Month: November 2013

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From Brooklyn to College Point, New York by Louis

Long ago, far away

I guess long ago and far away could mean recounting the adventures of Alexander the Great (gay general) in ancient Persia. But since I am getting to become an antique myself, I thought I would reminisce about the years 1949-1950. The first president I remember was Harry Truman. Who was the first U. S. President you remember? I was living with my mother and father, my maternal grandmother and my paternal grandfather and four brothers in an apartment on Baimbridge Street in East New York, Brooklyn. Today Baimbridge Street is located in Bedford-Stuyvesant, which is not one of New York City’s better neighborhoods.

My younger brother Charles Francis was born in 1949. So I helped my mother and grandmother take care of him. Unfortunately he has since died – too much hard liquor. I remember a lot of soldiers who had returned five years previously from Europe after World War II recounting their experiences and showing us their helmets and rifles some of which even had bayonets although I remember Obama saying the use of bayonets was discontinued after World War I.

My grandfather used to take me on the electric trolley train and we would ride to Coney Island which back then was in its heyday. I was six years old and was awe-struck by the plethora of sparks showering down from the overhead electric wires that provided the energy for the trolleys to travel.

In 1950, we moved to our own house in College Point, Queens, NY. It had brown shingles, a big screened-in front porch with a sofa. Of course, it was still an urban setting, but to me, with the big yard in back and plenty of room as compared with the apartment in Brooklyn, it was like moving to the country. Back then College Point was a lower middle class town with lots of vacant lots and two well-maintained parks. A walk across town would bring you to a large expanse of untouched swamps. I and a bunch of other children loved to seek out the frogs, pheasant, and the rabbits. Unfortunately, all that is now gone. Nowadays College Point is run-down, dirty and overcrowded. So I am trying to relocate to Colorado.

On a hot summer’s day, a neighbor took us to the CYO swimming pool in neighboring Whitestone. I guess I lingered a little longer than I should have in the boys’ locker room.

In other words, when things are perfect, and one is happy, why do things have to change, go downhill?

Sept. 10, 2013

About the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

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Cooking by Gillian

I have blamed my lack of enthusiasm for cooking on being a lesbian, and my mother, in varying percentages. However I know many lesbians who love to cook, so decided it came down to my mother. She cooked as necessary for my dad and me, but it was always apparent that it was more of a chore than a pleasure; my attitude exactly to cooking for my family, although I managed to keep four teenage stepchildren from complaining too much. I’m not sure whether that’s a testament to my unexciting but perfectly palatable meals, however, or to their forbearance.

It was only later in life when, perhaps, you look back on things with at least slightly less distortion, I realized that for most of the years that I lived at home, Britain was under severe food rationing. In a world where many things, including practically anything imported, were simply unavailable, and what was available severely rationed, no wonder she lacked a certain enthusiasm. Doubtless some women reveled in the challenge of creating gourmet wonders from dried egg substitute (though we did get one real egg per week) and substituting ground potato for just about anything and frying sausages that were 90% bread crumbs. My mother was not among them.

I still have one of her cookbooks from that time and some of the recipes are astounding:

Carrot Fudge: well the thought’s enough to gag you. But, hey, the recipe was simple and easy; grate and cook as many carrots as you can spare, flavor with anything available; juice squeezed from fruit in season, artificial vanilla, left-over tea. Add gelatin, cook a few minutes, spoon into a flat dish. Leave to set then cut into cubes.
Yummm

Or there was SpaMghetti, which called for spaghetti, four eggs from reconstituted egg substitute, one half can of SPAM (God Bless America,) ¼ cup grated cheese (or grated potato if not available), onions and parsley, pepper and salt, as available. While spaghetti is boiling cook other ingredients in margarine if available or lard if available or water if nothing else is available.

Now you just try working up a fervor for that!

And, looking back, my poor mother did try so hard.

One of my most vivid childhood memories is of a very early birthday. I think I was three or possibly four. Mum produced, with a grand flourish, a birthday cake. Surpri-ise! Well I doubt my brain actually had a grasp of any such concept. Rationing allowed us very little in the way of cake at all, and I’m not sure if I had ever even seen a real pre-war style frosted cake, let alone tasted one. Only many years later did I have the remotest concept of the hording of ingredients and the trading of coupons this production must have cost.

It smelled delicious. I remember that.

And I was not the only one who thought so.

The dog sprang from the fireside mat, gained the table in one quick lunge, knocked the cake on the floor, and inhaled it. Apparently she, being considerably older than I, did recognize such pre-war visions of taste-treat sensation.

My mother was inconsolable. She wept. She roughly shoved the dog outside – about as close to animal cruelty as Mum would ever get. My dad shook his head and clicked his tongue and said, “Never mind,” – about as close to verbosity as he would ever get.

I remember feeling very confused at all this drama and then I sat down on the floor beside the remains of the shattered cake and scooped up finger loads into my mouth. It was delicious. Who could fault the dog?

I started to giggle. My mother, who always had a good sense of humor, soon joined in.

Dad, looking much relieved, winked solemnly at me and sat beside me on the floor, jabbing big hairy fingers into flattened frosting.

As he had anticipated, my mother responded with a disgusted, “Oh Edward! Get up!” but we both knew that secretly she was delighted with our response and our evident delight at her cake, even if it was not served quite as she intended.

