beats watching football on the TV."

"We'll see you in a few weeks."

"And I'll try to restrain the turkey jokes at the Thanksgiving table."

"Not a chance, son. We're too much alike."

"Threats, she still makes threats. Guess you haven't changed that much. Bye Hallie."

 

We continued our travels, heading Southeast to Virginia to visit an old friend Linda had reconnected with on Facebook, arriving well after dark at our chosen campground. It was pitch black, no lights in the camping area except a lamp on the locked bathrooms. Somehow we managed to back the trailer into an open spot - they were all open - no one else was there. The cold seemed to be intent on following us South; it was cold enough that there was no water available, but we had a full water tank and didn’t worry. Cheapskates that we are we plugged in and used the electric heat to save propane and curled up for a good night’s sleep.

The next morning we went to check in and discovered we had gone to the closed section of the park. The open area, with complete hookups was just up the hill from where we stopped. We made do, we were not going to hassle closing up, moving and opening up again.

The evening with Linda's friend remains a surreal experience. We invited them to the trailer for dinner, so we were together in close quarters. Linda and her long lost friend fell to reminiscing about the past, leaving me and her husband to try to find a topic of conversation. He knew I wasn't a genetic female, but I did my best to look the part of a genetic female. Now two normal strangers trying to find something in common to talk about is bad enough, but I felt like the proverbial crossdressed elephant in the room.

After a bit of searching, we found out that he had been in the trades for many years, so we swapped stories of the stupid things we had found in an industrial setting. We hit a lull in the conversation and looked over at our spouses happily reminiscing.

"Do you get the feeling we've been left behind in a time warp?" he asked.

"I think they've both been sucked down some kind of deep well. Kind of like when I went to her high school reunion and everybody was talking about people and things I didn't know about."

"I've had the experience. At least then there were a bunch of mismatched partners hanging around so we could commiserate."

"Is that what we're doing, commiserating?" I asked.

"We could give it the old college try - wait a minute, make that the old High School try. Do we weep and moan or try to find something to talk about?"

"Weeping will screw up my makeup and I've never been into moaning. Let's try this - how did you two meet?"

"Ah, a fine neutral topic! Jody and I met when we both got screwed by a guy who signed us up for lawn care, us and a couple of hundred other suckers. It was quite a scandal for a small town, he took in enough to buy a new pickup and split, leaving us all high and dry."

"Jeez, pretty much the same thing happened in Rochester, except it was snow plowing."

"I suppose there are those who will try to make a fast buck anywhere. We were two of the people who gave evidence against him and we spent a long time waiting around and talking while the trial dragged on. His lawyer fought every little thing and dragged it out for days. We had a little party when he got put away and kept seeing each other. These days we do our own yard work together."

"Romance among the roses, or some such. People meet in the strangest ways."

"How did you meet Linda?"

"Her daughter and my son were seeing each other and playing in a bluegrass band together; we met when we both came to their first gig. I was weirded out because I was into sex, drugs and rock-n-roll back then. She started singing harmony with me at the party afterwards and we fell in love, even if our kids split up later."

"Funny the ways people can get together."

"If we hadn't met I'd probably be a drugged-out homeless loser rotting on the street corner somewhere. I was headed downhill after a divorce. I got interested in her and the music naturally followed."

"So she made you the woman you are today?" He said it with a gleam in his eye and a grin.

"Nah, I was a crossdresser long before that. She did teach me how to dress and act so I wasn't trying to be a groupie for the some heavy metal band."

"You'll pardon me if that image causes me some consternation?"

"It causes me more than a little consternation. Some memories are painful! I know I didn't get the best body to try to live like a woman, but I do try."

"Whatever floats your boat, Hallie. Good people come in all flavors."

"Now I feel like a jelly bean."

"As long as you don't try to wear a bunny suit to deliver the candy…"

My groan attracted the attention of the ladies.

"What are you guys doing over there?"

"Just contemplating the odd ways people meet."

"And the odd people you meet, no doubt."

"I don't find your husband odd at all, madam." I replied.

What could she say to that?

I've mentioned my fondness for period clothing in the heyday of Frank Lloyd Wright, but visiting Colonial Williamsburg offered some wonderful opportunities. A little research on the Internet revealed a costumer willing to rent dresses appropriate to the period. Naturally, we elected to appear as well-to-do women, so Linda and I spent two glorious days in voluminous skirts, satin blouses and bonnets as we explored the place. We fit in so well that we were sometimes taken to be some of the paid staff that told you what life was like in the revolutionary era.

