The Personal Gallery

Hubris! - That's what this section is about. Essentially, it's where I showcase photos of me from the past (sometimes far, far past), the occasional thought on my life, and linkages to details you may need such as a CV (resume for North Americans) and other such nonsense.

Now, despite what some people might tell you, I'm rather leery about this page. I don't like advertising myself. But some things need to at least be accessible. So here's what there is - if you want more, let me know. I'll let you know if it exists.

Currently what is here is from the mindset I had about 2002 - barring two edits about a) the state of my facial hair and b) my marital status. Should my time requirements for research, course preparations, and chasing my cats when they get loose in the neighbourhood ever quiet down to a dull roar, I will add something more substantial and far more recent.

Looking back at how I was when I was younger, I always get a shock. Is that really me, and what the heck happened to change me into something so different? At which point reality intrudes and reminds me that everyone goes through such a process, and that mine is little different from anyone else's.

This photo is from when I was about 13, 14 years of age. It also represents one of the happiest times of my life, perhaps because it was one of the few times that my father and I truly spent time with each other, with no interference from outside by work or worry or care. It's hard sometimes thinking about how few opportunities for this we had - two weekends in Mammoth Lakes, one in summer to hike, one in winter to ski, and this trip. To think that I had to move a continent away before I finally found that relationship again with him. Some things are worth the price.

One of my father's fascinations that I had soaked up very early in life was that of airplanes. I _love_ airplanes with a passion. To see such an elegant, wondrous piece of technology, created by man with more than technical skill, with true artistry and love able to slice through the air above on a wing and prayer... it is wonderful. Few things pain me more than the fact I have motion sickness and thus am not a good flyer. To have dreamed of being an aeronautical engineer and then having to give up that dream in stages, first the flying and then the designing in university - that was one heck of a lesson in life.

One way my father indulged this passion was to commonly go to the National Air Races in Reno, Nevada. Propellor-driven planes, many of which were modified antiques from World War II, raced around pylons on a course several miles across - the end effect was much like watching a NASCAR or Formula One Race. In three dimensions. At 500 knots an hour instead of a piddling 200 miles per hour. Gee, I wonder which one is more exciting?

That year, my father took me with him, flying up from Ontario airport to Reno. Stayed at the Bally's casino, including a dinner theatre show of the Moscow Circus. Oh, it was fun - rented a car and went over to Lake Tahoe, driving all the way around, and passing by Virginia City just as the Ferrari Association of America must've finished its meeting - imagine 150 Ferraris driving by, one after another after another, all in mint condition. We also went to Bodie, a gold mining town that died at the turn of the century. Try to imagine a city, one large enough to have been considered for capital of California at one point, completely abandoned. Its siting is horrible - no real water supplies, and set in the middle of a bowl valley almost impossible to get to, even by modern standards. And very, very dead. The wind kicked across the valley, dry, hot, dusty. The place even has the proverbial white-painted church at the far end of the main street, complete with small cemetary. It sticks with you, even without this photo to show I was there.

Our traveling done, it was time for the races, a day of sitting in a stand with binoculars peering out to follow the planes, watching the Bearcats, Mustangs, Lightnings, Warhawks, and other glories from past days still showing the glory that could be theirs, should people just sit up and notice. It's a fanatic's love - but a good one.

It was the true indulgement of a young boy's dreams, seeing those planes with the father he loved, being father and son doing what fathers and sons do. I'll always remember it with tears in my eyes. I'll remember it forever, and you can damn well be sure I'll remember it when I have sons of my own.

A tradition in my family is going to Disneyland every year for my birthday. I've had the start of the tradition explained to me numerous times, and yet I forget it every time. I think part of why I forget is that it doesn't matter to me - it's always been an accepted part of life. It's just what you do. When March 17th rolls around, it's time to go buy the tickets to go see Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, and the whole rest of the crowd.

Oddly, it's also one of the few times pictures get taken of me. I do not consider myself photogenic, and I'm not particularly fond of sitting in front of the camera and having my photo taken. That _might_ have something to do with what usually comes out - just see the last of my recent ball photos to see what I'm talking about.

But that's not the point. The one constant of the Disneyland trips, whether it was the intense, how-many-rides-can-we-manage marathons or the gentle perambulations of later years, was my mother and I sharing a day out, usually in the sun, having fun and passing time in a wonderland - admittedly artificial, but a well-crafted one all the same - and just being with each other. In some ways, I saw my mother as little as I saw my father. She worked swing shift, 3pm-8pm for most of my childhood, leaving me as a latchkey kid in the care of babysitters or on my own as I got older. It became habitual to only see her for the fifteen minutes just after she arrived home from work, before I went to sleep.

Don't get me wrong - I don't resent it in the slightest. My mother was doing her best to raise me, and that meant providing for us both on our own. Anyone who can work full time and go to school full time to get her nursing degree and license deserves praise. I think both of us would've liked more time together - but in the end, I turned out pretty well. Self-reliance is something I had to learn, and I think that that lesson has sunk in to a good degree.