She even relented and let the dog back in eventually, to clean up the dregs my dad and I had left on the kitchen linoleum.

There were still years of rationing to follow, but I don’t recall Mum ever going for the Big Cake Event again, and she certainly did not once rationing ended and cakes were readily available in the local bakery. So, whether or not it originated with rationing, who knows? (Though Brits of my generation and up do so love to blame the Germans.)

All I know for sure is, I’m with her. A woman’s place is no longer in the kitchen, and I would rather spend my time writing my silly short stories.

And as it’s almost Thanksgiving I shall close with a relevant quote from Erma Bombeck?

Thanksgiving dinners take eighteen hours to prepare. They are consumed in twelve minutes. Half-times takes twelve minutes. This is not coincidence.

Lakewood, 2012

About the Author 

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

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Falling into Unrequited Love by Cecil Bethea

Away back about sixty years ago I was in love with Hugh Stanley. He certainly wasn’t handsome; no way could he have been a porn star even had there been any porn available. But he was what I wanted in my vague, amorphous hankerings. Such were complicated by the firm knowledge that homosexual activity was condemned by my peers, my family, and my state. Remember back in those days, there were no Gays just homosexuals, queers, and cock-suckers. The result was no overture was ever made, so I at least was never rejected.
Hugh was a brain. He made practically all “A’s” at least enough to be selected to become a member of the School of Chemistry equivalent of Arts and Sciences’ Phi Beta Kappa but without the age or memorability. Unlike most scientific types, he liked to read literary novels before going to sleep. I remember in particular WAR AND PEACE, VANITY FAIR, and I, CLAUDIUS. It must [have] taken months to read the first two in thirty minute bouts. In I, CLAUDIUS, there is mention of the Spintrians, a group of Gay Romans. He referred to a similar group on the campus by that name in disparaging tones, but such remarks did not end my hunger.

He received a handsome fellowship from the Department of Defense. To this day, I remember the title of his thesis: The Synthesis and Thermal Decomposition of Symmetrical Bi-Methyl Hydrazine. The sponsorship came about because hydrazine was an early rocket propellant. I worked in the library of the School of Chemistry; actually my pay was in the form of a scholarship from the school. This method of payment didn’t bother me as long as the money came. True, you will have trouble finding someone with a scholarship in chemistry who knows less about the subject.

Meanwhile in all my turbulence, I was taking a course in Shakespeare. The test on MACBETH had a question like, “Discuss the motivation of MacBeth.” In the storm and stress of my soul, I decided that his love for Lady MacBeth drove him to all of his deeds most foul. I cited lines from the play to buttress my view. Written upon my test by the professor, Hudson Strode, were words something like this: “While some scholars accept this view, most believe that it was ambition. Also, Mr. Bethea, the character’s name is Lady MacBeth and not Mrs. MacBeth.” Every reference to the woman was at least consistently Mrs. MacBeth. It does loose something in transition.

This tale ends decades later. A letter from Hugo arrived. He had found my name on the internet. Wanting to be sure that I was the right Cecil Bethea, he recounted our friendship in school so that I could identify him, a totally unnecessary exercise. I replied with a lengthy letter. I said that I was Gay and a bit about my thirty-five years with Carl. After all I couldn’t hide him in a closet like a bastard child.

Hugo’s letter arrived sometime in August. We’d already decided to go to Alabama that October. Not only is the heat less, but Carl had never seen the fall leaves down South. Carl readily agreed to a change of route to go by Gulf Shores, down south of Mobile. So I proposed to Hugo and Laura, his wife, that we would like to take them to dinner at a place recommended by AAA. Also I stated that we’d be sleeping at a certain motel suggested by the same. 

The next week Carl and I, for some disremember reason, went to the Home Depot away out on North Washington with a Wal-Mart across the street. As I parked the truck, the battery died. We did our shopping and called AAA. The man said the battery was dead, dead, dead. Carl then took out the battery; he carried enough tools to make most any repair short of removing the engine. With the battery in a shopping cart, I went over to purchase one at Wal-Mart. Why this unexpected purchase at $67 should irk me more than any other I don’t remember, but it did irritate intensely. Walking in August across two parking lots on a hill, I remembered “Into every life a little rain must fall,” and other equally puerile philosophic mottoes. By the time I had reached the truck, I had reconciled myself to the notion that unexpected purchases or setbacks are part of human life.

When we reached home, there was a letter from Hugo. I fixed myself some coffee and then sat under the tree in the front yard to read it. The first sentence was disheartening. Something like: “Your visit won’t work for me,” “his being too much of a Victorian,” “I’d never displayed any such symptoms at school,” and other such statements. After reading the letter, Carl said, “Well, we can go home by Memphis.”

My problems with the battery and the resulting homilies set me up for the worse that was to come. Two, decades earlier I had learned that not everybody would love me.

Hugo’s letter was our last communication. After Katrina, I wanted to know how he had survived but refrained. There is a limit to how many lost causes one can pursue.

© 1 August 2011

About the Author

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 memoir 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.

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Signs of the Times by Betsy

When we are young we don’t recognize signs of the times because we have experienced everything for only a short time. Everything has always been that way. So the way things are at the time we experience them we consider to be normal.