I guess that evening was pretty much how our lives ran on the road. I've run into some small number of people who are offended that I choose to live my life as Hallie, but the vast majority give me some odd glances and just got on with whatever they're doing. I wasn't lucky enough to draw a body that could just let me sink into the river of femininity, but with practice and concentration I have been able to live my dream without major strife. There's a mindset that goes with being able to give up a home and just let whatever happens happen.

There are exceptions - like my brother. We came within a few miles of his home in Richmond but I didn't even call. If I got the liberal live-and-let-live genes in the family, he got the conservative ones and he had no problem telling me I am a perverted SOB whose philosophy was ruining the country. When I became Hallie he was livid. He unfriended me on Facebook but it didn't matter much as I had taken him off my news feed because of the crap he posts. My sisters just think I'm crazy, but they knew that years before I retired as Hallie.

Then there are the exceptions like the North Carolina legislature. I admit that I was looking forward to causing some trouble as we passed through the state. Now, if you've read any crossdressing stories, you'll know that using a public women's room often figures prominently in them; the whole idea is to use the women's room without raising a hue and cry, right? Well, the bigoted beggars had me determined to use the urinals in the Legislature Building and as many men's rooms as I could in North Carolina.

I got my first chance at the "Welcome Center" that you find whenever you enter a new state on the Interstate Highway System. I found it highly ironic that North Carolina had made it abundantly clear that I was not welcome there but still put up a big sign proclaiming "WELCOME TO NORTH CAROLINA."

On one hand, Linda was just as pissed off by bigotry as I was, but not so sure she was up to bailing me out of the local hoosegow if things went wrong.

"How could I get arrested for complying with the law?" I replied with my most innocent expression. "Anyway, it's not like I haven't spent a few nights in the drunk tank before I reformed myself."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you weren't wearing a dress on those occasions."

"Well, there was one occasion when I was wearing stockings, panties and a training bra under my jeans and leather jacket. Good thing they didn't think a strip search was needed."

"The mind boggles… So what's your plan?"

"I think I'll just peruse the literature racks for a while until someone heads into the men's room, then I'll make my move."

"I don't suppose you have a 'Get Out Of Jail Free' card in your purse?"

"Well, I do gotta GO and intend to pass water…"

"I just hope your bail isn't more than $200."

 

OK, I'll admit to you I was more than a little nervous. By this time I had become accustomed to using the Ladies Room, it was more than a little nerve-wracking to contemplate reverting to the Men's room despite my unaltered anatomy. I was damned comfortable in my role as Hallie; Harry was no more than a slightly unreal memory.

I didn't have to wait long, it was a busy weekend and there were lots of other folks stopping to relieve themselves after long hours on the road. In fact, I lucked out - an entire bus load of passengers came crowding in the front door, neatly splitting into masculine and feminine waves of humanity intent on one urgent objective.

I made my move, heading unerringly for the door with the figure displaying two separate legs.

"Ma'am!

I steadfastly ignored the cry.

"MA'AM!!"

I almost felt sorry for the poor little old lady behind the information desk. She wasn't in on the caper.

"I turned, and in my best feminine voice replied, "Just complying with the law, darlin'." I pride myself that I managed a bit of a Southern drawl as I pushed open the door.

Despite the fact that I had used the Men's Room for the vast majority of my life, it was still a shock to see the long line of urinals, complete with a long line of men in front of them. My entrance went unheralded at first; the men were intent on their mission. At last one of them shook himself and turned, his jaw dropping.

"Uh… Lady…"

On queue every head turned toward me.

"Sorry to disturb you, gentlemen, just complying with the law."

I had come prepared with knee-highs so I was able to lift my skirt in front of the urinal and do what I had come for. Not for me the shy retiring woman in her individual stall, but I indulged in the previously masculine only ritual of letting fly while standing up.

The result was eminently satisfactory! It was so silent that you could hear, pardon the image, the piss drop in the urinal. Then came the nervous laughter, a few outraged comments, and one clear voice: "I knew this would happen when those damn fools passed that asinine law!"

"Glad to know someone in this benighted state has some common sense, brother," I replied as I calmly washed my hands and exited.

Linda was waiting outside the door, the information lady fretting by her side.

"Sorry to disturb you, ma'am. Maybe you should write to you legislators and tell them they have better things to do than pass idiotic bathroom laws."

Exit, smiling and satisfied, stage left.

Lest you think that all we did in North Carolina was scandalize people in bathrooms, we did find a great deal to see. If you head for the mountains there are spectacular waterfalls and several caves like Luray Caverns. If you head for the seashore there is much to appreciate.