The first picture is from when I was about 14, I believe a year or two after the Bodie photo. I'm not really sure, as I have no dates on most of these photos. I also suffered from that common adolescent situation - looking the same, stuck at 5'5" and scrawny as anything before suddenly shooting up to 6'-some and being scrawny as anything. Took me until I was about 25 to have any meat on my bones, and I'll never be bulky barring a metabolism crash and socking on weight that way. The second photo is I believe 1996, just after coming back from Swansea. It's funny... if you look at the pictures, you can often tell the progression of my becoming comfortable with what I am and who I am. The photos become more comfortable, more relaxed. Though seeing myself clean-shaven these days is a bit of a shock.

The first time I ever saw a tuxedo - the Christmas Ball at Clyne Halls, Swansea. I was there on an exchange year in 1995-6, and it was quite a momentous year. I confirmed my plan to become a historian, decided that the UK was worth living in for major periods of time - and started chasing redheads. But that's another story.

So, imagine my situation. I'm in a foreign country, having never gone to my high school proms or dances. My few experiences with suits or any other sort of formal wear was what you wore to concerts for band in high school - not exactly good preparation. There just aren't the opportunities for young people to wear that stuff in the US, at least not without being in certain lines of social activity.

So, I rented one in town at the local Moss Brothers outlet in the Quadrant (local shopping mall downtown), and put on the monkey suit for the evening festivities. Had a blast, truth be told - everyone was looking amazing, especially the female acquiantances of mine.

Am I a lech? Perhaps. I prefer to think of it as being sincerely appreciative - I certainly don't pull the stunts some men do, and I will _never_ understand how some individuals think they can get away with crass gestures, comments, or molestations. Don't they have parents who brought them up better?

It's amazing how much our culture really pushes us _not_ to make the effort on a day-to-day basis. Something gets lost, I think, when it comes to trying so hard to look 'natural'. The way some people who you would think are 'plain' come to life when dressed in formal wear just causes the heart to sieze up and hurt at such a vision. It's part and parcel of how a woman (I'm biased, as I usually don't pay attention in that way to the men) becomes more and more beautiful as you get to know them more. I've fallen victim to that quite a few times.

I do remember that day fondly, and the fun we had with friends. I think my learning to have fun at that is one reason that I enjoy so thoroughly balls and other opportunities to dress up. It also helps that I've learned to tie a bow tie and do up cufflinks in the years since. Durham is chock full of black-tie events, and I regularly make about three of them a year. I even own a dinner jacket. It all makes me feel rather... cultured. Silly, isn't it?

Okay, general question for the audience: how do you go about having a family? I'm an only child - and it shows. I've no idea how one deals with siblings. I never went through that whole series of relationships of bully/friend/enemy/rival that seems to be part of being a brother or sister, and never had that experience of never being truly alone. It had always been my mother and I. People came and went, but we were always the constant.

Now, I suddenly have a family. My mother finally found an amazing man named Jon to share her life with, all the more amusing because she found him at her thirtieth high school reunion. How the world turns. I couldn't be happier for her, it must be said.

But, along with this, comes Jon's three kids. Now, it's not really an issue - by the time this came up, I'd decided to pretty much live permanently about six thousand miles and 13 hours on a plane away, and was well into my mid-twenties. They range from four to eight years younger than me, so I get the fun of being that odd elder brother who's gone off and done something really weird - I mean, professional historian, about to get a doctorate? How normal is that? I come back through California about once a year for a few weeks, where they can look at me askance and try to figure out what to do with me the same way I try to figure out what to do with them. Sometimes it's a stern relationship - chivvying them into helping out with setting up the wedding, for instance - and sometimes it's a lot of fun, like when Scott and I go playing pool.

The photo is myself on the left, and Scott, who's about six years younger than I am. I'd have to say of the three of my new siblings, I get along with him the best. David I never see, and we don't think alike. Cathy, other than being the baby sister, is much the same as David - my impression is that those two are peas in a pod, despite the obvious differences and their likely vociferous objections. But Scott's different somehow - perhaps it's a matter of degree, or just shared experiences - going out for pool, or helping him with calculus homework one summer I was home, or helping him shop for my mother. I like Scott, and I really would like to help him however I can.

Maybe that's what being a sibling is about. Having someone in your life whom you care for and will do whatever you can for, no matter how frustrating, how annoying, how irritating, how helpful, how kind, or how useful they are. You help them because you are family. What other reason do you need?

So, that's me, or at least part of me. I could never get all of me down on this page, no matter how long I typed or how many photos of my life I could scan. This one is the last photo taken of me, essentially, before I grew the beard - I'd guess about November, 1999. The river behind me is the Wear, as this is by Framwellgate Bridge in Durham. I may not look comfortable with it, but I feel comfortable. I finally feel... adult.

The time since this picture was taken, with all that's happened, mundane appearance changes such as the beard (several iterations, currently I'm without one) and major internal changes such as finally finding the one person on the planet I'm suited to marry - all of it has steadied me, I think, made me a calmer individual, no matter how quirky my personality has become or how much I indulge in the occasional emotionalism. I can do all that because in the end result, I no longer feel like the momentary emotionality or nuttiness is fundamentally altering who I am, or how people perceive me. I'm finally realizing people see _me_ as _me_, no matter how much I may think they see me as crazy, or angry, or stuffy, or uptight. I might be these things, but that's not everything.