The Last Goodbye by Cecil Bethea

The
wind blew straight down from the Yukon chilling the plains of eastern Colorado
and the town of Whitney.  Don walked past
the sere, brown grass on either side, toward the 1920’s bungalow.  After crossing the porch, he opened the screen
door and unlocked the front door.  The
living room was so empty that it looked as though a family had not lived there
for twenty-six years.  Back when he was
five, the Folks had bought the house and moved into its more spacious
quarters.  Only vaguely could he remember
running through the empty rooms which seemed so vast before Dad, helped by
Uncles Sam, Bill, and Bob, had arrived with the family’s possessions.
The
house needed a good cleaning–especially the windows.  Thank God, for the Mary and Martha
Society.  They were ladies from the
Baptist Church.  With the motto, “We make
bad times a little better”.  Part of
their Christian duty.  Actually they had
organized the auction for the all the stuff that he and the girls had not
wanted.  Tomorrow the ladies would come
to give the house a good cleaning.  Have
to send them a really nice check for all their help.

Looking
around the empty room he remembered it crowded with people and furniture.  Dad’s and Mom’s lounge chairs had sat side by
side on the other side of the fireplace facing the TV against the front wall.  The Christmas tree had always stood before
the front widows so that they could share its glory with passers-by.  Eleanor had wanted the print of Canaletto’s
GRAND CANAL.  Wonder how it would look
decorating a wall in Silicon Valley?  
Looking
back, the dining room was a waste of space considering how seldom they had used
it along with the “good” dishes.  On
Holidays, birthdays, and Sundays and from time to time.  Never would forget the Thanksgiving that an
errant football, thrown by his cousin Percy, had blasted the window to
smithereens about an hour before the meal. 
Couldn’t have bought a piece of glass in Denver on Thanksgiving.  No problem for Dad and the uncles.  They covered the empty sash with a piece of
plywood chinked with an old blanket.  All
done and over by the time the turkey was taken from the oven.
The
folks’ room never really interested him what with Mom having a strict policy of
knocking before opening a closed door. 
Besides he had checked it out and found nothing interesting except some
photograph albums inherited from his grandparents which he studied from
time.  People, long dead, posed before
antique cars. 
His
sisters shared a room which he later found more interesting.  Nothing really dirty just an interest in how
girls were different from boys.  Had to
do his snooping when alone at home. 
His
room seemed so small.  He wondered how a
chest of drawers, a desk and chair, and a set of bunk beds could crammed into
such a small space.  Here he had had high
dreams, found solace from psychic stings, and read about the rest of the world
outside of Winston and Kiowa County.
The
kitchen was the center of the family’s life and certainly Mom’s life.  She spent most of her time cooking for
us.  We ate practically all of our meals
over there at the table in the corner. 
Some kind of meat, potatoes, at least one vegetable, a salad, and some
sort of desert.  Mom liked to try recipes
from the women’s magazines.  Women don’t
cook like that any more –don’t have the time. 
He left the house keys on the mantel for Bill Roberts, the real estate agent.
Suddenly
he realized that after the house was sold he’d have no ties to Winston except
Longview Cemetery.  They still owned
three burial plots of the five that the Folks had bought years ago.  Maybe they could be sold.

He
realized it would be two o’clock before he got to Denver.  Before getting into his car, he stood
buffeted by the High Plains wind, studied the house once more ,and then drove
off without looking back.

About the Author

My Biography
in 264 Words

          Although I have done other things, my
fame now rests upon the durability of my partnership with Carl Shepherd; we
have been together for forty-two years and nine months as of today, August
18the, 2012.

          Although I was born in Macon, Georgia
in 1928, I was raised in Birmingham during the Great Depression.  No doubt I still carry invisible scars caused
by that era.  No matter we survived.  I am talking about my sister, brother, and I.  There are two things that set me apart from
people.  From about the third grade I was
a voracious reader of books on almost any subject.  Had I concentrated, I would have been an
authority by now; but I didn’t with no regrets.

