Still Learning – Just One Nugget by Nicholas

When I feel I need a little break and need to see a little craziness, I hop onto an express bus to Boulder to spend a day in a place just different enough to be interesting. Boulder reminds me of a mini-San Francisco. Good restaurants, intriguing food shops—like the well-scented spice shop—a really good bookstore, and street people who don’t seem so desperate as they do in Denver.

What really draws me to Boulder is the labyrinth in a downtown church. I love walking labyrinths. This one is a copy of the Chartres cathedral labyrinth in France dating from the middle ages when labyrinth walking was used as a substitute for making a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. This is an 11 circuit labyrinth, meaning you walk 11 circles in fragments, winding up eventually at a center.

A labyrinth is not a maze. You don’t have to find your way or figure out anything or make any decisions. You just follow the path as it winds its way around and through the quadrants to the center. It’s a walking meditation. In the Christian sense, the path, which is laid out for you, leads to God at the center. You only have to follow. I’ve never met God at the center and I don’t know what I would do if I did. Probably ask him to move so I could get on with my walk. Labyrinths pre-date Christianity, having been used in many forms by pagan religions for eons. The Christians just glommed onto a good thing when they saw it.

And as I’m slowly walking, I’m wondering why am I doing this, what can I get from it. Just one crumb of understanding, I say, give me just a little nugget of wisdom in this calm place where all I have to do is follow the path to the center and back out again. The slower the better. I’m not looking to understand everything, the whole enchilada, just a bit here and now. And the answer came: I’m doing this because walking the labyrinth is comforting. Its stillness, its calm, its reassurance give me a stillness, a calm, and a reassurance. Just follow the path, you don’t have to find it, it’s there at your feet. Keep your eyes open and follow. One step at a time.

So, I’m still learning. Still trying to figure it out though that’s something I don’t really expect ever to do. I suppose, maybe I even hope, my last words will be “What’s going on here?” It’s not the answer but the question that truly counts. Not the accomplishment but the wondering.

Yes, still learning. I just learned a whole lot about the writer William Faulkner, enough to realize that I knew nothing about an author I thought I did know something about. And I learn more yoga every week and sometimes everyday. And I’m always learning about loving and being loved. And I just got a new I-phone which offers me more to learn than I ever knew I needed to know. It’s not a phone or a device; it’s an extension of my brain. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. My brain could use an extension but I’m not sure I want it to be in an Apple computer.

I heard a saying recently that I think everybody in this room will like and feel free to adopt as your own. It goes: It’s not how old you’re getting; it’s how you’re getting old.

I hope I am getting old with wonder and openness and a desire to learn more because there is so much more out there to learn and experience. Like walking the labyrinth to discover that I need to walk the labyrinth. And maybe I’ll learn a little something, just a crumb, just a nugget. Not God.

Keep your eyes open and follow your path.

© 25 November 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.

Dresden by Will Stanton

The fire-bombing and destruction of Dresden happened close to seventy years ago, in another era, another country, with other people. In raising the subject, many people might respond by saying, “Why should we remember? Why should we care? That was a long time ago and has nothing to do with me or today.”

George Santayana is credited with saying, “Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it.” And, “Only the dead have seen the end of war.”

By nature, I am a very empathetic person. Hate and violence perpetrated against others, present or past, disturbs me greatly. Also, I have a great appreciation for the good works of humanity; and when they wantonly are destroyed, that, too, concerns me.

Before World War II, Dresden, the capital of German state of Saxony, was known as “The Florence of the Elba” because of its extraordinary beauty. Elaborate Baroque stone architecture was expressed in its churches and cathedrals, its opera house and symphony hall, its university and museums, the choirboys school, its grand manor houses, and in its middle-class homes and shops. This peaceful city was built for living, not for war and destruction. There were no military facilities or industries in Dresden. For that reason, Dresden remained untouched until almost the very end of the war…almost.