Stone Mountain outside Atlanta deserves a mention. It is a beautiful park, but somewhat creepy as it is unabashedly tries to make heroes of the people who fought to keep other people enslaved. It is a beautiful place, a mountain of bald stone rising from the wooded hills near Atlanta. We took the cable car to the top of the mountain and there I took this shot.

I don't have a clue who these two beautiful little girls are, but seeing them together at the top of a Confederate monument spoke volumes to me. No matter how hard some people try to spread hate there are many who will spread love just by living and cherishing life.

 

When you spend your time traveling there is a temptation to turn a story into a travelogue. There is an RV park near Mobile Alabama that has a Welsh narrow gauge railroad running around it and Texas has a truly superb state park system. Everywhere we went we found something to enjoy.

Being retired means that every day of the week is a Saturday, you can kick back and do what you damn well please, so we simply traveled and enjoyed ourselves. We were in Steve Austin State Park just outside of Houston the weekend before Thanksgiving when we noticed we suddenly had lots of neighbors - the only way we notice that a weekend has rolled around was when the RV park is suddenly full of people.

November in Texas can be quite warm, we had been enjoying 80° temperatures and I was getting quite a bit of enjoyment wearing my summerweight dresses and skirts. I am partial to gauzy, colorful fabrics when the weather permits - it helps to cover up my too large arms and shoulders but lets me stay cool enough to enjoy the weather. For the past several nights, it had gotten a bit foggy as dusk approached, and the deer that lived in the park would magically appear out of the mists as I sat there watching. Linda and I had found the best place to watch was usually near the playground, there were benches to sit on and lots of open space for the deer to graze.

Linda was caught in her book that evening, so I went walking alone. I arrived at the playground bench just as the last of the kids were giving up and noisily going home as darkness was falling. I was surprised to see one young man still sitting on a bench. As he seemed lost in thought, I sat and waited for the deer to realize the thundering herd of children had gone home and reappear from the mists.

The streetlights provided cones of misty light as it got darker, but there was plenty of light to see as the not-so-shy animals wandered closer, nibbling on whatever appealed to them on the ground. Since both the young man and I were perfectly still, they simply ignored us as they dined.

I had come prepared to be a scofflaw. I know you're not supposed to feed the animals, but I had a couple of cut-up apples in a baggie and enticed them closer by tossing a few pieces toward them. A couple of the bolder animals took the bait and came closer. Nodding to my fellow bench-lounger I handed him the bag of apple slices and we sat there contentedly letting the deer eat out of our hands. I swear look in those deep brown eyes was one of sad reproach when I ran out of food.

"Sorry, girl," I said softly, "I'm fresh out of apple. You'll have to go back to your natural diet."

With a wry expression the young man sighed and said "Too bad it isn't so easy to have real girls eating out of my hand."

"A good looking dude like you doesn't have the ladies eating out of his hand? Texas must be a stranger place than I imagined! 'Course, I don't see a big hat and tooled leather boots so maybe you're a visitor, too."

"Born and bred, pardner," he drawled outrageously. "Being a visitor you probably haven't checked out Houston housing prices. With the oil bust my folks can barely afford a crappy apartment, let alone a five hundred dollar pair of boots."

"That bad, huh? I haven't bought a new pair of boots since I sold my Hog years ago, but they do run pretty high for the fancy ones."

"You rode a hog?" the poor boy was incredulous.

" '86 Fat Bob with a 1340cc engine. Nice bike, but I sold her when I got married. It wasn't so much fun any more when I quit drinking"

"You were a motorcycle Momma?" The incredulous tone was back in his voice.

"Yup! Black leather was a great deal sexier when I was a lot younger and a lot thinner. Hair down to my ass and some fine black leather boots that had heels to die for."

I wasn't about to tell him I never wore that outfit out of the house back then. I didn't want to ruin the image.

"Wow! The school I go to the girls would run screaming from a moped, let alone a great bike like that."

"What is this generation coming to?" I laughed. "We made enough money playing heavy metal for drunks at the local biker bar I had my own wheels by the time I was nineteen. When you get that drunk it don't matter if the band is any good as long as it's loud and there's a sexy girl at the mike. We would charge the boys twenty bucks in the tip jar every time someone idiot hollered 'Free Bird!' "

And how I dreamed that sexy girl was me. Fat chance!

"Free Bird? Around here Freebird's is a Mexican restaurant."

"Lordy me, I must be ancient. Lynyrd Skynyrd?"

"I think my grandpa likes him."

"Grandpa! Boy, just go get me my walker and I'll go toddle back to the Home before they find I've gone missing. Now I really feel old!"

"Sorry!"

"Don't worry, my friend. I get these reminders these days. I'm Hallie, by the way."

