Sometimes we sit on these blogs and write away as if concerns were theoretical. I suppose that’s not so much the case in the reality-based community, as we do point to the deaths and violence in Iraq, as compared with the ignoring of those incidents on the part of the those on the right. I have particularly written a whole mile of columns about the rights of our country’s gay and lesbian citizens. Sure, it isn’t just theoretical to me. I love my sister, who happens to be a lesbian and in a committed relationship with another woman, and who is also the mother of two adorable adopted daughters, treasured neices of mine. Still, I see my sister, her spouse and my neices seldom, due to geography. Trips to California come at Thanksgiving, or even more seldom. The other gay couple my wife and I are close to are also in California now, just having moved with their two daughters and newly adopted son. We wish them well, and hope to see them at our Thanksgiving visit. Their cases and their causes are distant, if by geography, and not from our hearts.

Sometimes, not interacting with fine gay and lesbian families on a day-to-day basis, this campaign for their civil rights, to marry those they love wholeheartedly, and to raise the children they cherish, seems theoretical. This weekend it came home a bit more. Perhaps oddly, the issue came home while I was in the ocean up to my waist and waiting to grab the next wave. Yeah, I was body surfing when a young forcibly man caught my attention.

I knew “Scott,” and he knew me. We both go to the same section of beach on the Jersey shore every weekend. He’d engaged me and my wife in conversation the week before concerning his search for buried treasure with his metal detector. We’ve also seen him on his bicycle on several occasions. Scott is 11, and as he told me Saturday, twelve years old next month. I’m not sure what it is about me that made him think I’d be a welcome audience, but Scott also told me much, much more about his life on Saturday, there while we were bobbing in the surf waiting for the next wave. It all came in a blur of words, as only an 11 year old can string them together. His mother had died when he was young, his Dad was nowhere around, and Scott had been adopted. Then he revealed, proudly, that he had two gay Dads. The boy was positively beaming when he revealed it, as he challenged the next wave.

In this day, as an adult we don’t always adress children, afraid, I suppose, that someone is going to arch their eyebrows and wonder at our interest. In this type of situation my wife often thinks I’m a bit careless, but my instinct is to talk with the kid when adressed. And I did so. Still, it seemed odd to me that Scott, all 4′8″ of him, told me about his two gay Dads out there in the surf. And a few minutes later I suggested to Scott that it was time for him to go and introduce me to his Dads.

No, it was not odd to go up and meet “Robert” and “Randall.” There they were lounging in beach chairs, soaking up the rays. We came forward and I prompted Scott, who, like a good young gentleman, introduced us in as polite a manner as might be. (My goodness, if my own neices and nephews were so polite, I’d have quite a collection of thank you letters, wouldn’t I?) It turns our summer homes are down the block from each other. Robert and Randall seem as middle class and boring as my wife and myself. It may even be that we’re better at interior decorating than they are. Oh, we’ll see. I’m planning on inviting them over next time we’re down the shore.

No, it is not just theoretical. Sure, I have a sister and sister-in-law who are gay parents, and my wife and I have two gay friends who are a couple and proud parents of three. But it is even the case that one can stumble upon others. Yeah, a boy like “Scott” can be so proud of his family as to even accost a gray-haired stranger like myself in the middle of the surf at a Jersey beach, proudly telling me about his own family.

Scott makes me proud of America. New Jersey makes me proud that we pay taxes there, as they recognize gay unions. I wish I could be much more proud of all of America.

Oh, I know it is a long shot, but if “Scott’s” Dads read this blog, I hope they get in touch. They know, as you have guessed, that I’ve changed the names of all involved. But I’d really love to get to know them. They seem wholesome. And wholesome family values is what I’m all about.