In a statement by J.M. Spraight, Principal Secretary to the Air Ministry, he stated the following: “Charles Portal of the British Air Staff advocated that entire German cities and towns should be bombed. He claimed that this would quickly bring about the collapse of civilian morale in Germany. Air Marshall Arthur Harris agreed, and when he became head of R.A.F. Bomber Command in February 1942, he introduced a policy of area bombing where entire cities and towns were targeted. We began to bomb objectives on the German mainland before the Germans began to bomb objectives on the British mainland… Because we were doubtful about the psychological effect of…the truth that it was we who started the strategic bombing offensive, we have shrunk from giving our great decision of May 11th, 1940, the publicity it deserves.”

Ironically, an in-depth study after the war indicated that, had the Allies concentrated strictly upon military-related targets, the war could have been ended several months earlier, saved thousands of lives, and avoided the devastation of civilians’ towns and cities. Despite these facts, Harris was convinced that bombing civilian populations was the best way to win the war.

The bombing tactic developed by the Royal Air Force and the United States Army Air Corps was the creation of fire-storms. This was achieved by dropping incendiary bombs, filled with highly combustible chemicals such as magnesium, phosphorus or petroleum jelly (napalm), in clusters over a specific target. After the area caught fire, the air above the bombed area, became extremely hot and rose rapidly. Cold air then rushed in at ground level from the outside, and people were sucked into the fire. The Allies first tested this concept over the city of Hamburg. The resulting fire-storm created tornadoes of fire. Even the civilians who jumped into the river burned. Harris considered the test to have been a success.

By February, 1945, the war was almost over. The Allies were closing in from the west and the Russians from the east upon what remained of Germany. So far, the non-military city of Dresden was untouched.

It was at this point that Winston Churchill, the British Air Marshall (who became known as “Bomber Harris),” and his staff, decided that the Allies should make, shall we say, “a statement” by demonstrating their power to obliterate an entire, previously untouched city. It has been said that this decision so near to the end of the war was based partially upon revenge for bombing the British munitions-producing city of Coventry. Perhaps more importantly, it was to choose a previously undamaged city to demonstrate to Stalin and the Soviet armed forces, who rapidly were moving west across Germany, that the western contingent of the Allies was very powerful and could obliterate an entire city. The Soviet Union, therefore, would see the West’s determination to finish off Germany and also that the Russians should think twice about occupying lands too far to the west.

David Pedlow, in a letter to The Guardian (14th February, 2004), wrote about a rather revealing scenario supporting the fact that the bombing of Dresden was no militarily strategic objective. He stated, “My father was one of the…R.A.F. meteorological officers (who) finally sealed Dresden’s fate…The Dresden briefing was only one of many that he routinely attended, and even before the crews left the ground, he was troubled because of one notable omission from the routine.

Normally, crews were given a strategic aiming point – anything from a major factory in the middle of nowhere to a small but significant railway junction within a built-up area. The smaller the aiming point and the heavier the concentration of housing around it, the greater would be the civilian casualties; but given that the strike was at a strategic aiming point, those casualties could be justified. Only at the Dresden briefing, my father told me, were the crews given no strategic aiming point. They were simply told that anywhere within the built-up area of the city would serve.

He felt that Dresden and its civilian population had been the prime target of the raid and that its destruction and their deaths served no strategic purpose, even in the widest terms, that this was a significant departure from accepting civilian deaths as a regrettable but inevitable consequence of the bomber war, and that he had been complicit in what was, at best, a very dubious operation.”

The British Royal Air Force, with the assistance of the United States Army Air Corps, chose to bomb the historic Dresden in six raids over three days and nights [13th, 14th, and 15th] during February, 1945. The four British raids over Dresden, followed by two American raids, consisted of 3,600 bombers and other planes, 650,000 incendiaries, plus over 6,000 tons of explosives. The high explosives and incendiaries resulted in a raging firestorm that sucked all the oxygen out of the city, suffocating the citizens hiding in basements. Those above ground were incinerated or crushed by falling buildings. The bombing completely destroyed seventeen square miles of the historic city and damaged many additional square miles surrounding the city center.