I have noticed all too often in my old age the changes that have taken place in the world and the changes that are taking place before my very eyes it seems. After all, we older folks have experienced or at least observed many changes in many areas of our lives and in the life of our society and our culture. I find myself complaining about something that has become different from the way it used to be and the way I wanted it to be. It was just fine so why does it have to change. I end up explaining it away by saying, “It’s a sign of the times.”

I started compiling a list of some of the modern phenomena of our culture that have changed for the worse (in my opinion).

People talk too fast. Especially young adults. Has anyone else noticed that? Or could it be related to my failing hearing? Maybe I just think they are talking too fast. I wouldn’t really be surprised if they actually are because it goes along with the fact that everything else is moving faster. Communication is faster than we ever dreamed it could be when I was a youngster. Everything that moves is faster. Walking, running, skiing, cycling, thinking is faster, problem solving, information gathering, etc. Sometimes it makes my whole nervous system want to run and hide or at least take a rest. Here’s an ugly thought that hit me just the other day: Maybe, just maybe everything just appears to be speeding up because my brain is slowing down! Oh no, it can’t be anything like that, can it??

These days I hear many people talking about our government in Washington–Congress in particular–and what a lousy job they are doing. In reading any history of our government, as far as I can tell, disapproval of congress has always been a sign of the times for somebody, anyway. But I’ve heard the current disapproval rating is at an all-time high–number one–having surpassed number two colonoscopies, and number three root canals.

Another sign of the times I’ve noticed lately is that every processed food of any kind contains high fructose corn syrup. It’s easy to see why while driving across the country in the summer or fall. So much corn!! But then, why not? After all, we’re paying the farmers–be they corporate farmers or family farmers–we’re paying them to grow it. Too much corn and too much government support to make a living growing it, so they have to make up ways to use the resulting over abundant supply to keep the price up. The other positive for the food producers and processors is that high fructose corn syrup is a form of sugar and is a very addictive substance. Consumers will always come back for more. Guaranteed!

What about that ever present, in your face, obvious global phenomenon that is profoundly affecting almost everyone: CLIMATE CHANGE. Now here’s a sign of the times that should have everyone’s attention. Yet there are deniers who say it is not happening in spite of the 98% of the scientific community who exhibit proof that it is a fact. Here in Colorado the warm, dry weather we so often enjoy day after day does not directly affect most of us in a negative way. But tell those 300,000 people without power on the east coast today as I am writing this–tell them that storms are not bigger, more prevalent, more violent, than even ten years ago. However if you are ten years old I suppose it seems normal.

Finally, I could swear that much more time is spent for commercial advertising on television and radio than in the old days. Sometimes I’m tempted to time it. It seems it’s about fifty-fifty to me. Half programming, half advertising. Thanks to modern technology and the digital age, however, there is a way around it–another sign of the times. Video recording and that most important button on the remote, the mute button.

What did we ever do without those remote control devises? Imagine getting out of the car and manually lifting the garage door. Unthinkable! It’s even harder to imagine getting up from the sofa to change the channel on the TV or to turn the thing off. Well, I guess all the signs of the times are not for the worse.

What is your sign? 

Lakewood, 2013

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.

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Singing by Will Stanton

Singing can be a lot of fun, whether alone, with a few friends, or maybe even in a huge choir like Norman’s Nabertackle Choir. Of course, that all depends upon whether the people sound like crows or nightingales. Psychologists, as well as simple music-lovers, have learned that music also can be a very healthful activity, sharing with friends, relieving stress, and even building new brain cells.

When I was very young, I heard a lot of classical music and folk music. My first exposure to live singing was when I was three and in nursery school. We had a visit by the legendary Woody Guthrie. He had created a series of children’s songs that he called “Songs to Grow On.” Even now, I remember some of them, such as his “Jig Jig Jig Jig Jig Along Home,” and the line, “The momma rat took off her hat, shook the house with the old tomcat; the alligator beat his tail on a drum. Jig along, jig along, jig along home.” While Woody sang and played his guitar, we all joined in on the refrain. And, there was the song about taking a bath with the line, “Oh Daddy, oh Daddy, come smell of me now. Don’t I smell nice and clean-o.” Each line substituted another person to “come smell of me now.” Not exactly a Handel oratorio, but it was great at age three.

My elementary school had a music teacher, as had many grade schools of the time. (I know that, since then, many schools have eliminated art and music as supposedly “non-essential” programs.) In my case, the teacher was Miss Morley, a rather matronly woman in her sixties whose hair-rinse turned her hair blue. I know that she was well intentioned, but her understanding of youngsters was not particularly developed.

At the beginning of each class, role-call was taken through her singing out each name, and each student would answer by singing “I’m here.” This practice continued when we also had student-teachers. Most student-teachers, as well as grade-school teachers, were women; however, we once did receive a male student-teacher. He, also, was obliged to call out the role through singing. Now, I have to explain that, for some reason unknown to me or my parents, I already had begun to develop a lower voice by fourth grade. As a consequence, I proudly responded to the man by singing “I’m here” in the same register as the man. For some peculiar reason, Miss Morley thought my response was rude. She punished me by having me sit in the corner, facing the wall. So much for masculinity.

