Month: January 2014

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House Cleaning by Michael King

I don’t clean house! I did have a housekeeper when I was working. One of the great surprises was when my last wife and I separated and I got an apartment. It took a few days for it to dawn on me that everything would be just as I left it. No one cleaned up after me. This was quite an awakening. I had never cleaned house and didn’t know how. I’m quite capable of making a mess and do so often. Merlyn keeps his apartment almost like a showroom. I wondered why it didn’t bother him more when my place would become a mess until he told me that the woman that he lived with for twenty-eight years wasn’t a very good housekeeper.

I‘m really not as bad as I used to be, I do dishes while cooking, somewhat keep the things picked up especially in the living/dining area and don’t let the bathroom get too bad. The chair in the bedroom, however, often has coats, sweaters shirts, pant, socks, etc. piled high with a few that have fallen onto the rug. I usually get that mess taken care of when I do laundry.

In the apartment building where I live the management does inspections of the fire alarms, the faucets, doors, stove, fan, plumbing and whatever is on their list. The apartment needs to be clean, so fortunately since these inspections occur every few months for one thing or another, I usually have a somewhat presentable home. It seldom takes more than 30 minutes to whip it in place except when they do the maintenance and annual inspections where they might look in the closet where I shove everything that I don’t know where else to put them. Now that is not unclean, just one hell of a mess.

Merlyn knows better than to clean up after me. He is so wise. However when it’s time to get everything up to snuff for either a major inspection or the family coming over or some special guests, he pitches in and we move the furniture to vacuum and then I dust and tidy while he helps with the bath or moping the kitchen. It doesn’t take long. With the bed made I don’t feel like I can relax in my own home. I love to prop up a half dozen pillows and lounge in the bedroom either writing, figuring, watching TV or just relaxing. The result of that messes up the whole image.

Now I know the difference between housekeeping, house cleaning and putting on a show. I only put on a show and only then when I feel I have to. I am aware I feel more comfortable when my surroundings look lived in but beautiful and with some since of order. I want everything to fit in its place, every chair at just the right angle and so on.

Now with this cleaning thing, I only use Dawn Dish Liquid to clean everything except for Windex and once in awhile Spic-n-Span. I am very sensitive to the scents used in most cleaning products. I must use a special laundry detergent or I break out with hives. With many cleansers I have breathing problems. So does Merlyn. I like a clean environment but not the smell of one. And I definitely don’t want a bad odor. I like to air out the apartment and if I want to create a pleasant aroma I’ll boil ginger or cinnamon or cook something that smells nice.

Since house cleaning is something I wish I could afford to not have to think about once I’ve properly instructed the professional on all the peculiarities I have. But I don’t have that luxury and if I did I might lose my privacy and have to wear clothing and then I’d have to hide the toys and the porn and who knows what else.

Other than absolutely necessary I don’t clean house.

© 31 March 2013

About
the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities,” Telling your Story”,” Men’s Coffee” and the “Open Art Studio”. I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.

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The Shooters: A book review by Louis

Telling Your Story theme of the day: Reading

Plot Summary of The Shooters (2008) by W. E. B. Griffi,

Genre: International spy thriller

Style of writing: soap opera, episodes based on quickly shifting scenes.

Carlos Castillo was an officer in the Department of Homeland Security. Then there was a Presidential Finding that authorized the setting up of another agency, the Office of Organizational Analysis in reaction to the assassination of some important ambassadors in Uruguay, Paraguay and Argentina, one of whom was Ambassador Jack Masteson. Carlos Castillo’s middle name is Guillermo. He is the son of Jorge2 Castillo who, when he was stationed in Germany in the U. S. Army, had sex with a German woman who later became pregnant. J2C did not know she was pregnant and was shipped off to Vietnam where he died in combat.

12 years passed and the unnamed mother of Carlos learned she was soon going to die of pancreatic cancer. She goes to local army base and inquires about Jorge2 Castillo’s whereabouts. She learns he died in combat in Vietnam. For his first twelve years Carlos Guillermo3 Castillo was named Karl Wilhelm3 zu und von Gossinger. In other words, he was a German boy growing up in Germany in an impoverished German aristocratic family. Even when he was older, he was blond and fair-skinned, Nordic. Still he was half “Texican,” the grandson of Juan (Don)1 Castillo and Doña Alicia Castillo. A “Texican” means a native of Texas whose ancestry is Mexican especially those who were living in Texas when Texas was still part of Mexico.

Don Fernando1 Castillo was wealthy and owned a Learjet, that is, he was also an airplane pilot.

When Karl Wilhelm’s mother contacted this elderly Texican couple, Doña Alicia flew to Germany and met her grandson whose existence she did know of until then. Karl’s mother was bedridden. Karl’s impoverished German family could not really help him. Of course, Karl was technically illegitimate and was a minor embarrassment. Dona Alicia took right over, took good care of Karl and dying mother. Once mother died, Doña Alicia brought Karl back to Texas where he was of course renamed Carlos Guillermo3 Castillo and where he spent the rest of his childhood, that is, in San Antonio, Texas.

As a result of his childhood in Germany and his subsequent service in U. S. military, CG3C speaks English, German but also Hungarian. As an adult, CG3C worked in the American military, he was a Gulfstream airplane pilot, and all his colleagues called him Charlie. Many other characters in the novel have first name Charles or Charlie. So when reader reads Charlie said this or that, he has to be aware of which Charlie is being referenced (which can get complicated). One of CG3C’s colleagues, Alfredo Munz, is German, so he calls CG3C “Karl”. Other of his colleagues call him “Ace.” Reader gets confused.

Before entering military service in the U. S. Army, CG3C went to West Point as a cadet. He and a fellow cadet, named Randolph Richardson, let’s call him RRIII, frequently played dirty tricks on one another. This led to a serious dispute between the two that resulted in a hearing before the Cadet Honor System Tribunal. RRIII lost his case but never forgave CG3C and his cohorts. And vice versa.
Later CG3C went to Fort Rucker, Alabama, to learn how to fly an updated version of the Gulfstream super airplane and again met RRIII and his fiancée, Bethany2 Wilson, daughter of Harry Wilson, deputy commander at Fort Rucker, Harry Wilson had an important connection with CG3C and that was that he was copilot in the Vietnam War with CG3C’s father, Jorge2 Castillo. The name of Bethany2 Wilson’s mother was Bethany1 Wilson. Both women called themselves “Beth” just to confuse the poor reader even further. B2W and CG3C were of course at odds with one another since her future husband and CG3C would never really get along with each other and she sided with her future husband, RRIII. After a while, however, CG3C and his colleague, TomPrentiss, recounted his biography to B2W and she was so impressed, let her guard down, and she started getting attracted physically to CG3C and eventually had sex with him. They were both of course hush-hush about their romantic interlude, their tryst.