          After the University of Alabama and
the Air Force, I came to Denver.  Here I
met Carl, who picked me up in Mary’s Bar. 
Through our early life we traveled extensively in the mountain
West.  Carl is from Helena, Montana, and
is a Blackfoot Indian.  Our being from
nearly opposite ends of the country made “going to see the folks” a broadening
experience.  We went so many times that
we finally had “must see” places on each route like the Quilt Museum in
Paducah, Kentucky and the polo games in Sheridan, Wyoming.  Now those happy travels are only memories.

          I was amongst the first members of the
memoire writing class.  While it doesn’t
offer criticism, it does offer feedback. 
Also just trying to improve your writing helps no end.

          Carl is now in a nursing home, I don’t
drive any more.  We totter on. 

The Gym by Donny Kaye

Gym class in 7th grade turned brutal. I attended one of Denver’s roughest junior high schools, which I’m sure was one of the considerations for the set for the filming of West Side Story. I say it was brutal in that it was, brutal!

The 7:00 a.m. class was huge. Mr. Brutal was our teacher of record. Having a last name that began with “S” meant that I was always number 78 or more, in the large gym classes that were basically intended to be a place to keep large numbers of the student body in a holding place so that other classes, such as math and social studies were smaller in numbers of students.

The class itself was more like a free-for-all than a class with objectives and standards. One morning, one of the smallest boys in the class was hoisted to the top of the two story ceiling on the climbing ropes. When his strength finally gave out from physical exhaustion and crying for help, he dropped to the floor breaking his arm and collar bone. The teachers supervising this “class” finally came to his rescue after one of the other students went to the office and asked for help.

Showers were mandatory. When you were handed a towel after showering the gym teacher recorded your gym number, which constituted that day’s grade for the class. I hated it! Eighty to a hundred pre-pubescent and pubescent boys along with the handful or two of older, rougher students (who were always more developed physically) made for the hour from hell. Towels were snapped at bare asses, size and development were always the source of taunting and the occasional erection that seemed to ‘come up’, so to speak, in a shower full of boys, became the focus of teasing and torment. Typically, lunch money was collected by the older, rougher boys in exchange for ‘protection’. Gaud help me on a day when I had to carry a cold lunch. Fried egg sandwiches and a Twinkie were not negotiable and only intensified the harassment. No wonder I missed forty-eight days of school that year!

The experience of gym class continued to be traumatic. By 10th grade, the only option for not taking gym was in exchange for ROTC class. The choice only created more conflict for me. By 12th grade, I finally had settled into a routine of participating in class as I needed, realizing that those days when we were turned loose to run Washington Park for our class period were the best. Running the park served to increase my speed as a runner so that I could get back to the showers before many of the others, shower and be with towel, dressing and “observing” by the time the majority of the guys were back from their run.

In college, classes like fencing, badminton and bowling didn’t require showering and seemed to be more user-friendly, at least as I was concerned. It really wasn’t until my early thirties that I began to realize how fulfilling the experience of a gym could be for a guy like me. Frequently I would fantasize about the gym, especially the showers and the possibility of meeting someone special. The fantasies always unfolded much like porn. You all have seen the story line; I’m headed to the steam room and someone catches my eye, asks to join me and—well you can imagine the rest of the story. Or another favorite is walking into the dressing area and there are two guys getting dressed, well sort of getting dressed! They seem to be having trouble with their undies or, oh my, the breathing is getting intense!!

At my age, one of the benefits of going to the gym, other than keeping my body somewhat in shape is that I now qualify for a “Silver Sneakers” pass. The gym is free, well sort of. It seems my health insurance company has realized the benefits of staying healthy through exercise. Yes, I still enjoy the lockers and the steam room can be intriguing. Depending on the time of day, there can be extremely gorgeous young guys working out. But who’s looking? Right! It causes me to wonder if they might be interested in my lunch money, just as the tormentors in my seventh grade gym class.

Even though my formation around the gym was not positive, I developed some life skills beyond survival, in gym. I enjoy riding my bicycle, running, and I walk most every day and have stayed reasonably fit and healthy.  