By the time we moved to the public junior high, many of us already had begun to take interest in other students in a more personal manner. As a consequence, I noticed that the most handsome boy by far in the whole school was Walter. I tried to keep my admiring glances to a minimum, but I’m sure that they did not go unnoticed. What I did not realize was that Walter apparently had made similar glances toward me. In retrospect, I wished that we had clarified our mutual attraction more privately than Walter chose. Here we were in seventh-grade choir, sitting on metal folding chairs, when Walter suddenly threw himself across my lap. Walter lying in my lap was just fine with me but not in a class where both teacher and other students could observe and possibly embarrass us. I let Walter slide off my lap onto the floor. Afterwards, I felt like a fisherman in a contest who has caught the championship fish but deliberately let the prize escape. Ah, life’s missed opportunities!

Some of us remember a time when singing together around camp fires, either in Boy Scouts or summer camps, was a common form of entertainment. Not all of those songs were “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” either. Some were cowboy songs, Civil War songs, and British or Appalachian ballads. Undoubtedly, my interest in genuine folk music grew out of my early exposure to recordings by Burl Ives, Susan Reed, Tex Ritter, John Jacob Niles, and Richard Dyer-Bennett. I’ll always remember a live performance by the legendary Pete Seeger. As he sang and played his banjo, he would tap his left toe, then his right; and as his enthusiasm grew, he tapped both feet together.

I recall once when camping in New England with my family, a group formed spontaneously around an evening camp fire and sang songs to the accompaniment of a guitar. One of the group was a young fellow by the name of Jay Rockefeller. I heard recently that Jay will be retiring from Congress. How time has passed. I suppose that, now days, youngsters are too sophisticated and too modern to care about doing such things.

During that summer, my family stayed in Waterville, Maine. Nearby was the New England Music camp. Naturally, I joined the choir. Very early on, my ears detected a most astonishing voice, a tenor worthy of a professional choir or even an opera company. That remarkable voice belonged to young but very large fellow who came to be known by the campers as “Paul Bunyan” because of his size. His voice was strong, focused, and quite beautiful. He also surprised me; for, when the tenors’ part had a rest, he would start singing the soprano line. His soprano was so good that it did not sound like falsetto. I had to guess that Paul just had a unusually wide range.

Well, Paul’s voice did not go unnoticed among the camp staff. One evening, he was asked to stand on the shore by the lake and sing “The Lord’s Prayer.” While he was singing, we all noticed that the lighted boats on the lake all stopped. Not until Paul’s powerful notes finally ended did the boats start up and resume their travel. The last that I heard of Paul was that the music staff took Paul to the Metropolitan Opera for an interview. He was rejected, however, when everyone discovered to their surprise that Paul could not read a single note of music. All that time, he had been singing only “by ear.”

When I was sixteen, I won a modest scholarship to the prestigious Interlochen Music Camp in Michigan. Among the many activities there were various choirs. One of my greatest pleasures, next to being in the same cabin with Hank, was being in the high-school choir. I made a point of always being on time for the start of practice and never was late except for the one time that Hank sat next to me on a bunk and held me so tightly that I just could not escape…or maybe I just did not want to escape. His caresses were too inviting. Later, when I returned to the doldrums of my unloving home, I fantasized that, maybe I should have run away with Hank at the end of summer camp. I don’t know how we would have survived, but the idea still was attractive.
Being in the high school choir entitled me to also join the combined festival choir. That huge choir of teens and adults was so large and impressive that we were able to perform choral works for eight parts rather than a mere four. The sound, for me, was so wonderful that it gave me an adrenaline rush, a tingling that was almost as exciting as Hank’s caresses.

During my teens, I continued my interest in singing by collecting traditional folk ballads and occasionally singing them for myself. I entered a few contests and won some prizes; however, I never again had the pleasure of participating in a choir. In my late teens and into my early-twenties, I collected folk ballads into a notebook, but I found very few people who had an interest in such music.

Unfortunately, the only person I found who enjoyed singing with me was my friend Dee. Sometimes while we walked together, I would strike up a song, and she would join in. Until then, I always thought that the term “monotone” simply was a term, not actually a precise description of how some people sing. Dee, however, dispelled that misconception. She sang everything literally on one note. She did sing, however, with great enthusiasm, although I would have preferred a melody to go with it.

At least, Dee’s monotone was not so disturbing as the voice of a more recent acquaintance. He is totally tone-deaf; but in addition, his voice sounds like a crow with laryngitis. He informed me that a church-choir director once told him that he is “not a true monotone because his voice wavers so much,” which I thought was terribly funny.

When I went to England, I imagined that I would learn more wonderful ballads. After all, I was going to the home of the English-minstrel tradition. Of course, I was naïve, for no one I met had any interest or knowledge of such music. They all were into pop.

The closest I came to encountering folk music was on just one occasion when I first arrived in Southampton. My parents and I sat in a small restaurant for a late lunch and to make our travel plans for the day. There were no other patrons at the time. While my parents were busy in discussion, I looked about the restaurant. I noticed a bartender nearby polishing glasses. Apparently, he noticed me, too, and liked what he saw; for he softly sang a verse of a sea-chantey that I was able to hear but, fortunately, my parents did not hear. To this day, there is no way I could forget what he sang. His lines were, “Oh Robin Roy, the cabin boy, was a dirty little nipper. He stuffed his ahss with broken glahss and circumcised the skipper.” Obviously, that was not choral music, and it was just as well; for can you imagine the huge festival choir, in front of all the adoring parents, belting out, “Oh, Robin Roy…?!”