Once the Office of Organizational Analysis was set up, CG3C was sent to Uruguay to protect the Masterson family. Jack Masterson a U. S. ambassador to Uruguay was assassinated in a massacre that took place on the Estancia Shangri La, located in central Uruguay and owned originally by Jean-Phillippe Lorimer, the son of another retired Ambassador who later on in the novel went down to Uruguay to live in his late son’s estate, estancia, despite OAA’s opposition. His son had been assassinated. Presumably, all these assassinations were committed by drug lords.

The novel does not discuss specifically how CG3C was held accountable for his technically unsuccessful task of protecting the Masterson family. He was sitting with his innumerable colleagues in a safe house, a mansion in the Pilar suburb of Buenos Aires, called Nuestra Pequeña Casa. It had originally been purchased and set up by two CIA agents, Paul and Susanna Sieno. While he and his colleagues were sitting in the quincho (a sort of fenced in patio), assuming they were operating in complete secrecy, CG3C’s dog Max detects the presence of an intruder, Colonel Jacob (Jake) Torine, a black U. S. Air Force Colonel who tells them he and a significant number of local U. S. Air Force personnel inferred why and how CG3C’s “secret” operation was all about. CG3C and company were horrified that their so-called secret operation was virtually public knowledge. A bit later, Colonel Jake Torine was inducted as another officer of OOA. Torine was actually motivated to ask for CG3C’s assistance in preventing harassment of his fellow USAF personnel by drug lords.

Once Torine showed them that their operation was not all that secret, they had to return to another safe house in Alexandria, VA. Once things cooled off, they returned to Nuestra Pequeña Casa. CG3C and company, that is, the Office of Organizational Analysis, were sent back to Argentina, to Nuestra Pequeña Casa, safe house, to retrieve Byron J.3 Timmons, the grandson of Byron Timmons Sr. who was a close friend of the unnamed POTUS, and POTUS owed him a favor. Byron Timmons Sr. was a retired chief of police of the Chicago Police Department. BJ3T had been kidnapped by local drug lords, tied up in a secret location with two other Uruguayan anti-drug police officers. 
Until recently, the drug lords never killed drug enforcement or any other law enforcement officers in Argentina, Uruguay and Paraguay. BJ3T with two anti-drug trafficking Uruguayan police officers were turned by their kidnappers into drug addicts themselves. The three were tied up with hands over head to a cable above their heads and were injected intraveneously at regular intervals with heroïne.

During the course of the novel, after much hopping from air base to air base, CG3C returns to Fort Rucker, Alabama, and, in order to observe the damage wrought by Hurricane Katrina along the gulf coast, jumps in an airplane, accompanied by RRIV, son of RRIII, and RRIII’s father-in-law, Commander Harry1 Wilson. They fly east first along the southern coast of Alabama then the Florida pan-handle coast. CG3C even lets the 8 year old RR-IV pilot the airplane for a few minutes, of course under his close supervision. One of CG3C’s colleagues takes a picture of this outing on one of his cell phone photography devices.

On this reconnaissance flight were CG3C, RR-IV, Niedermeyer (one of CG3C’s colleagues), Commander Harry Wilson, RR-IV’s maternal grandfather. Later Niedermeyer shows the photos to CG3C, and RR-IV uncannily looks a lot like CG3C. Coup de foudre, CG3C realizes he is RR-IV’s real father, and RRIII does not even know or suspect the truth. If he did know or find out, then what? CG3C writes a report on what he found out in an encrypted message to himself on his laptop. His grandmother, his abuela, Doña Alicia Castillo nagged him about not having a family. Little does she know she has a great grandson. RR-IV is of course the result of CG3C’s romantic interlude with Beth2 Wilson, and Commander Harry1 Wilson is not aware either of his grandson’s actual paternity.

CG3C’s superior is General Bruce J. McNab at Fort Bragg in North Carolina, but CG3C is given so much leeway and independence that General McNab’s input into the plot is minimal. CG3C is actually directly responsible to unnamed POTUS. To reiterate, the OOA or Office of Organizational Analysis was set up in response to the Presidential Finding which gives it legal authorization to set up clandestine operations on foreign soil. The Presidential Finding came into being as a reaction to the assassination of U. S. Ambassador to Argentina, Jack Masterson.

CG3C recommends that a fleet of Huey helicopters, being kept originally in Fort Rucker, Alabama, be flown to Jacksonville, Florida, where they were to be landed on an aircraft carrier, the Ronald Reagan. Once on the Ronald Reagan, they could be transported to a certain point off the coast of Uruguay. Three different officials are hostile to CG3C’s mission, and they are Milton Weiss of the CIA who feels CG3C’s mission is going to interfere with his mission of interdicting illicit drug sales in Argentina, Uruguay and Paraguay. Eventually these illicit drugs, mainly heroïne, are smuggled inside of cruise ships. CG3C requests permission from José Ordoñez, Uruguayan Policía Nacional Chief Inspector who tells him, in so many words, that he would rather that he, CG3C, and his operation stay out of Uruguay altogether, but he does not enforce his real wishes, and CG3C is able to plan to refuel his Huey helicopters in the Lorimer estate in central Uruguay, the Estancia Shangri La, which previously was the seen of a massacre one of the victims being Ambassador Jack Masterson. His other 3rd nemesis is Liam Duffy, Commandant of the Argentine Gendarmería Nacional, some of whose anti-drug police operatives had recently been assassinated by drug lords. Duffy was originally an Irish cop from Brooklyn, NY. He would rather CG3C and his operation not conduct business in Argentina at all.