About the Author

The Gym by Betsy

 

Throughout
my school years, kindergarten through high school, even in college, gym was my
favorite subject.  I loved gym.  I suppose I loved gym class because I always
caught on quickly, I was never behind or bored, I understood the subject matter
perfectly, I easily passed all the tests, I was always happy to be there in
class.  What teacher wouldn’t adore
me?  I loved gym, I really loved
gym.  And I loved my gym teachers
too.  I even started to pursue a career
as a gym teacher at the age of 40 something. 
I enrolled in graduate school.  I
was going to earn a masters degree in gym. 
I would become a master of gym!  I
actually did not finish this pursuit. 
Somehow as a subject of study and reflection, rather than an activity, I
found it un-stimulating and uninteresting. 
I barely got started when I thought better of it and went to work in the
human services field.

There
was a brief period of time during my high school days when gym–at least what I
considered REAL gym—real gym class was absent from my weekly schedule.  I was 15 years old in 1950.  Because of my father’s work my family had to
pack up and leave our home in Mountain Lakes

, New Jersey.  We had to move to a new town, a new state, a
new part of the country. 

“Oh
well.  There’s a high school there.  It can’t be that different from what I have
known,” I thought.  Little did I know. I
was too young and inexperienced even at the advanced age of 15 to realize that
I was in for a culture shock–big time.

I soon
found myself adjusting to life in small town Louisiana, the antithesis of
Mountain Lakes, New Jersey.  They didn’t
even speak the same language there.  I
spoke New Jersey, they spoke Deep South. 
Oh well, things would get better when school started.  There were all those classes to look forward
to and lots of sports, right?  This IS
high school, after all.  

Did I
say I was in for a change in culture?   I
soon learned that this

definitely
was a culture very different from what I had known, for a girl in particular. I
was soon to learn that girls do not do sports in this culture.  Girls do not sweat.  Girls do not exert themselves
physically.  Girls do not “overdo.” Girls
do not overdo especially when it’s the wrong time of the month.  In fact, when it’s the wrong time of the
month, girls are allowed to skip gym. 
Skip gym!  Oh no!  Please don’t make me skip gym!  I love gym. 
Gym keeps me going all day.  Gym
is the high point of the day for me. 
Except, in the new culture, it turned out, gym was not such a high point
because we didn’t do much really.  Gym
was, well, really, really puny.

 I
quickly learned that in many coeducational high schools in the the deep South
in 1950 girls’ participation in sports amounted to watching the boys.  First of all, I did not want to watch the
boys.  I was not interested in the boys
(although I pretended to be), and I was not interested in watching sports.  I wanted to be doing the sport.  But, alas, I lived in the land of southern
BELLEDOM.  I would have to adjust to a
rather passive existence when it came to athletics.

Youth
often facilitates an easier adjustment to new things, and I did adjust to the
southern culture.  I pretended to be
interested in the boys, and I did become involved in the athletic
events……as a CHEERLEADER.   In the
realm of the gym this was as close as a girl could get to being an athlete.

Yes, I
did adjust, but only superficially.  As
soon as high school was over, I returned to the east and attended a women’s
college where I could participate in most sports and not worry about working up
a sweat.  Oh yes, and sure enough, I fell
in love with my college gym teacher too. 
(Incidentally, I do believe I have never met a self-respecting lesbian
who had not fallen in love with at least one of her gym teachers.)

Now in
my dotage, retired and all, now that I am free to spend as much time in the gym
as I want….It’s amazing how easy it is to find a way to avoid the place.  Excuses abound when I’m feeling lazy or
aching.  But then, the next thing I know,
I’m missing that gym.  There goes that
voice in my head again. 

“Time to
go to the gym, Betsy!”

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the
Denver women’s chorus,  OLOC (Old
Lesbians Organizing for Change).  She has
been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years.  Since her retirement her major activities
include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor
with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a
lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three
children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her
greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her
partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.