© 19 February 2013

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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History by Ricky

Writers and commentators often quote Edmund Burke’s famous line, “Those who don’t know history are destined to repeat it.”  I was a teenager when I heard that phrase for the first time. Since then I have occasionally had flashes of insight (or maybe they were epiphanies) linking some aspects of world history to more recent events in a nearly unbroken chain of repeating history because the lessons were not learned. Unfortunately, my insights are linking the past to present trends, which I find distressing.

This past week was exceptionally depressing for me. Historically, it was this week exactly 11 years ago in 2001 that my wife entered the hospital the day after 9-11 and passed away on the following Saturday, 15 September.

Yesterday it was Saturday the 15th. So I finally recognized why I was feeling “down” and that helped a bit. I learned that lesson from history – death happens; nonetheless, I was living through it again.

Yesterday, I read an article in the October 2012 issue of Vanity Fair by Michael Lewis titled “Obama’s Way.” It was a very interesting article and gave some historical background on world changing events from the perspective of how President Obama lives and makes decisions and how he keeps from becoming mentally ill from the stress of making decisions. It would be worth everyone’s time to read it.

Yesterday, I also watched a history channel special presentation. It was a two part series about the Rise of the Third Reich and the second part was the Fall of the Third Reich. It was shown using “home movies” taken by several German citizens, which showed German society following WWI and the conditions, which led to the rise of the Nazi Party from the perspective of the average German. Letters from and movies taken by German soldiers told another view of the war.

I understand many of the causes of WWI and those factors that lead up to WWII, but it still appears that those in power and those who agitate for or initiate violence, still have not learned from history that the death and destruction that follow greatly exceed the instigator’s estimates. Even William Shakespeare seemed to understand the concept that “war is hell.” Of course his version was more poetic, “Cry havoc and let loose the dogs of war.”  (Or was that the Klingons who said that?  It makes no difference to reality.)

I suppose it should not be so strange to understand why humans keep failing to learn from history. My humble (but probably accurate) opinion is that over the course of human existence, from the earliest days of recorded history unto now, every generation believes that it knows more and knows better than their progenitors. Therefore, forgets that people are still people and human nature is still the same throughout all time and places. “We are superior to the ancients in wisdom, knowledge, and technology.” “We are superior to our previous generations.” “Our society is superior to other societies.” “Where others have failed we will succeed.” Therefore, every rising generation ends up making the same mistakes all over again with weapons increasingly more destructive and the death toll keeps rising.

I am reminded of Bobby Rydell’s A World Without Love, one verse of which is, “Birds sing out of tune, and rain clouds hide the moon, I’m Ok, here I stay with my loneliness, I don’t care what they say I won’t stay in a world without love.”

The sad thing is, I do not know how to change it and make it better; no one does and so it just keeps going on and on in one eternal round; like a nightmare play where every act has different actors, sets, backdrops, and costumes, but the action and dialogue remain consistently the same, scene to scene and from one act to another; yet the audience does not wake up so the nightmare can end.

Wake up you people! I am tired of crying myself to sleep over all this hatred and violence!

© 16 September 2012

About the Author

Ricky was born in 1948 in downtown Los Angeles. He lived first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA. Just days prior to turning 8 years old, he was sent to live with his grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years while (unknown to him) his parents obtained a divorce.

When reunited with his mother and new stepfather, he lived one summer at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife of 27 years and their four children. His wife passed away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.

He came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. He says, “I find writing these memories to be very therapeutic.”

Ricky’s story blog is “TheTahoeBoy.blogspot.com”

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An Exaggerated (Fairy) Tale by Ray S

Once upon a time there lived a very big bear. He was a grand specimen right down to all necessary details. He was at least ten feet tall on his hind legs. All the lady bears desired his attention and services, but he could not seem to be attracted to any special beautiful shiny black bear. He spent many occasions visiting and playing with the ladies but could not decide which one he could please the most like he was supposed to do.

When hibernation time ended and spring time came Bear’s special pastime was hunting for berries, fruits, and nuts and sometimes a red blooded animal or two. But Bear’s diet was almost vegan inasmuch as he drew the line at eating humans.

Humans could be dangerous and killers, but so many had good feelings for the animal world, and he evidenced that many humans had great love for one another.

Bear especially enjoyed and appreciated observing the youngest human’s childhood.

Because he was invisible at will, her would patrol his territory visiting all of the young human girls and boys in their sleep. He would always see that they were loved and safe and developing all of the necessary physical and emotional attributes to grow into kind, loving, brave, questioning and joyful humans–because that is the way they were meant to be.

He carefully checked each innocent body to see that no harm or disorder occurred in the development of each child

That the little girls were all perfect in body and spirit so as to grow emotionally as well as physically beautiful women.

That the little boys were all perfect in body and spirit and that they too had all the necessary potential intelligence and body parts to insure the survival of generations to come.

While on a territory hunt for food, Bear came upon a pair of beautiful lady bears who were gathering berries in a nearby thicket. He noted how warmly they treated each other. How they would feed one another berries and speak softly to each other.

The startled lady bears looked up and invited Bear to have some berries too-if he wished. He thanked them and asked if he frequented this part of his territory often. They replied only when it is Magic Time in the woods. Bear was curious about what happens during Magic Time and they asked him, if he wasn’t lonely for the company of one of his kind?”