At first, apologists for the bombing claimed that the obliteration of Dresden was a “navigation error” – – over a three-day period. Later, some claimed that the bombing was necessary to take out military targets, although the only minor, war-related facilities were far from the city. Those facilities remained untouched by the bombing and are intact to this day. They also claimed that “only 50,000 civilians” were killed in the bombing and resulting firestorm; however, this figure ignores the fact that 300,000 refugees recently had fled to Dresden for safety, knowing that the city was a non-military location and that the war was almost over. More accurate estimates range far higher with additional tens of thousand of souls lost in the devastation. This included eleven of the church choirboys and their school.
Dozens of photographs were taken of the aftermath of the firebombing, many of them, such as mountains of dead being burned in the streets, too horrifying and gruesome to view without being emotionally shaken. The most poignant, haunting picture that I’ve seen is the charred remains of a nine-year-old, blond boy clinging to his dead mother.

Ironically, there were American prisoners of war in outlying areas of Dresden at that time. Fortunately, some of them survived the bombardment by taking refuge in the basements of homes. My family had a friend who had been an American POW and survived the bombing in that manner. He mentioned that, by the end of the war, Germany had lost so many adult soldiers that mere boys had been assigned to guard them. Also held with him and the other soldiers was Kurt Vonnegut who, as a now-famous author, wrote about his Dresden experience in his 1969 book “Slaughterhouse Five.”

American soldiers were recruited to carry the dead to the burning grounds. Many were found seated in basements and shelters, dead from carbon monoxide and lack of oxygen. Many others were burned beyond recognition. Kurt Vonnegut later reported, “American prisoners, at first, were ordered to move thousands of bodies to pyres for burning (of which there are photographs); however, there were so many bodies that they were provided flame-throwers to burn the bodies just where they lay, turning them into ash and, therefore, no longer identifiable as human remains. Thousands of the dead likely were refugees and not listed on resident rolls, making almost impossible estimation of the final tally.”

Otto Sailer-Jackson was a keeper at Dresden Zoo on February 13th, 1945. He recalled being at the zoo when the bombing occurred. “The elephants gave spine-chilling screams. The baby cow elephant was lying in the narrow barrier-moat on her back, her legs up in the sky. She had suffered severe stomach injuries and could not move. A…cow-elephant had been flung clear across the barrier-moat and the fence by some terrific blast-wave, and stood there trembling. I had no choice but to leave these animals to their fate…We did what we had to do, but it broke my heart.”

The famous stone-domed cathedral Frauenkirche stood for just one day after the bombing; however, the heat from the fire-bombing was so great that it turned the stone porous. The cathedral collapsed the following day.

Because Dresden had no food and little shelter, our friend and the other Americans were marched north, out of the ruins of Dresden. Years later, our friend returned to Dresden and found the very same house in which a German lady had protected him. He knocked upon the door. An elderly lady answered, looked at him, and then broke into a broad smile. She remembered him.

In addition to the destruction of the city itself, great works of art and other prized creations made by human hands were destroyed. Also, sitting on a railroad siding was a whole train-load of valuable artwork that had been brought there for safe-keeping. The “Florence of the Elba” was no more.

After the war, Churchill began to back off from previous statements about the supposed necessity of bombing Dresden, whereas Harris continued to defend the decision. Suspicion concerning that decision grew even among the British public. Partially for that reason, Harris moved to South Africa and lived there from 1946 through 1953. No special medal was offered to the crews who flew the Dresden missions. Whereas a statue of the war-time supreme commander of the R.A.F. was erected soon after the war, no such statue of Harris was considered until several decades later.

Despite protests from Germany as well as some in Britain, the “Bomber Harris Trust” (an R.A.F. veterans’ organisation formed to defend the good name of their commander) erected a statue of him outside the R.A.F. Church of St. Clement Danes, London, in 1992. It was unveiled by Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother, who looked surprised when she was jeered by protesters, one of whom shouted, “Harris was a war criminal.” The line on the statue reads, “The Nation owes them all an immense debt.” The statue had to be kept under 24-hour guard for a period of months because it was often vandalised by protesters. Apparently, some people do remember, and they do care.

