Testosterone Dudes

Men. Ya can't live with 'em, ya can't live without 'em. After all, your life began because of a man (with the help of a woman), so the question becomes, will you spend/end your life with one. And also, who's in control, them or us?

There's no question that men are woven into the fabric of our daily lives, they are an important part of who we are, specifically, who I am. The significant men in my life have been a random cross-section of male personalities, traits and testosterone levels. Great men, good men, not so good men. In an act of self-preservation and an exercise of self-discovery (which I am bravely sharing with the world), I have been thinking about this male/female topic for some time now. Today I have chosen to review the most significant men in my life, beginning with my Dad...

My Dad. Joel Ray Baugh. Tall, skinny, creative, artistic, handsome, ever-searching, tolerant, curious, married to my Mom (Marilyn Jean Frederick) for nearly 50 years (until his death) but separated for almost half of that time, father of 3, dapper dresser, not religious as a result of his Dad and unresolved religious questions, never smoked, a journalist with a temper, unconvinced Christian.

My Grandpa Baugh. James Wesley Baugh. Huge -Texas rancher huge, uncommonly devout, photographic memory, intolerant, baritone, frisky (my grandma's word), never smoked or drank, southern through and through although transplanted to the southwest and California in his mid-30's, married to my Grandma (Zora Middlehouse) for over 70 years, father of 7, a devout Nazarene with a penchant for prayers long enough to run off two sincere LDS elders (mid-prayer).

My Boppy. Harold H. Frederick. Small, quiet, huge smile, dedicated to my Mimi (Jessie Eliza Parkins) and married to her until his death, birth father of one son who died at birth, adoptive father of 1 (my mother, Marilyn Jean Frederick), mid-western through and through, dapper dresser, always wore a hat, smoked a pipe, lifetime employee of Paxton, Illinois' one and only men's clothing store, community church member and regular attendee.

My Brother. James Frederick Baugh. Tall, skinny, handsome, creative, artistic, compassionate, tolerant, native Californian who was born, lived and died there, window designer for Saks and Nieman Marcus in Newport Beach, baptized a Mormon when he was 18, musician, artist, considered my kids as his own, adored, conflicted on his sexuality until he was an adult, died of AIDS in 1985 after being diagnosed just 6 months earlier.

My Uncles. Dad's three brothers. Wes, Glen, and Leo Baugh. Wild, rebellious, fun, with great belly laughs, one with red hair, one bald, one so handsome and successful he dated starlets, all married and divorced at least once, not religious because of their father's overly zealous religious demands, all fathers, some successful, some not, a butcher, a bartender and a rancher.

My Sons. Kurt, Kollin and Kyle Avarell. Three hard-working, spiritual and honorable young men who have made choices in life that will make them successful, comfortable in their own skins, and joyful. Two former LDS missionaries. They inspire me every day.

My Sons-In-Law. JR Jorgensen and (soon) Logan Washburn. Two hard-working, spiritual and honorable men who each chose one of my daughters to spend their lives with. I love them and appreciate them both.

My Grandsons. Daelan, Kiel and Jespen Jorgensen. These three young men inspire me daily with their zest for life, their energy, their enthusiasm. Just the thought of them makes me smile. Regular church goers, probably future missionaries.

