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April 2011

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my (our) books

Fool for Love When You Don't See Me

Someone Like You I'm Your Man

He's The One It Had To Be You

The Mammoth Book of New Gay Erotica Best Gay Erotica 2007

Best Gay Love Stories: New York City Best Gay Love Stories 2005

Three Fortunes In One Cookie The Deal

contact

If you have any of the above books and would like them signed, mail them to:

P.O. Box 131845, Houston, TX., 77219.

Please include three dollars for return postage.

Send email to timothyjlambert@gmail.com


Warning: This blog may contain homosexuals which in the states of California and Maine have been alleged to destroy the sanctity of marriage. Read at your own risk.



Jon%20DeMichaelQuantcast


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Scouts Honor Rescue Inc.

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global AIDS alliance

UNAids

AIDS foundation houston

bering omega community services

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Timothy's hair by Larry Henderson Hair Design.


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Jan. 28th, 2011

travels


Photo Friday, Number 88. Theme: Travels.

Skolfield-Whittier house 1

The Skolfield-Whittier house in Brunswick, Maine. community.curtislibrary.com/pejepscot/skhse.htm

Jan. 21st, 2011

the trees


Photo Friday, Number 87. Theme: Trees.

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Trees growing alongside a rock wall on the edge of a forest in Maine.

Dec. 3rd, 2010

chill


Photo Friday, Number 81. Theme: Chill.

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Footbridge between Topsham and Brunswick, Maine, 2007.

Aug. 27th, 2010

a warm place


Photo Friday, Number 69. Theme: Warm.

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People enjoying a warm, sunny day on the beach in Maine.

Aug. 20th, 2010

fascination street


Photo Friday, Number 68. Theme: The Street.

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A street in Portland, Maine.

Jul. 9th, 2010

summer fun


Photo Friday, Number 63. Theme: Summer Fun.

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Gone fishin'.

Jul. 8th, 2010

sometime to return


Got home from a great workout a few minutes ago. The dogs, who'd been waiting for me in Becky's house, greeted me as though I'd left them there for a week. Again. They definitely live in the moment, my dogs.

It hardly seems as though I returned from Maine over a week ago. Almost as soon as I returned, I had to housesit and take care of three dogs for J___ through the weekend. Which was a good gig, because her dogs are very sweet and love to sleep. I had to wake them up. When I came back home on Tuesday, Rex and Pixie acted as though I'd been away for months on safari or something. They must've misread the black fly bites on my ankles as being from the Congo and not from Maine. That's what I get for picking peas from my parent's garden. Itchy ankles.

My week in Maine was wonderful. I know I never say much about my family, and that's because I'm promoting myself and my books on the Internet and not them. So I've always made it a general rule to respect their privacy and leave them out of my blog stories and social networking stuff. I've been pretty good about that. But what the hell. Rules are made to be broken. First, I will say that I'm grateful they allowed me to return to the Lambert Homestead for a week. Because of other circumstances, I wasn't entirely certain I was going to be able to go home. So back in May, when my parents called on my birthday, I said I might visit sometime around the end of June to attend my high school reunion. They laughed and said, "What a coincidence. We're going to Wisconsin to go to our high school reunion in June. But we should be back in Maine by then." I'm not a planner, and my attention span is short, so by the time I decided I could actually go to Maine I'd forgotten that my parents were out of town and couldn't understand why they weren't answering their phone when I called to try to let them know I would be visiting. They think answering machines are the devil and refuse to own one, so it's not very easy to get in touch with them. They have a cell phone, but barely know how to use it. Ninety percent of the time it's turned off anyway. The other ten percent is spent listening to them say, "What? I can't hear you. What's that? Oh, for the love of--" Or there's deafening silence after you spend ten minutes telling them a story and you finally realize the connection was lost, or their phone lost power because they never charge it until it's too late.

Anyway, as I was saying, they never did answer the phone and, as I was racing out the door to catch my flight, I thought, "Hopefully, they're still hiding the spare house key in the same place." When I arrived at the Lambert Homestead, after driving for miles down winding country roads into the sticks of rural Maine, all the doors were locked and it was obvious they hadn't been home in quite some time. "Crap," I said. "Now what?" I wanted to call Becky to let her know that I'd arrived safely, but I'd stupidly left my cell phone behind in the car when she dropped me off at the airport. At least it was fully charged and I knew how to use it, even though it was thousands of miles away from me. I was searching for the hidden key and was about to give up looking and go back into town to find a motel when I randomly turned around and found a man staring at me. I screamed. When I realized it was my brother, I stopped screaming and said, "Asswipe. You scared the shit out of me!" "What are you doing here?" he asked. We're close.