© 21 December, 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.

Remembering by Michael King

Since I have now been writing stories based on the topic of the week for about 3 ½ years, I have had a variety of insights relating to today’s topic “remembering”. Each topic seems to force me to examine my memories regarding the particular topic. When I first started it became very painful as I had so many of my life’s experiences so deeply buried in a hidden place somewhere to never be thought about again.

My lifetime of forgetting and going ahead had worked well up until I started thinking about the topic for rhe week. Some topics brought forth a tremendous surge of past hurts and disappointments. Others gave me the opportunity to see parts of my life more clearly. It didn’t seem to matter what feeling and memories I had. What I did begin to notice was resolve. I allowed myself to sincerely assess each group of experiences that came into my mind as I pondered the possible truth of these memories. Surprisingly, I realized that for the most part I didn’t at the time have the skills or the experience to handle whatever situation in a manner that met my high standards. I had often felt that I was a failure and incompetent. Now I can see that I simply didn’t know how to meet some of these challenges with any real level of maturity as I had not yet developed any coping techniques to address most of the painful disappointments and betrayals that always surprised me and my overly sensitive ego had no calloused self-protective armor. I so much have always wanted to live in a wonderful world where I was also wonderful and efficient, respected and loved, skillful and wise, happy and humorous, brave and self-sufficient, intelligent and knowledgeable, and on and on and on.

So, I must now take responsibility for having seen the world of my past as one that of course I couldn’t be comfortable in since I didn’t have the knowledge or understanding to be the person that I thought I should be. I didn’t allow for mistakes, ignorance, self forgiveness, nor did I allow for those in my environment to be less than honorable, trustworthy, mature, etc. Not only was I a disappointment to myself, but that was often reinforced by the way others treated me. I felt alone, that I couldn’t trust anyone including myself.

This was the frame of mind I had for the first 17 years of my life; I often focused on the negative and placed little attention on the positive. Now I see that there was much that I could have appreciated that I didn’t.

I am also aware that I can now review much of my life from a much clearer perspective since I have by now finally had the experiences and developed the coping skills and insights that allow me to put all those dreadful feeling and disappointments in a more realistic and understanding perspective. Yes, if I had been in a different environment and had mentors and so on it might have been different. Then I probably wouldn’t have the insight and compassion for understanding other people.

From 17 on, my world changed when I went to college and for the first time in my memory I didn’t have to feel on the defensive. I began to be more and more like I thought I should be and feel.

I continued to have some difficult periods and many challenges, disappointments and failures which I still considered unacceptable, but I also had many really wonderful happenings and wasn’t always waiting for the other shoe to drop. There were plenty of times that it did. I was caught off guard or betrayed or deeply hurt either because of my own doing or someone else’s.

I’ve been doing a lot of self-forgiveness and a lot of forgiving since I started the “Telling My Story Group” and I realize that we rework our memories. We see them from different perspectives. We sometimes make changes in our thoughts, our behaviors, our emotional selves and we can rework our memories. We can also do as I did for years and bury them.

Some of the memories that I like best are the ones where I have been outrageous, funny and got the reactions I wanted and the times when I felt loving and loved, sensuous and sexy, accepted and appreciated, when I was admired and agreed, and when I felt secure that I was thick skinned enough to withstand anything that comes my way. Being so prepared after 73 years of being defensive seems to have eliminated being caught off guard. When I am, I almost always can turn the situation into something humorous. I love a good laugh and usually don’t wait till I’m challenged. I especially remember when something’s funny.

© 11
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.

Queens Community House for Gay Seniors and SAGE Manhattan by Louis

For the sake of experimentation, I decided that, while I was last in New York City, I would try and visit Queens Community Center for Gay Seniors, formerly SAGE Queens. Their offices are right down the street from the Queens Pride House. I would also visit SAGE Manhattan, located on the 15th floor of 305 7th Avenue (Fashion Avenue, I think). SAGE Manhattan had a nice Halloween Party, but the refreshments were rather Spartan. One presentation at QCC for Gay Seniors was a NYC police captain who gave a lecture on walking safely through Queens’ neighborhoods. That was okay but mostly it was common sense stuff.