"I'm Barry."

"Not a name I'd expect in the Great State of Texas."

"That's because I was born in Massachusetts. Dad followed the oil boom down here until it went bust. We like it but it's hard these days. Living in a tent for the weekend is a rare treat."

"Now that brings back some fond memories of when I was your age and my family went camping. I won't shock you with tales of the camping I did with my Hog and all the loose women and drunk guys I hung around with. These days the wife and I live in the Montana just down the road there."

"Your… wife?"

"Yeah, we get that a lot, especially here in the South. We're legal and everything, but it does tend to get some people excited. We generally don't bring it up, but I kind of got carried away there."

"Do the people at the Home let you sleep together?"

"Smartass. I like that in a kid."

"That's about as rare as a girl that would go out with me."

"Speaking as an old fart, you don't look half bad to me, but that may be part of the problem."

"Maybe I ought to ask Grandma if she has any single friends."

"You could do worse - find a rich one and then the young ones will like your money when she goes."

"I'd rather start a magachurch. I'd feel better about fleecing a bunch of suckers than someone I might love."

"You keep talking like that, son, and they're going to ship you back to Massachusetts."

"As long as it's summer when they do it. I've had enough of Houston summers to last me a lifetime."

"And I've had enough of New York winters to last me a lifetime, which is why I'm down here."

"I really don't remember much about winter, we left when I was seven and we've been in warm places ever since."

"You haven't missed much, believe me. How the devil did we end up talking about crappy winters when we started with you wanting to have girls eating out of your hand?"

"I guess it's because you're pretty easy to talk to. I don't have to worry if my folks are gonna freak."

"Funny… I've been called a freak for most of my life. I'm kinda proud of it."

"I bet you're old enough not to worry about what your parents will do to you."

"Barry, that happened when I was about seven."

"Right!"

"No, really. 'Course I got my ass whipped more times than I can count but I figure it was worth it. Actually, my folks were pretty cool, I just had to get old enough to appreciate them. If I had to take a guess, any parents who are cool enough to take the family camping are going to be easier than most to talk to, Right? But then I also guess your problem is more talking to girls than parents."

"Uh… yeah."

"You're in good company, my friend. I had a hell of a time asking someone for a date back when I was your age."

"But you're a girl! Uh.. I mean a woman."

"I was a bona fide, certified, pure-bread, dyed-in-the-wool hippie back then. We were determined to throw off the bounds of sexism and live the life of free love. But asking for a date still scared the crap out of me. I guess not much has changed, eh?"

"I guess not. I get all tongue-tied and my brain freezes when I try to talk to a girl."

"You're not doing too bad with me."

"Yeah but…"

"I know, I'm an old fart and you don't want to take me out dancing."

"Crap! I can just see my folks if I took you out on a date!"

"My wife would be a bit surprised, too." I laughed. "There anyone special you have in mind for this date?"

"Yeah. Her name's Lin Yao."

"Oy Vey! Courting a Chinese girl in the Great State Of Texas. You have some mighty tall ambitions, my boy."

"There are lots of Chinese in Houston, been there since forever and more came with the oil business."

"You learn something new every day - if you're lucky. I grew up with the image of a fat Redneck Southern Sheriff with a billy club who hated anyone who wasn't like him. Pardon my big mouth, I should know better after having spent a month driving through that same South."

"It's not like there aren't enough assholes around this place, but that's not a problem for me."

"Just plain old anxiety and paralysis of the tongue, eh?"

"Pretty much."

"Well, my wife tells me she had the same problem with boys. She tried whacking them over the head to unstick their tongues, but that didn't work too well."

"That would get you expelled for bullying these days."

"Then try what I did, do the 'study together' thing, join some club or activity at the school she's interested in, screw up you courage and sit with her at lunch. Talk about things that don't freak you out, stay away from anything even vaguely like dating until she knows you better. Just be friends - or maybe I should say be a closer friend if you're friends already. Too bad she's not here or you could get her to come over to our campfire and listen to me and Linda sing."

"But she is here, her family likes camping, too."

"So why aren't you hanging out over at her place?"

"Uh…"

"Ask a stupid question… Barry, my friend, let's take a stroll over to my place and you can meet Linda. Then we can casually walk by your girl's tent and strike up a conversation, which will lead to inviting them over to our campfire for some singing. Probably better include your folks, I guess."

"Really?"

"Yup. Just think of me as your Fairy Godmother. I do have to warn you, we play Folk Music on acoustic instruments. Still interested?"

It was fun to watch the two of them trying to be discrete about their mating dance, but we all had a pretty good time.

"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!