My Friends and More. Wally Cook, kissed him on the bus in kindergarten which created quite a ruckus and required a note from the bus driver to my Mom concerning my behavior, my first lesson in love. John Barker, my Mom loved John because he had perfect table manners and knew how to correctly eat soup from a bowl by pulling the spoon toward you, rather than pushing it away from you; typical heart-throb guy, later played the guitar and sang in clubs; a real heart-breaker; lost him to a friend with a knock-out figure - my first lesson in the reality of male hormones aka testosterone; Grif Thomas, great friend from 4th grade on, quiet spirituality, musical, talented, smart, we dated quietly and randomly in high school/college, my first lesson in how NOT to win the guy, he married a great gal and I still keep in touch with Grif, Sue and their family. Charlie Goodspeed, long-term boyfriend through high school, spotted him at a Community Hall "concert" featuring a local band in the summer of 1969, reconnected at our high school football game the following year and dated him from 1969 until 1974, a brainiac with a penchant for technology before it even existed, tall, dark, handsome, devoted, in control, educated, doubting spirituality, first lesson in what kind of guy I wanted to end up with, he married a redhead named Jan and they are still happily living in northern California. Kory Avarell, the father of my children. Tall, handsome, white eyebrow, BMW's, funny as heck, played the guitar, talented, smart, served a Mormon mission in Guatemala, baptized me in Lake Arrowhead, shared the best years of my life (he had me at "hello"), together for over 20 years, married for nearly 18 years, divorced in 1993. He still makes me laugh. Roy Jespersen, a great friend since 1976, talented, handsome, educated, self-assured, smart, funny, creative, tolerant, in control, philanthropic, spiritual, father of 3, a huge influence in my life over the years and a great example of a successful marriage (with Anne) following devastating divorce, I consider Roy and Anne friends for life. Kim Belcher, the friend I shouldn't have married, and I (we?) knew it immediately (on our honeymoon) but still gave it a short, but too long, run. Hal Krisle, "the man I had been waiting for" was my immediate thought when I first saw Hal; tall, dark, handsome, devout Mormon, hard worker, opinionated, devoted, uber-patient in some things, not-so-patient in others, supportive, smart. Married in 1998, I will always love this man. Bill Hunt, my 25+ years friend, the husband of my best friend, Dee, and my boss for several years at Suncadia; a good man with a good heart, hard working, successful, in control, semi-tolerant, self-assured, father of 3, converted Mormon, charming, handsome, tall, smart, educated, a great mentor, I consider Bill and Dee friends for life. Neal Ackerly, the PhD that showed me more in a few years about some aspects of life than I had learned in the past twenty; in control, supportive, naively spiritual, karma-seeking, unassumingly charming, handsome, intelligent, redneck, tolerant, self-assured, archeologist, over-educated, father of one son, a friend for life. Miscellaneous, the many men who have befriended, counseled, chastised, educated, supported, loved, left, advised, played with, mourned with, celebrated with, and basically kept me going from birth to this day through quiet acts of kindness, moments of rare selflessness, road trip therapy or outright generosity, some from my youth, some from my young married life, some professional relationships, some from this more mature place in life, and even some newly formed friendships; former teachers, bishops, pastors, neighbors, co-workers, classmates, church leaders, professors, boyfriends, friends, and chance acquaintances.

So many different men, so many different personalities, so much influence on me. Funny. Smart. Tolerant. Educated. Spiritual or Religious. In control. These are the very few commonalities. Well, and testosterone, of course.

Interesting: Funny. Smart. Tolerant. Educated. Spiritual. In control. Hmmm.

I love the male species. I have learned much from this bunch of testosterone dudes and I am grateful for every one of them. However, I have to admit that I love some a lot more than others. There's a reason we are supposed to partner and live our lives "two by two", and it's simple - we like testosterone, and they simply can't live without us!

The male species. Ya can't live with 'em, ya can't live without 'em. How to sum this up? As I said in an earlier post: It's a zoo out there! The animals are going wild. The testosterone is raging. The dudes have come out to play; some are hiding behind hormone-supported walls, but most are charmingly boyish behind that aloof yet commanding veneer.

So wait, who's in control?

I honestly don't know, but I do know this: If it's a man, I hope he has a loyal (and patient) woman by his side to help along the way!

Village People "YMCA"

Joel Ray Baugh aka DADDY

When I think of my Dad, I remember his laugh. He had a great belly laugh, something I don't believe I appreciated until after he was gone. I loved my Dad. I wish I had known him better.


It's interesting, as I look back and remember whispered warnings and comments about my Dad's temper (usually from my Mom) - and I know that my Dad had a temper, I saw it and experienced it a few times in my life - I never think of him that way at all.


I think of him laughing.


And I think of him making Belgian waffles with fresh strawberries and whipped cream in his San Diego apartment, long before Belgian waffles were the waffle of choice.