He wondered what that had to do with his inquiry until he looked away from the ladies at a blinding flash in the darkest part of the forest.

To Bear’s amazement there appeared a duplicate image of himself. They carefully approached each other. Hesitantly one reached out to the other, not in anger or aggression, but gradual recognition of a like being seeking friendship and maybe love.

With another blinding flash where the two lady bears had been reclining through the mist appeared two lovely nude maidens.

And then simultaneously Bear and his duplicate shed their bear skins and stood naked staring in wonder at each other.

The maidens were amused by the two young men and their wonderment. They chided the boys and said, “Watch us loving each other and then follow suit. That is why you found us in this part of the woods–to find a loved one.”

Now you have learned what Magic Time is all about and become wonderful Bare Humans, to live and to love as you were meant to do forever and ever.

About the Author

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Closet Case by Phillip Hoyle

Business was slow, so rather than just sit around wondering where my clients had gone, I got to work at home doing fall cleaning, that work where obsession facilitates doing a complete inventory of one’s possessions and an effective chasing of dirt from one place to another. It served to produce a lightening of the load and a freshening of my domestic environment. I ran the vacuum sweeper, dusted walls and woodwork, sorted randomly created stacks of papers, recycled all those things I had not got to or that no longer pertained, and carried out a ton of trash. I shook area rugs filling the autumn air with countless dust particles, knocked down cobwebs (after all, we didn’t need them for effect since Halloween was over), and even dusted the leaves of the fake fichus tree that so effectively fills one corner of the room. I washed the king-size linens, even the quilted spread, and added an insulated blanket to prepare the bed for the turning weather. With all that work completed, I had used up most of a day and so carried the electric sweeper to the basement.

The next morning I attacked that space making ready for the arrival of company for Thanksgiving. I loaded the CD player with some high energy music I rarely listen to and went to work all in a frenzy. Again there was laundry, sorting, carrying away recyclable materials, getting rid of cobwebs, washing windows, and the extra job of finding more out-of-the-way spaces for stowing my too-many framed pieces of art. The day passed quickly, too quickly, since as shadows lengthened I realized there was still too much work to do. I sat in a chair and stared at the closet door wondering what I’d find in there were I to open it.

Finally, as the room darkened with evening and my mood darkened, I wondered if I’d ever open that door. I felt sure I wouldn’t like everything I’d find there. “Oh, just do it,” I said to myself, rose from the chair, and threw open the accordion door to face the closet with its mementos, out-of-date equipment, and discarded values. I wasn’t surprised to find such things; after all aren’t closets meant to stow things out of sight? But I faced along with them a truckload of feelings, some of them that I had almost forgotten.

Immediately I saw the old LPs; the SONY reel-to-reel and a box of tapes; a stack of boxes of jigsaw puzzles solved last winter; fold up tables and chairs; table games for when company arrives; an old violin that had been in the family for generations and hasn’t been played for eons. I dusted these off, as I’d done annually for almost a decade. Then I turned my attention to unmarked boxes of uncertain content.
In one cardboard box I discovered my Diplomas; for years I’d gone to school, studied, was graduated from high school, college, and seminary. Years and careers ago.

In another box I discovered photos of my marriage, our growing family, and friends left behind in the several places I’d lived. One photograph shows me standing with my new wife by our black and white 56 Chevy one August afternoon at Lands End, a spot on Grand Mesa overlooking the desert that stretches off to the west. I wonder now what marriage even felt like.

Ooh, there are spider webs as well as dust. Do I really want to go any further?

On one shelf sat books, ones I had completely forgotten about since I hadn’t used any of their information for years. First were three large-print children’s dictionaries of the English Language, each one a specialized lexicon of appropriate usage: the first, language appropriate for school and church; the second, language appropriate for home; the third, language appropriate to use with my best buddies. I smiled, realizing that the habit of closeting one’s usage was a strategy of manners and survival practiced even by young children, especially ones of unusual proclivity.

Other books were there, volumes on sexuality, ethics, theology, and philosophy. They, too, hadn’t been opened in years, for when I had emerged from my closet I was no longer interested in their content. Well, not exactly, but my interest took a different turn, served a different purpose. I had considered their arguments, their insights, their potential. I had appropriated what I could and when I finally pushed myself out the door, left the books behind. Still their ideas inform my sense of self as I go about my weekly schedule and bolster my resolve to be ‘out’ when I meet new people and situations. But I quit buying updates of arguments on the same topics, content with my newer identity. Why I’ve kept these few I’m not sure. They represent the intensity of my inquiry into society and my life. I decided I was able to let them go and put them in the pile of things to give to Goodwill. Maybe they’ll help someone else.

Then there are the novels. I realize they, too, helped open me to my then future life as a gay man. I’d read them for decades trying to find myself among their characters. I’d especially searched for myself in gay novels and despaired that I must be so queer as not to appear. But I have kept a couple of them: Ambidextrous by Felice Picano and I Don’t Think Were In Kansas Anymore by Ethan Mordden, the two gay novels in which I did appear. I’ll keep hold of them for their encouragement and sentimental value. I realize that my experience of the closet, while costly, also helped make me what I am. I honor even the hidden part of my past. I also decided to keep the Masters and Johnson volume for its information on STDs—a wise reminder—and one book of feminist arguments about prenatal existence, a good thing to remember when one facilitates a group of LGBT storytellers.