The other presentation was by an orthopedic surgeon from Long Island Jewish Hospital, who gave an update on what is possible when it comes to hip and knee replacements. The lecture was quite informative. After the presentation I asked the surgeion what he thought of Glucosamine as a treatment for osteoporosis in the knees, He said Glucosamine was overpriced and that, to relieve symptoms of osteoporosis or arthritis in the knees, the senior’s best bet would be bicycling. I said that occasionally I use Glucosamine, and unless the price went up recently, I did not think it was too expensive. Since I do a lot of biking, weather permitting, I was glad to hear it was a good therapy for osteoporosis in the knees.

At SAGE New York, the Director named Burtiss, was rather aggressive asking the guests what kind of groups they wanted. I said that, since I heard that many of the returning veterans were getting short-changed on their benefits, it would be good if there were a gay and Lesbian veterans club. Abracadabra, there was the first meeting of the Veterans Club. I attended the first meeting and listened to various veterans. Some said they stayed in the closet to survive; others said they were out of the closet and no one bothered them. I think homophobia went bananas during the 60’s, but before that, it was not much of an issue.

Of course, that whole session reminded me of the Vietnam War. I was against it from the beginning mainly because the administration’s justification for military intervention over there just did not have that ring of authenticity. I also remember that the peace marches got so large that you could not even get to them because the number of people jammed up the subway system. They were as big as the Lesbian and Gay Pride marches.

One veteran whose name was Tom said that, when there was still an East Germany, he was assigned the task of transcribing everything on the East German radio stations. He did that for two years. Previously, when he was still in the United States, the U. S. Army sent him to California to a foreign language school where he learned German, then he went to Austria and took psychology courses in German and more German language studies. So Tom requested SAGE New York set up a German Club. At the first meeting it was pretty much he and yours truly. And then I had to come back to Colorado. I hope the German Club survives, but who knows? I have a minor obsession with the German Language although my first love is French. There seems to be a nice French Conversation Club that meets every Friday evening for an hour. That is a lot of fun. One fellow I knew from past Gay French Clubs was Don Ventura who is teaching French, Spanish and Italian every Saturday. Sounds wonderful. Last but not least is the Italian Club. I attended one meeting. It is run by an elderly Lesbian named Itala (what else?) and her partner. I would rename these groups Le Cercle Français, the Italian group, Il Circolo Italiano and the German group the Deutschverein. Why not?

Every time I see Burtiss or his assistant, Margaret, I suggest some more clubs. I suggested he get a retired gay lawyer to explain all the changes in the marriage laws and gay civil rights in the United States. These types of meetings at the Lesbian and Gay Center 30 or so years were very popular. Another retired lawyer could give a course on paralegal studies. Burtiss said he knew a lot of retired lawyers and he wanted to use their services and that he liked my ideas.

I also suggested a Spanish conversation club which as of now does not exist. I am pretty sure that would work. New York City has a large number of gay and Lesbian Hispanic ethnic clubs, and they are quite popular. But then there are also a large number of non-hispanic gay and Lesbian people who are interested in the language itself. For example, moi.

Finally, I suggested a Rachel Maddow fan club. Rachel Maddow is an out of the closet Jewish Lesbian news anchor on MSNBC on cable TV. I think she is the best. Burtiss said he knew about Rachel Maddow. He said that was a good idea and that he knew the women would especially like a club of her fans. By the way, Rachel Maddow recently reported that, at the Air Force Academy near Colorado Springs, there is a so-called “coaching” program, which is actually a psychological guidance program. It is headed by a reparative therapy “expert” named George Rosebush. He is in a word a right-wing quack doctor. Rachel believes the Air Force should not have hired him for his dubious psychological expertise. She asked on her newscast that the Air Force explain why they hired such a person with expertise in a discredited and in some states an illegal psychological procedure called reparative therapy. Near the acreage of the Air Force lies the acreage of the spread for the Focus on the Family. George Rosebush is of course on very good terms with this group, unfortunately. As a result, “Dr.” (in quotes) Rosebush gives them ample opportunity to proselytize the Air Force Cadets. As a result, the gay and I believe even the Lesbian Air Force cadets are being harassed by a bunch of religious fanatics.