And I remember how proud he was of his grandkids, and how he was even more proud of his two daughters. I specifically remember attending Uncle Leo's (Dad's brother) 80th birthday party with Melanie and Dad. One of my favorite pictures is of the three of us at that party - he had Melanie on one arm and me on the other and we were dressed up, all three of us. He looked like one proud man. And I was a proud daughter, cuz he was a handsome, well-dressed dude. In cowboy boots, to boot! I love that memory.


Dad was a journalist. Media writing was his vocation. He loved to write and he passed that love for words along to his children. He was a newspaper editor by profession and I can remember the very thorough and complimentary-but-mandatory red-line editing I received on every book report, essay, creative writing project, poem and term paper I wrote between 1st grade and high school. He also helped with college papers when I asked. I appreciated it then, without any understanding of how it would help me throughout my life, and I am grateful now.


Dad was nominated for the Pulitzer in the late-60's, for a "Help!" column he created at the Press-Telegram, one of the first columns of its kind. It was quite an honor to be nominated, even if he didn't receive the Pulitzer. My favorite column that appeared under his byline over the years was "Baugh Humbug". Dad was very good at what he did, he loved words, he loved details, and he was a trivia buff (before TRIVIA games came along) simply from all the editing he did.


Dad loved to work with plants and to create beautiful landscapes; our yards were always unique, with a touch of southwestern flora (no wonder I love New Mexico's landscape, Dad was born here and never lost the southwestern influence). He was very creative. At the holidays our Christmas tree was a thing of beauty and the house was decorated fully - not with silly, cheap, typical decorations, but almost 'designer-quality' decorations created by Dad from odds and ends. One year we had an ice cream cone tree - he used real ice cream cones, soft pink satin bulbs and then sprayed them with flocking and glitter.
My favorite centerpiece (one that I still have) was made from toilet tank floats, each one covered with sequins and pearls and jewels that were individually attached with a straight pin into the porous material of the float. He spent hours on that project. One year, he sold rock faces for a local fundraiser and then gave them for Christmas gifts later, finding an 'expression' in the natural rock shape and hand-painting features onto the stones himself. We went rock hunting to find special rocks on several occasions that year. I sprained my wrist on one of those trips.


Dad was strict, but he also wanted to spoil Mel and I, which on a journalist's salary wasn't really possible. That said, I think he managed to do just fine. We never felt as if we didn't have everything we wanted - at least I didn't. We were always taken shopping (and to lunch) for beautiful new dresses and shoes at Easter and Christmas. We always did back-to-school clothes shopping in August or early September, and then again - but not to the same level - in late February, sometime around Washington's birthday. And Christmas was always a time of giving and receiving, I don't remember ever feeling that I didn't get what I wanted at Christmas - although Dad gave Santa the credit.


One weekend Dad took Melanie and I shopping. I honestly don't remember the occasion, but he was going to buy us new clothes because of some extra money that had come in. As we walked out the door of our house, I remember Mom pulling me aside and whispering, "Be careful while you are shopping, Jeannie, your Dad will want to buy you and Melanie everything, it's very hard for him to say no to the two of you....but we really don't have that much money." So off we went, two little girls and their Dad, and we did shop, and I remember to this day the outfit that he bought for me. It was one of my favorites for a long time. It wasn't cheap, but it wasn't designer brand either (did they even have designer brands in the late 60's?). I was careful, Mom was happy and Dad was glowing.



My Dad loved my younger brother Jamie. As Jamie grew into his teens we called him Jim, but to all of our immediate family he was always Jamie, and he was loved by all who met him. Jim died at 23 from AIDS, one of the early cases and long before any hope of survival had been found, and Dad took care of him during the last month's of Jim's life - feeding, bathing, clothing, medicating, moving and caring for him morning and night.

I know a piece of my Dad, and my Mom, and of me and Mel too, died when Jim passed. He had been a shining light since the day he was born. I remember how proud my Dad was when he finally had a son; he would now have someone to 'carry on the family name'. He had been concerned that the Joel Ray Baugh line would die out with Mel and me. Life simply doesn't work the way we think it will sometimes.