To make a long story short, OOA does send in the helicopters and rescue the three anti-drug police agents, including Byron3 Timmons. He had been turned into a drug addict, but was subsequently detoxed.

Moral of story: Despite one’s intense desire to act on one’s patriotic instincts and on one’s general need to enforce the law and out manuever criminals, in this case, South American drug lords, one’s efforts can be foiled by human foibles, politics and in-fighting inside the establishment of the powers that be. CG3C does triumph in the end, however.

9-26-13

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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Solitude by Lewis

Solitude is not a condition of being but a state-of-mind. Sometimes, all that is needed to achieve solitude is to close my eyes and turn my focus inward, much like meditation. It can be done in elevators, doctors’ offices, and even in the waiting room of the Bureau of Licensing office for the Secretary of State. About the only time I don’t engage in the practice is when driving. (Solitude and traffic do not mix well, whether you are driving, biking, or walking.)

There is a womb inside of me where my feelings go to grow. Feelings need nurturing, much as a baby does. When ignored–that is, not cuddled, stroked, doted upon–they fail to thrive and even fester. When listened to, coddled and swaddled, they can provide a ray of light to penetrate the forest of everyday existence. When deprived of such nurturance, they cause me to lose focus, feel disconnected with what really matters, and can even lead to self-abuse.

There is no external salve for the soul that can substitute for solitude–not alcohol, nor drugs, nor hyper-activity. Jesus said, “When you pray, do not stand on a street corner and make loud noises; instead, go into a closet and do it quietly.” It is when I am alone with my thoughts and feelings that I feel closest to the divine.

September 23, 2013

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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The Long Wrong Road by Gillian

My mother thought it was the wrong road, anyway, this railroad rushing us off in the wrong direction. And I knew, in the way only a child can know these things, that it was all my father’s fault.

I was about four and we were leaving our comfortable home in a quiet village in the genteel gently rolling south of England for the untamed and unsophisticated rugged sheep farming hill country of the Welsh border, where my dad grew up. His parents were no longer capable of living alone, he was an only child with no one else to share the responsibility so he was doing the only thing he could do, as they categorically refused to move south to live with us. We had to go to live with them.

So Dad quit his job, something that became quite a hobby with him over the years, and we moved to another world.

My mother was not happy.

I was perfectly happy. Too young to have formed attachments to any place, I was simply reveling in this new train ride experience.

Travel having been severely restricted during World War Two, which had recently ended, I had never met any of my grandparents. I don’t think I quite grasped the concept. I certainly had no storybook image in my head of the classic rosy-cheeked plump and cuddly grandmother beaming over her flowered apron and offering fresh-baked cookies. Just as well. I would have been sorely disappointed. My grandmother was as eaten up with resentment towards my grandfather for years, as my mother was towards my dad on that train ride.

My mother’s ground to a halt not long after we arrived at the end of our wrong road, she adjusted as people do, but my grandmother kept her anger well fed and it flourished.

My grandfather was what we would call these days a recovering alcoholic. In those days he was just one of several local drunks. The fact that he no longer touched the booze seemed to be ignored and he was still thought of as a drunk by neighbors and family alike. Certainly my grandmother never gave him any credit, nor even acknowledgement, for having quit.

He had drunk his way out of a good job, lost the lovely old house that they had owned when my dad was a little boy, and had to settle for moving to the cold dark damp dreary dwelling I now found myself living in.

My grandfather rarely spoke, or moved for that matter. He sat in his armchair beside the fireplace, which rarely had a fire in it, hour after hour, doing nothing. For all the attention he paid us, we all might as well not have been there. At least he was harmless, unlike my grandmother. Far from showing even a spark of gratitude for my parents’ sacrifice, she acted as if she hated us all. She never spoke a civil word to anyone, but droned on with an endless litany of complaints. She walked with the aid of a cane, and any time I was foolish enough to get anywhere near her she took a vicious swipe at me with the thing. I learned very fast to stay a good cane-length away!

You might possibly think that she and my mother, both resenting having been forced down that long wrong road by their husbands, might have bonded a little but this was most certainly not to be. That house was not a place of bonding.

Looking back after I had come to know my maternal grandparents I can certainly appreciate how hard all this was on my mother. Her parents were very different. Her mother actually did approach the storybook image, and my Irish maternal grandpa was one of the delights of my later youth. He was a stonemason, creating gravestones from the local marble. I loved to sit and watch him, and occasionally I was even allowed to help. He sang while he worked, or regaled my fascinated ears with endless fantastical tales in which I doubt there was an ounce of truth.

They lived in a gorgeous rambling old house, built in 1742. It was light and warm with welcome, and different in every way from that of my other grandparents, the one in which I was to grow up. But I was just a kid, and I was oblivious to all the negatives of our new life. With the exception of that flailing walking stick, I loved it all. We had dogs and cats and chickens and pigs and a goat. Surrounded by farms, I was free to wander wherever I chose as long as I carefully closed all farm gates. I made friends with staring-eyed sheep and slobbering cows and hairy-hoofed horses. What did I care if the house was dark and cold, had no running water, no electricity, no indoor toilet? Having to shiver my way to the far end of the yard, stumbling in the waving flashlight beam, to the rickety old outhouse, was all fuel to the fire of my new life adventure.

My grandfather died not long after our arrival and my mother commented that she rather expected my grandmother to dance on his grave. I couldn’t imagine this at all and quite looked forward to it but in the event she did not even go to his funeral.

My grandmother, I never called her grandma either out loud or in my head, died about two years later. I could well imagine my mother dancing on her grave, and she did attend the funeral but simply looked suitably somber.

Now we were free to return to the civilized south. I lived in terror of this announcement for some time, life was much more fun on the wild Welsh border as far as I was concerned, but eventually I realized I need not worry. By that time, my mother had returned to teaching in the nearby elementary school where she taught before marrying my dad. My dad had a good job not too far away, we made improvements to the house, and we stayed. But somehow it felt as if my grandmother’s misery had invaded the very walls. She would not go away.

Years later, home for Xmas from college, I was helping my parents clear out the old cellar and what should surface but that gnarled old walking cane. I held it up and we all started to laugh. My dad took it from me and calmly sawed it into four short pieces, which he handed solemnly to me. Without a word, we went back upstairs into the living room where these days a hearty fire roared, and I equally solemnly placed the lengths of wood on the fire. Silently we watched until they were completely consumed. My grandmother was gone.