I wonder if the Colorado lesgay lib groups picked up on her story.

© 14 December 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.

Endless Joy by Lewis

I have several thoughts on this topic–

1) Anything that goes on endlessly will eventually become Hell itself. This is why I have never been particularly attracted to the concept of Heaven. In fact, the promise often made to folks is that if they would only conform to whatever criteria a particular religion has established for admission, they will experience “endless joy”, albeit without any of those accoutrements of life on earth that generally make it enjoyable.

2) “Joy” itself is a nebulous and elusive concept. Attaining joy is not as simple as making a day trip to Disney World. It’s true that one of the most joyful moments of my life occurred while I was at Disney World. But the laser light show at Epcot Center, coordinated with the Finale to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, would not have been one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life without the lunar eclipse synchronized perfectly with the music.

3) “Joy” can be attained from the most ordinary of life’s experiences if the psyche is receptive. Even the realization that one’s days-long bout of constipation is over can be joyful if one has a receptive frame-of-mind.

4) “Joy” can be very difficult to recognize if one is in chronic pain, either physical or psychological. Joy is as much about the body as it is about the mind.

5) “Joy” is like chocolate–to partake of it excessively will lead to misery. Before long, you will develop an aversion to it.

6) “Joy” is often recognized best in retrospect. In reading Laurin’s journals from eight, nine, ten years ago, I can see how full and marvelous our lives were then.

7) The level of “joy” that I experience is symbiotically related to the way that I treat others. I cannot make others feel joyful, however. I can only let them know how much joy they bring to me.

8) “Joy” is not a function of where I am in the world or who I am with or what I am doing. It is a function of loving myself unconditionally.

© 6 January 2014


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 had 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.


Humor by Gillian

My parents both had a wonderful sense of humor, though each quite different from the other.

My mother loved words, so much of her humor involved quotations, jokes, and stories. She filled up dozens of little notebooks with such things and, apparently as a reminder to herself, lest she should slacken, an embroidered wall hanging pronounced that the day is wasted in which one has not laughed. Painfully correct grammar for such a relaxed sentiment.

As an elementary school teacher in an old two-room school she reveled in stories told by or about the children she taught, laughing the more with every telling. She would start giggling like a little kid herself. “Oh, you will never believe what little Jimmy Owen said this morning……..” and she was off.

My father’s humor, on the other hand, was, like him, much more quiet. Most frequently it necessitated no word at all, but rather an almost imperceptible eyebrow twitch, or my favorite, the one naughty wink, in my direction. Somehow I always understood what the joke was, what my dad’s gesture was indicating. I think we shared some very special intuitive connection there. Unlike my mum’s happy giggling, which lit up a room, my dad and I sat in silence without even our lips twitching to acknowledge our inner laughter. Oh such delicious secrets we shared in our secret mirth.

Rather unfortunately, I suppose, when my father did use a few words to facilitate some humor, it was usually at my mother’s expense though it was just silliness, never mean. And in a whole lifetime she never stopped setting herself up. “….you will never believe what little Jimmy Owen said this morning….” Dad solemnly winks at me and rises from the chair, heading to the door. “Edward! I was telling a funny story…” “Well, maybe we don’t want to hear something we’ll never believe…” And they’re off.

“Oh, Edward, honestly! You know it’s just an expression!” He sits obediently back down and hears her story, which is wonderfully amusing in it’s own right. We’ve had our little bit of fun.

As I grew older, I sometimes initiated the silent joke with my dad, although it had to be via a wink as I never learned to do the eyebrow-twitch thing in spite of endless hours of teenage practice before the mirror. I also, from quite a young age, spent considerable time and effort making my mother laugh. She loved to laugh and I loved to laugh with her, but one of my main youthful entertainments was making her giggle at inappropriate times and places.