My brother confirmed that the 'rents were still out of town. "They should be back by Friday. Or they could be back tomorrow. Or even Thursday. Maybe not even until next Monday. But they should be back Friday," he said. It was Wednesday. "So," I said, "what you're saying is that you don't know when they'll be back." "Right," he said. Genius! My brother loaned me his cell phone to call Becky. There was no food in the house, so I had to drive fifteen minutes back into civilization to forage for food in a part of the world where life as we know it shuts down by 10:00 in the evening. It was almost dusk. I panicked and had a sudden urge to get home before my mother turned on the street light, a beacon calling her children home for the day. But they weren't home and I wasn't a child, so I continued on and found a place that was open and serving food. After dinner I drove back to my parent's house and let myself in with the key that my brother found for me. I wandered through the quiet house with nothing to do. No cell phone, no cable, no Internet service. Not a single luxury. Like the Beverly Hillbillies, as primitive as could be. I was about to call it an early night and go to bed when headlights flashed through the windows, signaling that a car was coming up the drive. I went outside and saw my parents getting out of their car. "I wondered whose car that was in our driveway," my father said. "What are you doing here?" my mother asked. "I'm up for my reunion," I reminded her. "That's right. I wasn't sure when that was." They hugged me and my dad said, "What a wonderful surprise!" "I found him rummaging around in the garage, looking for the key, and I thought he was a thief," my brother suddenly said from behind me, and I yelped loudly, because I had no idea he was still there. "Stop doing that!" I begged.

Sep. 12th, 2008

gloria


I barely slept last night/this morning. Not because of nervous Ike anticipation, but because when I let Rex out for his five AM visit to the south lawn--aka the chance to pee before Timothy passes out until noon--I saw a dog running down the street at a frantic pace. That's the last thing I need to see before a hurricane. After shutting Rex down for the night, I told Becky about the wandering dog and she said she'd go with me to try to find it. I grabbed a couple leashes, some bread to use as bait, and we covered every street around our house, trying to find him, to no avail. Eventually, we told ourselves that he'd gone home, or that someone else found him and took him in for the weekend. I hope that's true. But, I couldn't help worrying about him and other dogs that might be running through the streets of the city while Ike passes by.

I also lay awake thinking about hurricanes of yore, trying to recall if I'd ever been in a hurricane before. Of course I remember Rita three years ago, but that mostly passed adjacent to Houston. Then I remembered a hurricane that passed through Maine. Hard to believe, I'm sure, but it has been known to happen. It was the mid 80s and we'd dismantled half of the original early 1900s dilapidated ell on the Lambert Homestead in Maine and were preparing to construct a new two story addition in its place, which would eventually join a new garage. The remaining half of the original ell, which had been renovated and was in good condition, housed our dining room and kitchen on the main floor and my brother's and my bedrooms on the second. A foundation had been dug, but not poured, leaving a vast crater beneath the back half of our house, exposing our canned goods, bags of potatoes, and the rest of our basement to the world. Because part of the original foundation was removed for this endeavor, the back of our house was propped up on stilts. (Music cue: impending danger theme.)

Then the winds came. Of course it was the dead of night. Don't these things always happen during the middle of the night? The power went out around bedtime, but we were prepared for that, because my mother, an avid collector of early-American antiques, had several glass lamps readily filled with oil, wicks trimmed and burning. We crept to our rooms with lanterns in hand, as if we were a family in Little House on the Prairie, listening to the wind howl outside and the creaking of old wooden joints within the walls as they woke from a long rest, ready to fulfill their duty and keep our home standing for another century. At least, that's what we hoped.

I remember turning down the wick of my lamp until the flame died before I rested my head on my pillow. I tried not to think about the other side of the wall next to my bed, the exterior wall now devoid of siding, and the gaping pit beneath me. Unlike the Ingalls' and other families in Walnut Creek, I had a Walkman, and since I couldn't sleep, I slipped on my headphones and listened to WBLM (with Mark Persky in the morning!). In between bouts of classic rock there were report of wind gusts up to 60 and 70 miles per hour. Our house's vibrating timber did it's best, but it was Led Zeppelin that eventually rocked me to sleep that night.

The stilts holding up the back of our house did their job, as did the hundred year old carpentry within the walls. I think we were without power for a week afterward. It was 1985, but it felt like 1885 at the Lambert Homestead. A new daily chore was to ride with my father in his truck to a creek deep in the woods of our property to fill buckets with water for our toilet tank. We played board games by lamp light at night. I read a lot of books. We ate a lot of corn, because our corn crop was spread across the land. Eventually, I had to stop listening to my Walkman's radio, because the hurricane that had passed through Maine was named hurricane Gloria, which meant the stations were relentlessly playing "Gloria" by Laura Brannigan. No wonder I repressed these memories until now.

Apr. 24th, 2008

scary monsters


Look! BuNnY MoNsTeRz!



BuNnY MoNsTeRz are hand made by my friend Keri in Maine. Each one is unique and made from recycled fabrics and ecospun felt. If you want one, visit Keri's Etsy Shop and order yours today. She even takes requests.

Feb. 16th, 2008

high hopes


In 1999 the world's tallest snowman was constructed in Bethel, Maine. It was 113'7". At the end of January 2008 the community set out to break their previous record by building the world's tallest snow woman, hoping to reach 120 feet high. Look, a webcam. [via all things maine]

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