© October 2011 

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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Point of View by Betsy

There are those who work in Washington, D.C. who call themselves patriots simply because they religiously wear an American Flag lapel pin. They claim to be working toward a better U.S.A. I honestly believe there are many politicians, leaders of our nation, who do not comprehend the difference between what is good for the nation as a whole and what is good for their funders, their interests, and their own self aggrandizement.

For example I have to challenge those who believe that it is better for our society as a whole to build an empire and to increase our influence in the world. To cite a current issue I have to challenge those who believe that we should be a continuing presence in Afghanistan for an indefinite period of time. President Obama would like to end the longest war in our history and bring the troops home. In a rare public appearance recently, George W. Bush was asked the question “Why should we keep troops in Afghanistan indefinitely?” His answer was “So that we can ensure that young Afghan girls receive an education.” I do believe that young Afghan girls should have the opportunity for an education; but not at the expense of educating our own young girls and boys.

While we debate whether or not we should be a presence in Afghanistan, the United States continues to fall behind in quality of education. Especially in math and science we are constantly reminded of how far down the list of countries ours is in performance in these subjects in our schools.

Case in point: I just heard this on the radio, Exxon Mobile is always searching for young engineers. Presently they are not hiring American graduates. They are looking in other countries particularly Russia. Hiring Russians? No wonder we have high unemployment. Our graduates apparently are not qualified for many jobs because of our failing educational system. Falling behind in education of our youngsters is a huge threat to the future of the U.S. in my opinion.

And catching up takes decades if not generations.

While we’re on the subject of falling behind consider the status of women in our country today. According to a recent study the United States ranks 23rd in the number of women in positions of leadership and authority in politics and business. Twenty third behind the Phillipines and Nicaragua. Much work needs to be done here at home before we address the ills of other countries. It is my point of view that leaders who are patriots recognize this and work to develop and implement policies to address the issues that directly relate to the well being of the whole nation.

This past Friday being the fiftieth anniversary of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, we have been reminded of his legacy and who he was as a man. My point of view is that John Kennedy was a true patriot. I believe that he tried to do what was best for the country, not what was best only for himself, his party, or his friends and associates. It happens that he lost his life because of what he believed was best for the country and because he was effective in implementing policies which were beneficial to all the people. He was the People’s President. He exemplified the all so familiar words “ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country.”

In spite of the momentum of the civil rights movement at the time of his presidency, Kennedy took a heroic risk of his political career when he fought for equal rights. He fought the corporate culture and the military establishment. He was considered a socialist by some, certainly an over-regulator at best.

Kennedy was dedicated to bringing lasting peace to his country in spite of the pressure from the military industrial complex and the horrible war in Viet Nam. He was terrified of the threat of nuclear war and was known as the peace president. This in itself takes great courage. The political establishment usually does not embrace the idea of lasting peace. Peace is not profitable.

Had Kennedy survived and had a longer tenure as the leader of the free world, our country, perhaps the whole world, might look a lot different today. Now fifty years after he was shot there is doubt around his assassination and who did it. There is speculation that the murder was a conspiracy of the CIA or the FBI or, certain people in the pentagon, and certain business interests. I do not have a point of view about that. I suppose we, the public, may never know the truth. Perhaps the truth is as it stands as the accepted truth.

So what makes a patriot, anyway? I do not wish to imply that a public servant or any citizen must give his or her life to be considered a patriot. Certainly those who go off to war and pay the ultimate price, or simply risk life and limb–they have to be considered patriots. Maybe they go off to war because they have no choice; it is required of them. Does that mean that they or those who elect not to go to war because they choose not to kill–does that mean they are not patriots? No.

Had John Kennedy not been assassinated would he still be considered a great patriot? Certainly not by those who did and do not share his point of view about what is best for the country. But the reality is that he gave his life while serving his country and in the line of duty. This alone does not make him a patriot. His policies that were implemented were designed to benefit the entire country not just one faction or another.

He WAS a patriot insofar as he sacrificed personal benefit and personal gain for the sake of the entire nation.

That’s my point of view.

11/25/13

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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Goofy Tales by Will Stanton

When it comes to goofy, I suppose that all of us act goofy at various times and to varying degrees. If each of us were to document all of our goofiness and write it down, it would take up as many volumes as the 1911 Encyclopedia Britannica. Goofiness may become a problem only if it is extreme or if the number of goofs outweighs the more constructive behaviors. Sometimes, we become so used to our own goofiness that we fail to notice it. We become more aware of behavior and situations that appear to us to be goofy when they are from other people or from different cultures.

Speaking of different cultures, it used to be said in Britain, “The sun never sets on the empire.” I once saw in a movie a character of a patriotic teacher pointing to a large world map on the wall, and she said, “Here’s a pink bit. There’s a pink bit. See all those pink bits? That’s all ours.”

Well, it isn’t any more. Yet for years, patriots stubbornly clung to the illusion of empire long after the Victorian age, long after the devastating Great War. My being a Yank in the U.K., I saw much evidence of this fact when I was attending university there in years gone by.

Apparently, all universities and colleges harbored Oxbridge delusions, tattered remnants of traditions long outmoded. For example at dinner in our all-male dormitory, we were obliged to wear cap and gown. What for? Did doing so make us any more scholarly? Any more mature and well behaved? Well, I suppose that traditions might have their place, but I thought that this one was goofy because it did not.

In this country what we refer to as “RAs, dormitory residence assistants”, the Brits called “tutors.” One such tutor had, what we might call, a “special friend” who frequently was in his company. Their companionship was not unobserved among the students. All it took to reveal the lack of gravitas and decorum among the gown-clad scholars was for the tutor to enter the dining hall, to be pelted with buns, and be subjected to catcalls of “Batman, where’s Robin?” Those scholars could act goofy at the drop of a mortarboard cap.

The antiquated concept of social class remained ingrained in many people’s minds, including the college hierarchy. There was in the dining hall, what they called, “high table” which literally was built to be higher than the main floor where most of the groundlings sat. The dorm proctor there was called by the ominous title of “warden.” He always sat right in the center seat at high table. In descending order of importance on either side were any guests of rank, followed by a few selected students (who naturally felt obliged to show their deep appreciation for having been invited), next the tutors, then Miss Prem the resident nurse (yes, the dorm had a nurse, just like British public schools such as Eaton and Harrow), and finally the woman who ran the “buttery,” that is, the little shop of sundry supplies.