It was the equivalent connection with my mother that the wink was with my father. She pretended to try to make me behave but really she loved it. I made her giggle in church, at school, during concerts and speeches. I especially liked to get her going somewhere like on the bus, where there was no bathroom. Her bladder-control was nothing to brag about and laughter could bring about some challenging results. “Ooooh Gillian, STOPPIT!” She’d whisper, shuffling in the seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

A teenage girl of the Fifties I had heard rumors that when a woman said no she really meant yes, and I have to say that in my mother’s case, with humor, it was true. The more she fought to control her helpless daughter-induced giggles during the graveside service, the more she loved it.

My parents had lost two children to meningitis before I was born, and I truly believe some intuition told me that it was my job to cheer them along. In any case, it served to bring humor to all three of us, and that’s a gift from the gods if ever there was.

My father developed dementia in his eighties, and had no idea who I was. He no longer winked at me, and my wink to him brought no response. My mother, amazingly, still had the embroidered laugh injunction beside her bed in the Nursing Home, though a broken hip had reduced the humor, along with most positive emotional and physical abilities, to a minimum.

If you ask me what is the greatest thing I inherited from my parents, I would say my sense of humor. If you ask me what I miss most I would say their sense of humor. And my father’s wonderful, wicked, wink.

© 2 February 2013

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.

Fondly Remembering Bernice by Donaciano Martinez

In a recent email message addressed as “Hello Manuelita” (my alias in Colorado’s underground gay subculture in the late 1950s and 1960s), I was notified that my friend Bernice passed away on January 13 from complications of high blood pressure following one or more strokes that caused extreme brain pressure for which doctors tried to relieve through surgery.

When I first met Bernice (alias in the gay underground subculture) in Colorado Springs in the 1960s, he was a teenager who had dropped out of high school and was studying to get his cosmetologist license from a beauty school that was located in the same block as the Chicano bar where my mother always worked ever since I was a little boy. Because the bar and beauty school were in the same block in downtown Colorado Springs, my mother and Bernice became acquainted long before I met Bernice. Upon talking to me in Spanish about him, my mother always referred to him as “Juanito” (little John) for his real name John.

After Bernice and I finally met, we immediately knew through our gay radar that both of us were gay. An effeminate gay man, Bernice had a great sense of humor and was fun to be around. Oh, my goodness, he could carry on during our many all-night social gatherings. The famous and outrageous drag queen Divine couldn’t hold a candle to the wit that Bernice had upon carrying on and on – everything from “Ooh La La” to “muchas meat” to refer to well-endowed men with whom he did the nasty. Shortly after I introduced him to several gay men in the underground subculture, he and my longtime friend Lolita (alias for Ricardo) became lovers. Because Bernice was estranged from his family and needed a place to stay, he stayed at my mother’s place for a while before moving in to a bigger house owned by Opal and her gay son Jerry.

My Chicano gay friends and I referred to him as “La Bernice” whenever we socialized. After getting his cosmetologist license, he got jobs in that profession at various beauty shops around town. My longtime Chicano gay friend Lorena (alias for Lorenzo), Bernice and I had a “night job” working for about one year as performers at a straight bar (of all places) that was patronized predominantly by straight military men from Fort Carson in Colorado Springs. Because drag was against the law in those days in the 1960s, we had to be extremely careful to conceal our male identities on stage and off stage. I was the choreographer of the many dance routines that Bernice, Lorena and I performed on stage at that straight bar located in the city’s extra-conservative district known as Ivywild adjacent to the super-wealthy district of Broadmoor. Yeah, I know, it was quite daring for us to do something outrageous right in the belly of the beast.