Jamie was the only boy in our family, he was born 8 years after me and 6 years after Melanie. Totally unexpected and unplanned, I believe, but wanted and adored from the moment we knew he was coming. We didn't know he was a boy, of course, this was pre-designer clothes, pre-trivia games and prior to this generation's need-to-know in utero gender testing. But we hoped. We all wanted a boy.



When Jim was born, in the wee hours of the morning, Dad dragged his proud but exhausted body home from the hospital and painted with a wide brush on a 4 X 8 piece of plywood in huge letters of blue paint, "IT'S A BOY!" In the middle of the night, when Mom went into labor, Melanie and I had been whisked to our dear neighbors - Dick and Verna Pehl and their four kids - who lived across the street, and of course we all woke up early the following morning wanting to know if our new baby had been born (the Pehl family woke up at 5 AM every morning anyway - even when not anticipating a birth across the street - and did some family bonding by diving into their (unheated) backyard pool. Nude. All of them. This was 1962 mind you. Mel and I had been instructed to not participate AND to not look!). We raced out of the house, careful to NOT look at the pool and with every intention of barging through the sun porch, through the front door and up the stairs of our white clapboard two-story home across the street to ask Dad if we had a baby! The adrenaline was pumping and we were on a mission, one of us a sassy redhead with braids flying in the wind behind her and the other a sassy blonde in a short boy cut (she hated that) but most likely with skinny little arms and legs flying all over the place as she ran.

"IT'S A BOY!"

The sign was HUGE. It stopped us in our tracks, took the sass right out of us. We had a little brother! Elation! We now had no reason to race home and wake up Dad! Disappointment! (I didn't even stop to think about how my Dad managed to get that 4X8 piece of plywood UP onto the shed roof over the first story of our house until years later - I still don't know how he did it.)


We took our sassy tanned and freckled little bodies back into the Pehl's house, praying quietly to ourselves that they were out of the pool and clothed so that we could open our eyes again (and yet also hoping maybe we would get a glimpse of this wild and primal activity) and shared the news. We had a brother! We were so excited! And Dad was elated. He had a son.

My favorite family vacation was a two week road trip in our brand new white (with black vinyl top) Chevrolet Caprice. We started south and headed north, touring all the California Missions. It was so much fun. Melanie and I have silver charms from every mission along the way and I still have my charm bracelet. We had a car accident on that trip, and both Mom and Dad ended up in neck braces. I was too young to know how that all panned out, who was at fault, etc., but thankfully nothing was too serious. Another family vacation was when we camped south to north at State Parks, I loved that trip too.


On a different occasion, I remember walking out of the front door of our home in Rialto, California - on Home Street, no less - and seeing my Dad on the driveway, the door of his Volvo still open with him laying beneath it. It was one of the scariest moments of my life. I remember him telling me to go get Mom. Then he told Mom to call an ambulance. His back was out. My Dad's back gave him problems his entire life - he wore braces and supports, he spent weeks in traction, he took pain medication, he took muscle relaxants, he probably had every treatment and med they knew of at the time, and each of them is a treatment they would NEVER recommend now. It wasn't until he was in his 60's that his back actually improved - he was exercising. Imagine that. And think of the difference that knowledge and action might have made in his younger days. He was 4-F, an enlisted man but not one who could be called to active frontline duty - not because of his back, but because he had flat feet, but it was during an exercise in basic training that his lifetime of back trouble really began.

Dad was a redhead, that's where I got my hair. Wait, no that's not right. Let me restate.


I thought Dad was a redhead, and that I got my hair from him....until I was in my thirties.... not until I was three, or thirteen, but not until I was in my THIRTIES did I learn the truth! I heard someone make a comment about him dying his hair right before a certain photograph had been taken in his late twenties (the photograph I had looked at my whole life with a nonchalant possessiveness). I was stunned. Who WAS this man? Who was I? Suddenly my entire self-perception changed. I didn't look like my Dad, I looked like HIS Dad. Grandpa Baugh was the redhead, not Dad. Let me just say that this was not a welcome piece of knowledge and to this day I am not certain why he dyed his hair red in his twenties, but apparently he did.