Of course, the residence porter, who carried luggage and whose tiny office guarded the dorm entrance, and the maids who made up our single rooms, never were invited. To have included them would have been terribly déclassé.

If any student received a cherished invitation to sit at high table, he soon found that the evening’s fare was of higher quality and greater variety than the that of the lower tables. If the students were eating cod, then high table was served better haddock. Those at high table afterwards walked with a sense of entitlement to a special room upstairs that was referred to as “The Senior Common Room.” Once inside, one was confronted with trays of fresh fruits and cheeses. And of course, any English gentleman would expect to have sherry on hand, and it was…in several varieties from sweet to dry.

I discovered why the Brits refer to dessert as “pudding.” It often was just that, pudding poured over a bit of sponge cake. And do you know why they called their sausages “bangers?” Their contents consisted of so much fat and grain filler, rather than meat, that the contents would expand when heated, and the natural casings would explode. At first, my being used to American food, I thought that they tasted like a combination of fat, dryer lint, and sawdust. By end of term, I actually looked forward to having them for breakfast because they were not too bad in contrast to some of the rest of the food served to the students. At times, I felt like Oliver Twist regarding Mr. Bumble at high table and wondering what he was being served. That’s why I occasionally made the trek to the nearby fish-and-chips shop or the Chinese restaurant for a welcome variety. I never did understand why the Brits were proud of their cooking; but, then again, I never did eat at a five-star restaurant in London.

To borrow a word that, over time, has become less shocking to Brits, everyone and everything was so bloody formal. When we attended lectures, we sat in 19th-century halls usually limited to the viewing by us Yanks when portrayed in period-piece films on “Masterpiece Theatre.” Seating consisted of ranks of increasingly elevated rows. The professor (or “don”) would arrive with only a curt “good afternoon,” formal in his cap and gown, walk in a dignified manner to a podium, grandly open a folder with his prepared lecture, and read it to the students in impeccable English. (Actually, it would be nice if American teachers would learn good grammar and diction in addition to their own subjects.) Then he would close his folder with finality and stroll out of the room without a further word. The don did not expect the students to ask questions or to engage in any dialogue whatsoever. So much for an exciting, motivating lecture session.

In retrospect, I recall one day when I must have appeared to be goofy because of my ignorance of English culture and terminology. One local lad invited me to “tea.” I did not understand that, at the time he designated, he meant “high tea,” that is, dinner. Had I known, I would have brought a small gift for his mother, as was traditional. I would have been more at ease and better prepared for table conversation. His father was absent, and I sensed that he had been lost during the war. I later realized why the student had invited me and also why he had been rather quiet and self-conscious during the dinner, which did not help my own unease. He was attracted to me. I wish I had known better how to have handled that situation. For some time afterwards, I did feel inept and goofy.

I recall looking out the window of the main common room to the street below and seeing preparations being made for some minor construction project, perhaps for patching a pothole. In the U.S., that would have been done in five minutes and the crew gone. Instead, I saw a couple of workmen set up a work shack to store supplies and to provide shelter should the infamously frequent English rain occur. To my bafflement, that shack and, at times, one man were there for several days without obvious evidence of progress. I did see on one occasion, however, the lone workman, wearing a threadbare, cheap black suit and vest, preparing a pot of tea. No wonder it took so long to get anything done.

I imagine that a good percentage of university students prefer to drink and to drink a great deal, whether or not it technically is illegal, as it is in the U.S. for underage students. Well, the scholars there certainly liked to do so during their off-time. They might be serious in their studies, but when they came back from the local pubs, they put a new light on goofy. It was quite a site for me to see two sloshed scholars, arm-in-arm, dancing an Irish jig around and around on the commons green, singing at the top of their lungs.

The first student whom I met and one of the most memorable for me was the fellow whose room was on the floor above me, Ian from Edinburgh, Scotland. He said that he was a descendant of Cromwell. I first met him when he came flying through the French doors from the upstairs balcony into my room and gave me a hardy, “Hello!” He had just climbed down the face of the building. He took for granted the fact that he was a natural acrobat and the most lean, limber person I ever have known. That must have attracted his round-faced, pudgy girlfriend (that seemed to be a typical appearance of many local girls), because they spent every weekend together in his room, and they kept busy the whole time. I guess that opposites do attract. Ian was shocked and dismayed when Gupta, the East Indian student, read his palms and declared that Ian already had used up his sex life. His palms did look terribly old and creased, which was in marked contrast to his otherwise boyish looks.

I suppose that, somehow, the students I met did spend enough time and effort to acquire their sought-after degrees and, perhaps, make something of their lives. They could be quite serious when they wanted to, but at other times, their behavior suddenly could change. My whole time in Britain and at college provided me with many memorable experiences. Some of them were significant. Other experiences were just plain goofy; and, in some ways, I must have fit right in.

© 11 January 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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First Times by Ricky

A person has multiple “first times” in their life: first car, first bicycle, first breath of air, first fight, first argument, first joke told that was actually funny, first kiss, first kiss not from mom or dad, first romantic kiss, and et cetera. So, here are a few of my “firsts.”

My First Scary Dream at Age 0-1 Years

I see solid pale-green; like a “green screen” television screen which fills my entire field of view regardless of direction of looking, but I don’t look around and remain fixated on that pale-green. Then, I get a “funny feeling” in me; I don’t like it and tense up. I recognize the feeling as that of falling and I panic but don’t awaken. (I have heard that Freud equates “falling” with fears of sexual failure, which is stupid, as babies don’t have sexual knowledge sufficient to fear to perform correctly.) Years later, I learn to apply this dream to the times my father would toss me up in the air and catch me on the way down. To this day, I have much stress and fear of the negative gravity feelings brought on by roller coasters or other amusement park rides.

My First Girlfriend (Age 5)

Her name is Sandra Flora. With her curly hair, she looked like a 5-year-old Shirley Temple. I carried her kindergarten school photo in my wallet for many years into my adulthood before I finally managed to misplace it.

