Bud Grossmann's Words of the Week Week of April 10, 2005
	Angela Caliente, 1985 © 1985, 2005 by Bud Grossmann

Tuesday, October 31, 1995

Dear Gramma,

     My friend Geraldine Grayson made a woman out of me. That was no small task, you know, because I usually wear whiskers to conceal cheeks and chin scarred by teen-age acne.

     One day each year, however, on the holiday hailed as Halloween, I remove my beard for a costume party and spaghetti supper sponsored by the Sunday School at our church. I delight in disguising myself so that the kids and other congregants think I'm someone new at Church of the Crossroads, someone who came to the party without a costume.

     I have gone unrecognized when I became—in various years—a "man in a suit," a buzz-cut U.S. Marine, a slick-haired "tough guy," and a stubble-chinned, cigar-chomping handyman. I was especially pleased once when I sat down to supper with someone who had known me for years. We nodded to greet each other and then ate in silence. When my little Elizabeth toddled up and called me Dad, my friend exclaimed, "Bud! I thought you were a bum off the street!"

     Not everyone fails to recognize me, of course. One person, seeing me beardless when I got out of my Caravan in the church parking lot, knew that something was different about me. "Bud," she asked, "have you always driven a white car?" A few years ago, though, when Geri Grayson made me into a woman, almost no one called me by my name.

     Geri was the leader of our church's children's choir at that time. A strong soprano (not the screechy kind), Geri had starred in stage plays and operas, and she possessed a collection of wigs and a well-stocked make-up box. Secretly, Geri and I began planning my costume. I invited my mother-in-law to join our conspiracy because Geri didn't have a suitable dress for me. Mama Wong, about my height, was glad to help. She offered me some jewelry and a pale green silk dress, ankle-length and with a modest neckline. Mom also lent me shoes, a slip, and a brassiere. In each compartment of the harness, a rolled-up wool work sock provided form and substance.

     Geri coached me to walk and talk like a woman, and she layered whatchamacallit onto my face, painted my nails, and fashioned me into an inelegant brunette. At the party, Geri introduced me as her visiting cousin, Angela Caliente, and I enjoyed long chats with old friends who displayed no suspicion that Angela was anything but a woman.

     The next Halloween, people were wondering if Angela would be back. She did not return, but her sister Crystal showed up with stylish blonde hair, lots of sparkle, and a bright-colored dress (a long one again—she didn't have the legs for a mini). Crystal was every bit as convincing as her sister had been, and I thought maybe Geri and I had begun a tradition. But Geri and her husband moved to the mainland, and I had to resume wearing pants to parties.

     Today is October 31. Today I shaved, but tonight at Crossroads there will be no party. Our church is in mourning because our pastor's wife, Becky Gallatin, age 42, died last Wednesday. She died at home, in her husband's arms, and in the presence of her loving family. Breast cancer, in only a year's time, took Becky from this life.

     Geraldine Grayson, she is gone, too. Just this past spring, the same brutal disease, breast cancer, silenced the sweet song that Geri shared. I can imagine Geri, though, singing in a celestial chorus. And I see her today, winging her way to Heaven's Gate to welcome the new angels—and to make sure they look good, in long dresses.