Manners were important to Dad. We enjoyed family dinners filled with laughter and conversation, around the antique table and chairs that he had found in a second hand shop and refinished himself, and beneath the mustard colored chandelier that he had painted. And we were taught manners; if we didn't remember our manners at the table, we were asked to leave the table, our food was removed, or we were told we might as well go outside and eat with the dogs. He was serious about manners.


Dad had a few absolutes (these kind of crack me up today, but at the time I took them VERY seriously). Melanie and I were not allowed to consider waitressing as a job, let alone a career. We were told that early on. His sisters had worked as waitresses and he knew that it was low-paying, hard work. We were not allowed to ride in VW bugs. They were too small for safety. We were to plan on junior college before a university. We could not take overnight trips with our boyfriends, unless there were responsible adults tagging along too. We were to drop the fifty cents (two quarters) he gave us every Sunday into the collection plate at First Lutheran, and NOT stop at the drug store (conveniently in our path as we walked to and from church).


I can honestly say that I never rode in a VW. I was never a waitress. I attended junior college before a university and I didn't go on an overnight trip with any boyfriend without adults being present - not necessarily sober or paying attention, but they were present.



However.......I have to admit that the drug store on the way to church was a huge temptation and Melanie and I succumbed a few times, quickly eating the candy bar of choice before arriving at church and carefully dropping just ONE quarter into the collection plate in a way that Dad wouldn't be able to see that we were a quarter short. I still can't believe that they didn't smell our chocolate or peanut butter or sweet-tart breath. Maybe they did, but what can you do when sitting properly on a pew in a perfect row of Sunday best near the front and just beneath the lectern of the 1st Lutheran Church? What would Mom think looking down from the organ bench where she was playing beautiful hymns with those skilled fingers and in stocking feet? What would Pastor Karl Johnson think if we made a scene? (Actually, he would probably have laughed, he was rather jovial and informal himself) The last time I saw Pastor Johnson was at my Dad's memorial service. I suppose that is a kind tribute of sorts with threads to those good times on Home Street, in Rialto, CA.


Life with Dad wasn't always easy. He had terrible mood swings and fought depression his entire life, not always winning. He knew how to use a belt, and did a few times, but Mom usually just threatened us with "the belt". I remember him once telling me "You aren't going to pull the wool over my eyes, Jeannie, don't even try." (I don't know if I pulled the wool over his eyes or not, I didn't even know what that phrase meant when he said it!)


Dad drank too much at times, he wandered off at times, he did have a temper and had very little patience with some things, but there was one thing we never doubted: he loved us. He had been raised by a Texas rancher and was tough when he needed to be (I still don't really get that, I can't find any traces of Grandpa JW Baugh being in Texas for very long, but he WAS big like Texas ranchers tend to be). Dad wasn't perfect, but he loved his kids. We - Jamie, Melanie and I - knew that he loved us and that he thought we were the best thing that ever happened to him. He was Papa to his grandkids, but he was Daddy to me.


I miss my Dad. I think of him often. I wish he was here. I wish he could have lived to see my kids as they have grown into adults and parents themselves. I wish he could have lived to see his grandsons become Dads. I wish he could have lived to see his great-grandchildren.


I wish I could hear that belly laugh once more. I wish I could hear him call me Jeannie again. I wish I could wish him a Happy Father's Day.

Happy Father's Day to all the fathers out there, especially my sons and son-in-law who are all GREAT Dads.


I have some special things in my house that were Dad's. Some of them have a history that I am aware of, some I just love because I remember them always being part of Dad's world.



Joel Ray Baugh. He was my Dad. There's not much more to say. I love him, I miss him, but I still feel him around - after all I have a lifetime of memories and I have his belly laugh...and of course, I also have his red hair.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy.

Dad's Fav - The Yellow Rose of Texas

Something Old, Something New

It's a crap shoot, ya know, this wedding stuff. You plan and you plan and you just never know how that day's gonna turn out, with one exception - you can be fairly certain that the bride and groom won't notice much beyond each other and won't remember much of the extravaganza.