My First Boy Friend (Age 5-8)

His name is Michael Pollard and his sister is Joan. They both were near the same age as me and both are redheads complete with freckles. Mike lived across the street from my house on Mathews Avenue in Redondo Beach, California. We played together quite often. His father was a roofer and the family pickup truck always smelled of tar due to the “puddles” of dried tar in the truck bed. At age 6, Mike and I caught the city bus alone and rode it to the beach where we went into the roller-rink and played a game of pinball or two before we rode a bus back home. I don’t think either of our parents even knew we were gone for that 1 ½ hours.

My First Scary Movies in a Drive-in Theater (Age 4 or 5)

It was at a drive-in theater somewhere in the Los Angeles metropolitan area. There was the usual a double feature. One movie was “Rodan” and the other I think was titled “Them.” “Rodan” was a flying-dinosaur-type creature and regardless of the actual title, “Them” was about giant ants that made a nest in the sewers of Los Angeles. In that movie, James Arnes played an army colonel ordered to destroy the ants and the nesting queen. In any case, the monsters scared me so much that whenever one was on the screen, I would hide in the back seat and not look until one of my parents said it was okay. I guess I should say that I actually started to watch the first movie from the front seat between my parents. I guess I wasn’t very macho. During the intermission between movies, I walked to the refreshment “stand” to buy myself a piece of pie. The teenage attendant could not understand me very well and after explaining that they only had pizza pie sold me a piece placing it into a small box to take back to the car. Naturally, as I left the building I saw all the cars in front of me and wasn’t sure how to find my family’s car. I was lucky and found it after only a very mild panicking. When I got inside to eat my pie, I started to cry because it wasn’t pie. My parents ate it instead. I guess I didn’t understand the teenager either focusing on the word pie rather than the modifier “pizza,” which I didn’t know what it meant anyway.

My First Scary Visit to the Beach (Age 2 or 3)

The family went to the beach several times I’m told, but I only remember this one time and only then this one event. I was really cute in my blue little-boy bathing suit. You know the type; the ones that squeezed the front so tight whatever size “package” a toddler might have was squashed into not showing a bulge. I was playing in the sand right next to the water line where the waves would reach. Earlier, dad had taken me in deeper and we bobbed about and I played while safely held in his arms or hands. I must have decided to play in the water a bit so while my parents relaxed on their beach-towels a couple of yards away, I moved into water that was up to the middle of my lower leg (about 5 or 6 inches deep) during the maximum reach of the wave on the beach. A series of unexpectedly larger waves arrived and the first one knocked me down and rolled me along towards the shore. As I tried to stand, the retreating water kept pulling the sand out from under me and I went back out into the deeper 5 to 6 inch water. The next three waves did the same thing and then dad arrived and picked me up. Naturally I was crying because I was scared but I don’t know what of. To this day I am very uneasy around large deep bodies of water, including swimming pools. It took years before I could pass my First Class Scout badge by swimming 50 yards.

My First Award (Age 1)

During the summer of 1949, my family was living in Lawndale, California. The city parks & recreation department held a “Baby Show” that mother entered me into. I won a couple of 2nd place red ribbons and one blue ribbon. Mother questioned the judges about the red ribbons as I was clearly the first place baby in those two categories. The judges told her that they just could not award me all the blue ribbons because the one I did win was the “King of the Show” award for being the “best baby” overall. I still have the cardboard covered crown with gold foil and stick-on stars as well as the photo of me wearing the crown. Mom and dad must have been very proud to have a child to brag about. Interestingly though, my future wife was crowned “Queen” of her baby show that same summer in Ohio.

Crowned 5 August 1949
My First Crush (Age 10)

After living with my mother’s parents for 2 years, mom and my new step-father came to Minnesota to show off the newly-born twins and to bring me back with them to California; south shore of Lake Tahoe to be precise. I turned 10 two weeks later. When school started, puberty had already begun for me, but no one had any idea it had (there were no outward visible indications). I was assigned to a 5th grade class with a brand new teacher, Miss Herbert. Until I was picked up from the farm in May of 1958, I had not seen my mother in about 2 years so I missed her and my dad for that long. Now I was living with her and yet by October I was madly in love with Miss Herbert. She must have known or suspected because one day she arranged with my mother to take me to her house after school to work on a project for our classroom bulletin board. To say I was in overjoyed mode would be a gross understatement of how I responded to the situation. Miss Herbert offered me cookies and milk and then we got to work. Nothing sexual of any kind happened, but if she had tried to seduce me, I would have been putty in her hands. Then the forest ranger entered into her life and I told the other boys in my class that she was going to marry him, but they didn’t believe me. We started Christmas vacation and left the school leaving Miss Herbert behind and returned to Mrs. Walksdahl (the ex-Miss Herbert) as our same teacher. I also returned after a case of laryngitis had healed over the Christmas break. When it was over my voice had permanently changed, so I never went through the “squeaky” stage.

My First Time Sex (Age 10)

During the autumn of 1958 or the spring of 1959, I was alone playing bus driver in an old 1935-1940 style bus, which someone had turned into what we would call a motor home. I had done this during several weekends for about ½ hour each time before I got bored and quit for the day. One day, the second to the last time I ever went there to play, another boy showed up. He was 8 or 8 ½ as I recall. We took turns driving the bus and being the passenger. At one point, he told me that his older brother, who was 11 or 12, would make him suck his brother’s dick. I thought, “You can do that?” followed by “I want to try that.” So, I asked him if I could suck his dick and he refused my request at first but I kept asking so he gave in. I made him promise to not pee in my mouth and began to suck. It was a wonderful. About 2 minutes into the act, he saw an adult heading our way so we stopped.

My First Scary Movie on TV (age 40ish)

You may think that I would have seen many “scary” movies in the theater and TV by the time I was 40; and so I had. The difference was that by this time, my emotions were sufficiently “blocked” that my mind kept telling me its all fake so nothing was really scary. However, this movie got to me because I was now the father of four children, three of them girls, and in this movie there was a little girl (8-10) who was in danger throughout the movie. You may have seen it, the second Alien movie with Sigourney Weaver.