And there was another book: The Craft of Acting. I’d studied this one over and over for while I felt at home with my profession in the church and comfortable with my duplicity/triplicity in matters sexual, I still knew I had to act. One tells a story but has to do so in a way that an audience can hear and perceive what is intended.

With this thought I look suspiciously at two old suit cases of costumes: Indian costumes for dancing at powwows, an African robe and mask for a children’s program I once organized, and a clerical robe with stoles. Even though I rarely dressed up for Halloween, I did have my costumes, my own drag costumes exotic and clerical. By wearing these costumes I defined my difference in socially acceptable ways. I guess I should just give them to my grandkids. Who knows what they may be experiencing, what costumes they may need!

So on that evening of the second day of fall housecleaning, I decided to discard and to keep varying items from my old closeted days. I discarded those things I had learned all too well and kept symbols of the victories of walking from that cramped space in a search for freedom. That seems to be the case with all closets. They bare cleaning and reorganizing from time to time, but may I never forget my past closeted life so I will never think to hide there again.

Denver, 2012

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Coming Out Spiritually by Pat Gourley

“If you are too busy to sit in meditation
 for twenty minutes a day
 then you need to sit in meditation
 for an hour every day.”

Paraphrased Buddhist Wisdom

I am not sure that my spiritual coming out over the years has not really been more of a shedding of things rather than the cultivation of any particular tradition or significant growth and development on my part. If I try to put it on a life trajectory I guess maybe as my queer and political identities blossomed my religious/spiritual side seems to have waned significantly over the decades, with the exception perhaps of a resurgence in the last 20 years of my often helterskelter Buddhist practice and an ever evolving atheist ethos.

I am aware that it is trendy these days in certain circles to say, “No I am not religious but I am spiritual.” The spiritual part of that is often for many defined in very vague terms involving some sort of unity with the whole Universe. One person though who has thought through this “one with the Universe” thing is my current favorite atheist Lawrence M. Krauss:

“Every atom in your body came from a star that exploded. And, the atoms in your left hand probably came from a different star than your right hand. It really is the most poetic thing I know about physics: You are all stardust. You couldn’t be here if stars hadn’t exploded, because the elements – the carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, iron, all the things that matter for evolution and for life – weren’t created at the beginning of time. They were created in the nuclear furnaces of stars, and the only way to get them into your body is if those stars were kind enough to explode. So, forget Jesus. The stars died so that you could be here today.” Lawrence Krauss, A Universe from Nothing.

The root motivation for all religious or spiritual seeking seems to me to be very succinctly summed up in the following phrase, which I am quoting from Stephen Batchelor’s great work Buddhism Without Beliefs; “Since death alone is certain and the time of death uncertain, what should I do?”

The Catholic Church teaches that one reaches the age of reason at seven and then real sinning becomes possible, a rather rigid view of child development. My spiritual journey from this age of seven until about age seventeen was certainly laid out for me, no thought required, just a lot of something called Faith. The indoctrination in the Catholic religion though started in my Irish family much earlier than age seven of course. My adolescent discovery that sex with another man could be simply divine and that much of what the establishment had taught me about how the world worked in general needed to be seriously called into question. This was in large part thanks to a wonderful rogue Holy Cross nun and resulted in a rather rapid jettisoning of my early Catholic upbringing and beliefs.

Much of the 1970’s where spent in the proverbial lifestyle of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll and then lots more sex with no particular spiritual bent. I did hook up with the local chapter of Dignity, a group of mostly Catholic gay men, who I think in hindsight were desperately trying to square being queer with being a good Catholic. Not sure that all worked out so well for most of them. I attended more to cruise than anything else really.

In the late 1970’s I entered my “pagan/earth mother” phase and this was fueled by contact with many feminists and the Radical Fairies many of whom also shared this spiritual worldview. I was influenced by the writings of a wonderful witch named Starhawk. One of my dearest possessions from those years is the first stained glass piece my loving companion David made for me, a beautiful and very colorful pentagram.

The eighties were probably my least ‘spiritual’ in any fashion with delusion setting in that Goddess worship may not have been all it was cracked up to be. The struggles with mortality were also coming home in a big way as many started dying from AIDS. Nothing like a lot of death around you to force the question “What should I do”? Chanting, however fervently, to the Goddess didn’t seem to help much.

In the early nineties and up to the present I guess my “spiritual trip” can best be defined as Buddhist. A ten-year stint with the Kwan Um School of Zen and work with great teachers cemented my practice or at least I learned how to better sit still and be quiet.

In pondering coming out spiritually I think it must be an ongoing process, as most coming out is, and I am drawn back to the Stephen Bachelor’s injunction I quoted earlier and that is “What should I do?” This question presented itself in rather stark fashion this past Friday on my walk back from the gym.

Around 11:00 in the morning walking down Logan Street heading south toward 13th I was approaching a favorite panhandling corner. I noticed a body lying on the sidewalk, unusual placement for those with signs and in pursuit of the very hard work that is surviving as homeless in our big cities today. I could already see a couple folks stepping over the prone figure or walking around and no detectable movement. On approaching I saw it was a man and he could have been any street fellow, way over dressed for the weather but layers are important when you are on the street 24/7, and desperately in need of a shower. He was strategically sprawled in the shade of the only tree on that corner. I quickly started trying to process what was going on and whether or not I needed to try and intervene here. I did not have my phone with me.

