The question of ceremony was moot, for he had requested no service of any kind. There was no immediacy to matters because his remains had, at his request, gone to the anatomical donor program of the University of Alabama medical school in Birmingham. Six months later his ashes were returned to me. I buried them by myself at Hollow Square, an old family cemetery. (Tom hadn’t cared what happened to his ashes. I had thought that his sisters would wish to see him buried with a marker, but their age and condition did not allow them to come this way again. I will join him at Hollow Square someday.) I tried by myself to set in place the marker supplied by the United States military for his service in World War II, but its weight and my own seniority made it necessary for me to call upon my cousin Billy for help. Billy’s wife and my sister joined me for that occasion.

Tom and I did have support from my sister and my multitudinous cousins (many living nearby) and his sisters and their children (who lived far away but visited). But on the whole, we had made it on our own and believed that after our deaths our remains should be disposed of alone. Certainly we both wished to avoid any hint of religious service, since churches and religions seemed to us to be among the greatest enemies that gays have had.

It has been interesting to see the changes in the local citizens since we moved to Alabama. Initially, reaction tended to be one of polite, if strained, acceptance. I have a sense that it was more my living in partnership with another man rather than simply being gay that caused some discomfort. (If I’d lived alone I would have been just “a bachelor,” and the South has always had lots of those.) Toward the end there seemed to be more acceptance, a case of familiarity breeding something other than contempt. In addition, we had become old news. The one person to whom our relationship seemed to make the least difference was (and is) my oldest cousin, who has just turned 96.

I had a revealing exchange at the time of Tom’s death with my closest neighbor, a super-conservative man who, I think, began to appreciate Tom and me because we lived modest and quiet lives and did not cause much fuss. He often brought us produce from his garden. I had kept him apprised of developments during Tom’s last illness, and when I returned home after Tom’s death, I called to let him know. He expressed his sympathy. A few days later I ran into him at the local post office. He seemed a bit befuddled and finally said, “I just don’t know how to act under the circumstances.” (Our situation simply didn’t fit into local norms.) I said, “Just continue to be your usual friendly self.” And he did. He’s moved away now.

I continue to live quietly and privately. I’m not a recluse, really, for I do have a few friends locally whom I see every week or so and a few closer relatives who are particularly important to me. The tiny hamlet where I live is predominantly black (my closest white neighbor is two miles away), and I, a white man, seem increasingly to be accepted by those neighbors. After all, these are the folks I grew up with, and we know one another from way back. I have e-mail and telephone support from a few good friends from my New York years. I am not a joiner, and I don’t seek out “old folks” groups as a rule. In a way growing up gay in an intensively conservative Southern environment has prepared me for enduring and enjoying solitude, and I consider my state more aloneness than loneliness.