My First “Scary” Book that Unsettled My Mind for 3 Days (Age 62)

The book was titled, “Lost Boys,” written my Orson Scott Card a rather famous LDS author. It was one of his earliest works and according to him was inspired by Steven King’s “Pet Cemetery.” The story was rather slow to develop but all the elements were in place by the end. The story revolved around the family’s oldest boy; an 8-year old “perfect” child who became very sullen when the family moved to a new small town. The townspeople did not realize until well into the story that young boys were being abducted by an apparent serial killer. The ending had an unusual twist that totally unhinged me. I had wanted the boy to live and figured that he would be the one to expose the killer; and in fact, he did. So there was a partial happy ending but not one that I would have expected.
My First “Scary” Porn Story that Really Got to Me.  
(Age 57)

This one bothered me for a day or so because I could actually imagine that it could really happen unlike the story I related above. The premise of this story is that scientists actually identified a gay gene in human DNA. As a result, laws were passed that all male children reaching age 10 were tested to see if they carried the gene. If so, the child was either castrated by a doctor or nurse or a “clam shell” was fitted over the boy’s scrotum which could not come off as the opening was too small to pass the testicles. The “clam shell” device contained a small radioactive particle which eventually killed the testicles and they shriveled as they died until they were shriveled enough for the device to fall off the scrotum. Boys thus altered were sent to “summer” camps where they were all instructed in the details and methods of gay sex. At the completion of their training each boy was partnered with a known pedophile. As long as the man only interacted with his assigned boy, he was not prosecuted. If he strayed, nullification and life imprisonment awaited.

As I said at the beginning, I can actually see where this could happen if a gay gene is actually found. Thus, it really bothered me for a day or two.

© 23 January 2012

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Flying by Ray S

So what’s flying?
Well it’s a word for starts.
It’s what birds do and Icarus did.
Never fly close to the sun or temptation.

Some people do it in airplanes as transport.
Sort of like skipping on board in steerage class like the folks on the Lusitania; but now they only have three classes.

One can have worldwide war by flying.
The Walendos do it all the time; and so do the Cirque people.
There are two commonly used expletives that are flying all the time.

Didn’t you ever have fleets, as in flying of fancy?
Flying from reality, sorrow, lost love, and lovers’ unmet expectations.
Freedom when you fly out your worst nightmare, your dark little closet, ad infinitum. 

See how love flies at your heart and other vital body parts.
Sometimes I fly with you when your memory is close to me.
Those sweet moments we shared: our first Christmas, your tears when I showed you our first apartment in a basement with US Army surplus bunk beds, the two times we went to meet our social worker and collect our new family; first Jimmy and then Carolyn.

Flying can be the way we feel when the music of the symphony envelopes us.
Or the home team wins,
Or when a wrong or injustice has been righted.
Do you see that star flying across the midnight sky? I wonder if it is one of our loved ones. They say the soul is forever and when it wants to, it makes itself known to you.
When is the last time you flew into a rage?
Usually that amounts to a pointless solution and a lousy flight.

Flying is what I like to do on my magic carpet. Come on board with me, there’s plenty of room.
To quote Margo Channing of cinema fame: “Fasten your seat belts; it’s going to be a rough ride.”
But that’s what flying through our respective lives is all about.

—Happy Landing! 

9/30/2013

About the Author

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My Wife and Six Husbands by Phillip Hoyle

When the issue of same-sex marriage made a headline some six years ago, my partner Jim asked if I’d want to marry should such a law be enacted. I flippantly replied, “Oh, I already did that for thirty years. I guess not.” I thought of marriage as being a non-issue in my relationship with this Taurus-signed man who holds such a different take on ownership than do I as a laid-back Cancerian. I have almost no need for possessions and derive little joy from the fact that I own anything. And early on in our wooing I remember clearly stating this warning: “I can’t be owned.” In my response that day I forgot to ask him if he wanted me to marry him because I couldn’t conceive that he’d want to cede half of everything he owned to me or anyone else.

Then last month, my partner and I were invited to join another male couple who were celebrating their 25th anniversary. They got married officially under New York State law about a year ago, but for them, this May date was their real anniversary celebrating when they first got together as a couple.

Relationships without societal rules make their own sense of things. Surely this simple perception and constant insistence signals something important about marriage, about all things called marriage whether under civil law or religious tradition. When it comes to plain and simple language, marriage, wedding, and union are synonyms. It’s that simple; but of course, it’s never that simple. Nothing is that simple. In so declaring, I realize I have branded myself a liberal, an educated, sophisticated snob, and an ivory-tower thinker—one of those people who tries to confuse meanings in order to destroy the sureties of common life. Well, so be it, but I tell you I learned this way of thinking at a Bible college, a small enclave of rather conservative thinking, yet one dedicated to revisiting ancient documents (particularly the Bible) from the point of view of John Locke’s philosophy (firmly settled within the views of the Enlightenment). This task of finding ancient truth within newer structures of thinking opened a door in my imagination. Eventually I progressed beyond 18th century views opting for more contemporary ones that would present whatever truths could be gleaned from ancient traditions to inform and enrich current expressions of human life and meaning.

But back in the old days, my young adult days, I used to define marriage in this way: go to bed with one other person and you’ll wake up married. I guess back then I thought of marriage as a relationship blending sex and metaphysics. I was never very ceremonial in my approach to life. My casual take on things was almost as simple as a caveman bonking someone on the head and dragging them home to serve as a mate. For me, the issue is neither as tradition-bound with ceremonial oaths spoken before a judge or altar nor as clear cut as many folk would hope to think. Remember, I matured and married in the 1960s where ‘casual’ reigned. Now rather than argue any issues, I will simply tell my story, a story of marriages of several sorts.

At the ripe old age of twenty-one, I married a fine woman. Our personalities meshed. We were both dedicated to life and ministries within the church, which for us was a small denomination that refused to think of itself as a denomination, a non-sectarian, non-creedal collection of churches in which we both were reared. We were excited about the increasing self-revelations our marriage would entail and saved ourselves, as it were, for the marriage bed. (Of course, I had an introduction to sex years earlier from another boy with whom I had practiced kissing and intercrural bliss.) The marriage with Myrna provided satisfying experiences and opened us both to a wide range of interesting people and cultural activities. We loved one another and lived together a life rich in relationships.