White is so banal anyway. What's to remember? No wonder we add colors and flowers and people in frilly dresses and dark suits with fancy ties. It makes sense that colored mints are par for the course and towering cakes with unfamiliar people perched on top are de rigor.

And now it's customary to add trees and white lights (everywhere)...it's a wonder the bride doesn't trip over some poorly placed chord.

And this brings me to Kelly and Logan, the newly engaged couple who didn't even want a wedding. And I can see why. Who wants to have bags of leftover mints as dessert for the next year, topped by a frozen (and stale) cake top with those same unfamiliar people cryonically preserved and still perched on the inch of sugar-icing? I am pretty sure they don't. But I bet the cake cutting moment will be worth all that planning!

Who wants to worry about what color hat someone might wear and how people who really don't like each other (but come together for these very spay-eh-shul occasions) might act? No one, which is why most folks are on their best behavior at weddings.

So, why have a wedding? It's expensive, it's stressful, it's over in an hour, you have to invite people you have never met - and you have mints left over.

The bride has to find the dress of her dreams, in one shopping spree usually. The groom has to suck in for a cumberband of appropriate color. They both have to select "best" friends and favorite family members to serve in the wedding party. It's a wonder weddings don't sometimes turn into family feuds. It's more of a wonder that more couples don't elope mid-wedding-planning. I am certain many consider it. So what keeps them on track, what motivates them to have a wedding? Love. Family. Tradition. Celebration. Friends. Love......

Weddings are celebrations of life and love. They are as much, if not more, for the guests (family, friends, others who have to be invited because of that silly Vanderbilt book of etiquette) as they are for the couple getting hitched.

And there's an interesting phrase, "Getting hitched." Sounds like redneck trailer talk to me. "Hitch it up, Fred!" Somehow, "Hitch her up, Logan" just doesn't feel right.

So, we have weddings, we invite people "just because" AND "because!", we hope for civility, grace and courtesy from all, but mostly, we love that feeling of hope and dreams and optimism that young couples in love almost ooze, to say nothing of those mints; so we plan and plan an hold our breath in both excitement and dread all the time watching out for those loose chords and saying quiet prayers that this union will be one for the eternities.

Knowing Logan and Kelly...and watching them together, and sensing their mutual respect and witnessing their obvious love for each other... this one's a slam dunk.

Which brings me to Ralph Bobik...and those size 14 Converse basketball shoes he wore to my reception - with his tux - in 1976, sending my poor Dad into heart failure. I love that guy. I am not sure my Dad felt quite the same affinity for Ralph at that moment of truth when Joel (my Dad) looked at Ralph and said "YOU BETTER NOT have forgotten your dress shoes."

I loved my Dad. And I love that memory (which proves that brides DO remember some things from their weddings and receptions!).

And I love Converse. And I love weddings. And I love Kelly and Logan.

And now I get to go help Kelly find the dress of her dreams in one shopping spree.

And maybe even a perfect pair of Converse, for a very special day and an even more special girl.

Of course it won't matter, she won't remember much of it anyway. But I will and so will everyone else who is there. But the person who will remember? Logan. The minute Kelly comes into view - princess for a day to all of us but in Logan's mind that day will be one of those eternal photoshot moments, forever engraved in his memory.

Weddings. An old tradition for a new love.

Well, and for the mints, of course.

Elvis Presley "Something Blue"

When the Sun Sets in the Land of Enchantment (everyone is watching)

I have missed too many sunsets in my life.

I remember seeing the Arizona Highways magazine on our coffee table as I was growing up. My Dad was born in the southwest and his appreciation for desert fauna and flora, along with the breathtaking sunsets, was obvious.

I hope to see many more New Mexico sunsets. They take my breath away. They are a process, taking several minutes, allowing the mind to review the past day and ponder tomorrow's possibilities.

"Never let yesterday use up today." I love this favorite phrase from my new friend, Karen.

It's a good motto for life.

Marques Houston "Sunset"