I stepped around him as several others had already done and I kept walking. I continued walking across the street and down the block looking back and thinking, “What should I have done”. That is a really totally bogus and useless question, and not what Batchelor asked, his question was “What should I do?” On my next look back I saw two guys with leaf blowers work their loud obnoxious machines right around him and this disturbingly seemed to elicit nothing from the prone body.

What I should do then became obvious and I walked back to where he was. I saw more clearly then that he had his arm curled under his head, a good sign, not a pose for someone in extremis. I then tapped the bottom of his foot with my shoe and said in a loud voice: “Hey man, are you alright?” To my great relief he immediately responded partially sitting up and trying to focus on who was disturbing what was obviously a nap in the shade, a break from being on a very hot, exposed corner asking passing motorists for change. His crumpled and very poorly lettered sign stating ‘anything helps’ and invoking God to bless whomever was serving as a makeshift pillow on the concrete. Our society has substituted the time honored Buddhist begging bowl with a begging sign.

I then said that he should think about moving before someone stepped on him. This seemed to register a bit and then he responded that he would as soon as he finished his hamburger. I then noticed, what quite frankly looked like garbage, on a small cardboard container with some sort of scraps, salvaged from the garbage perhaps and showing the wear and tear of being in the 90 degree heat. This had been strategically placed on the sidewalk right under where his chin had been on the pavement. Right wing conservative ranting’s aside I was sure he was not finishing up a serving of crab legs purchase with food stamps. And a lecture on food poisoning would have been way too middle class and certainly of little benefit.

Satisfied we were not in any sorts of 911-territory I said again “Don’t get stepped on,” and headed home, once more convinced the question should always be “What should I do?”

June 2013
Photo by author

About the Author

I was born in La Porte Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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Visiting the Doctor by Nicholas

I like my doctor. I believe that if you do not like your doctor, you should get a new doctor. It’s a very personal relationship but I do not want my doctor to be my friend. He or she has to know a lot or maybe even everything about me, but my doctor also has to be a scientist who might someday give me some bad news, bad news that I am better off knowing. So you see there’s intimacy involved but not a buddy kind of intimacy.

I used to prefer women doctors but then I had one for a while at Kaiser whom I didn’t like and then I found a male doctor whom I did like so I don’t care anymore about the gender of my doctor. The last woman doctor I had possessed all the traits that I used to identify with not liking in men doctors. She was abrupt, arrogant, and not very communicative. One visit we were dealing with high blood pressure and she just handed me a pill and a glass of water. I had to ask what it was and what I was supposed to do with it. Then she prescribed a medication that was totally wrong for me. It took months but I finally got her to come around to prescribing a better medication that does work for me. I pushed the issue because I got some good advice from friends who were doctors themselves.

After that doctor, I found a really good doc at Kaiser who was very friendly and communicative. He was a gay doctor, of course, and though I insist on being out to any doctor I meet, his being gay made things easier. He also could practice medicine by phone and email without office visits because Kaiser had a system set up to do that. One time I came home from travelling in Europe with a nasty intestinal bug. I described the symptoms to him and he said it sounded like a pretty common problem and I could either do lab tests to determine the precise bug or he could give me a prescription to treat it. I said, in my misery, just treat it. The treatment worked.

But then I changed health insurance plans and had to find a new doctor. I got some referrals from the GLBT Center’s list of gay-friendly providers and set up an appointment. I had some questions and wanted to talk to my doctor candidates to get to know them before I signed on for any treatment. I found a doctor who was easy going and friendly. I told him I was gay and I told him I had a partner whom I expected would be included in any medical issues. He had no problem with that.

I’ve since grown to like and trust my doctor. He doesn’t over treat problems and I am learning from him when to panic and when to just take some aspirin or a nap. He has a casual style I like. When I see him about some problem, he always asks me how big a deal it is, how much something is interfering with my life. There are always treatments doctors can order up, but do you really need or want them? For example, my doctor sent me to a physical therapist to help me through a knee problem instead of to a surgeon for replacement.

Given my own medical history—which is pretty minor—and having lived through the AIDS epidemic with friends and having a husband with a very complicated and ongoing medical condition, I have learned a lot about dealing with doctors and nurses. Here are some tips:

* Nurses are your friends. Do not abuse them, don’t ever get rude or annoyed even when they do things you don’t like. They might know more about you than you do and can really help.

* Do ask, do tell. Tell your doctor everything, ask about everything. Doctors really are people too though they might think they are gods.

* For god’s sake, come out if you haven’t already. Being lesbian or gay is just not the big deal it used to be. You don’t want the closet to interfere with your care and who gets to be with you in difficult times. Jamie and I were even in a hospital in Colorado Springs recently and he introduced me as his husband and I was not denied any access to him in the ER. Boy, did that surprise me. I was still relieved to get out of there.

* Give people a chance to do the right thing. One time we were talking with a nurse in a hospital, telling her our story and she told us about her lesbian sister. She also told us about the discrimination she’s experienced as a Japanese-American.

Going to the doctor can be frightening and worrisome but it doesn’t have to be. But you have to take charge.

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.