Eventually I provided myself a dietary supplement to that marriage in the form of a long-standing affair with another man. I use this expression supplement because my vocabulary didn’t go beyond monogamy, bigamy, and polyandry. I didn’t have words for what I experienced. No one did. I didn’t take formal vows with my man partner but would have had they been available. I did assume responsibility in this new relationship. I deeply loved this man. I already realized what I wanted in life, what I had in my life with Myrna and my children, and honored what he seemed to want by way of a family. I kept our relationship warm but with some important distance. I soon enough realized I didn’t want to live with him. That would have been economically a disaster to say nothing of the costs to our careers, families, and dreams. Still I wanted a deep friendship with erotic communication. So I lived a kind of love that wasn’t simplistic, not love and marriage going together like a horse and carriage. What I wanted was love from him, and persisted nurturing it with him. That love has endured although its nature has changed over the years. All marriages experience such changes.

I didn’t explain all this to my wife who I judged would have found it just too odd. While open to life, she was a bit more traditional than I. Still, we had many levels of commitment to one another. When we moved too many miles distant from my husband, I realized I needed another one, actually several others. A man, who was a friend of my wife, assisted me with a deeply significant introduction into gay sex. We had fun. I had already told him I loved him (I’m sure it came across as simply the statement of a friend), but when he warned me we could play together but there had to be no feelings involved, I happily accepted his rules. Our dalliance would work better that way. I had no thought to leave my wife.

When that affair cooled down, I wondered whether he was beginning to experience too much feeling on his part or if he had already got from me what he had come for. Then another man presented himself. We developed an intensely emotional attachment, one I recognized and initially resisted. My wife noticed this affair with great trepidation. She and I weathered the brief relationship but not without a sense of loss within our marriage. My wife and I moved away to another community; my third husband got a new partner. Emotionally Myrna and I entered a time of uncertainty. We had plenty of work to keep us occupied. I did not find another man to love or play with. Sadly, we couldn’t solve the problems my affairs had raised. Eventually there was a separation. It took me a couple of months to gather my wits enough to schedule my removal from a career of thirty-two years, but that decision led to me having a short fling with a Baby Bear in Tulsa, a man I didn’t intend to get involved with. Now who was playing the games? I never felt the love in this relationship although I did assume some temporary heavy-duty responsibilities.

I escaped to Denver to become a gay man. I was inventing something new for myself although I was still legally yoked to my wife and emotionally connected to at least three other men and had one who felt emotionally and hopefully connected to me. (I was learning that the gay life could be rather complicated, but I’d always thrived on complications.) Eventually I met another man who took an interest in me. Our mutual delight helped domesticate me again. We enjoyed living together, exploring intimacy and playing house. I loved this man; he loved me. We never talked of marriage; we just lived it. He was ill and essentially owned nothing; I didn’t particularly need taking care of. I did take care of him as he died and mourned his passing with deep feeling.

Then there was another man, the one I met at a bus stop, the one who thrilled me, the one who seemed so thrilled with me. We felt deeply important to one another: he the revealer of emotions I’d never experienced, I the provider of a stable love he had never found. He was the homebuilder insisting that my apartment was my office; his apartment our home. We loved one another and built a relationship of great satisfaction. I helped him meet his death and mourned his passing. I felt adrift although I knew I would be okay.

Into the vacuum created by these losses entered my current partner, a really nice man about my age who already had a life and knew how to manage his money, who had worked for many years in his career as a salesman and did own property. He offered a kind of stability for me, the over-tired caregiver. He’s the one who asked the question about marriage. I’m the one who flung away the idea as if it wasn’t important. I’d already had a marriage, a successful one with a most interesting person. I’d already had a separation with all its decision-making and drama. I’d already had a divorce, which was amicable and uncontested (the advantage of owning very little). I had warned this nice man I had no money; I also told him I had no debt. Since he rarely comments on much, I never knew what he thought of these revelations but felt pretty sure both were important to him. We haven’t married. He’s never again brought up the subject. Perhaps living with me all these years warned him away from the idea, or perhaps he was only making rare conversation the day he did mention the topic.

Marriage? I doubt I’ll ever enter into it again formally even though this story already defines the relationship with Jim as a marriage. But in general, I’ve decided marriage seems too much like love. The word never means the same thing to the two people professing it. And the images they pursue are rarely-discussed assumptions that eventually sour the prospects of the happiness they envision. People in a marriage don’t experience the same thing either, yet they persist in thinking they are supposed to or that they want to. It’s all become too complicated for this old man.

© 25 November 2012

About
the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen practicing massage, he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists and volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot

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It Was Worth It by Nicholas

Now, I suppose, the pain will just go away. My back that has been actively aching for two weeks will quiet down. Now that I have humbled myself, or even humiliated myself, to go to the doctor, pay the copay, explain my little discomfiture, have him ask his questions, poke his pokes, squeeze here and squeeze there, and listen to my insides, all to tell me nothing seemed to be amiss. I know what’s going through his mind: why are you again bothering me with your imaginary complaints? He must think I’m just a whiner. It’s just one of those pains, after all.

I knew that. My diagnosis coincided exactly with the doctor’s. My aches were not threatening my life. My joints aren’t crumbling, my vital organs are not rotting with disease, and whatever needs to function, seems to be functioning. It’s not cancer, it’s not kidney stones, it’s not cirrhosis of the liver. I am not going to die—not soon and not from anything I presently know, anyway. But I had to hear it from the doctor because he’s the one, not me, who spent thousands of dollars and many years to get the MD. I guess it’s a matter of point of view. His point of view is what counted, not my aching back or side or whatever.

Most times that’s why I’ve gone to the doctor—to be told I am OK, never mind how shitty I’m feeling. Like I once told a friend who was under some kind of weather: you’re really doing better than you feel. It’s all a matter of point of view. I walked out of the office feeling much better than I did walking in. Maybe it’s the benefit of humility. It was worth the copay.

And, by the way, the mysterious, persistent ache seemed to later be cured by a prolonged soak in a hot pool at the Lake Steam Baths where the swirling jets of hot water gently pummeled my stiff muscles and ligaments or whatever into quietude. Next time I’ll just go there.

Point of View: Denver, 2013

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.