Because our performances at the aforementioned straight bar were risky enough, I was downright aghast when Bernice informed me that he was hired to perform as part of a chorus line of real-women dancers at the Purple Cow Bar (PCB) that was located at the entrance to the military base at Fort Carson. In addition to his day job as a “hair fairy” (gay parlance for cosmetologist), he worked his night job at PCB for over a year. Because he was so convincing as his female persona, his male identity never once was uncovered throughout the entire time he worked at that super-straight PCB.

Bernice is the one who introduced me to the military police officer with whom I had a very clandestine three-year-long relationship while I was a radical activist in several movements for social change. Because that was the era in which the U.S. military had a strict anti-gay policy, my partner’s position as a police officer required him to take special precautions while living with a radical activist who opposed the military draft and the U.S. war in Vietnam. We were keenly aware that any slip-up about our gay relationship would have resulted in my partner getting a dishonorable discharge and facing time in the stockade (military parlance for jail).

When Bernice moved away from Colorado Springs to the San Francisco Bay Area and later relocated to a peaceful rural area on the island of Maui in Hawaii, he always made an effort to keep in touch with me. He was a loyal friend to me and others who knew him down through the years. In addition to letters and cards several times a year, he also sent me wall calendars that were handmade by him. One year, he sent me a handmade colorful trinket that still hangs on the wall in my bedroom.

“If it wasn’t for John Henson, I don’t know what I would do,” wrote Bernice in letters to me about several health challenges he had the last few years of his life. Bernice always told me how he deeply appreciated the many efforts that John Henson (formerly of Colorado Springs in the 1960s, he has been a California resident for many years) made to fly to Maui in order to assist Bernice during periods of poor health. Their longtime friendship spanned six decades.

“After all he has been through, it is surprising that blood pressure was his downfall,” wrote John Henson in his “Hello Manuelita” email letter to let me know about the death of our beloved Bernice. “He will be missed,” added Henson upon expressing a sentiment that captures my own.

© 29 January 2014   


About the Author



Since 1964 Donaciano Martinez has been an activist in peace
and social justice movements in Colorado. His family was part of a big
migration of Mexican Americans from northern New Mexico to Colorado Springs in
the 1940s. He lived in Colorado Springs until 1975 and then moved to Denver,
where he still resides. He was among 20 people arrested and jailed in Colorado
Springs during a 1972 protest in support of the United Farm Workers union that
was co-founded by Cesar Chavez and Dolores Huerta. For his many years of
activism, Martinez received the 1998 Equality Award, 1999 Founders Award, 2000
Paul Hunter Award, 2001 Community Activist Award, 2005 Movement Veterans Award,
2006 Champion of Health Award, 2008 Cesar Chavez Award, 2013 Lifetime
Achievement Award, and the 2013 Pendleton Award. La Gente Unida, a nonprofit co-founded by Martinez, received the
2002 Civil Rights Award. The year 2014 marks the 50-year anniversary of his
volunteer work in numerous nonprofit situations.

A Letter to My Younger Self by Betsy

1952

My Dear Betsy,

What were you thinking. What’s even more important, what were you feeling? For that matter, take some time to think about what you are feeling. Logic is good, but it can get in the way of feeling. Too much logic and you by-pass your feelings, you don’t notice them. How you feel about something is ever so important. After all, your feelings probably determine how you are going to behave, whether you are happy or not, and whether or not you are at peace with the world and with yourself.

I can’t really blame you for acting like you are lost. You ARE lost. It’s hard to look at your feelings isn’t it? You know why that is, don’t you. They are feelings you are not supposed to have. Against the rules of social behavior, right? You’re not supposed to have a girl friend. You’re supposed to have a boy friend. Boys are supposed to excite you, but they don’t. Well, you know, you don’t have to pretend they do. It’s okay to feel as you do about the girls. Have a girl friend, and if hers is a romantic relationship, I understand that it must be secret. Someday you will be able to be at peace with who you really are. It’s true. In the little town in the deep south where you live now, it is unacceptable; in fact, I know of no place where it is acceptable for you to be openly homosexual. The important thing now is for you to recognize your true nature and who you really are and then embrace that, and love yourself. You must be free to love and be loved.

© 10 July 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.

Getting Caught by Will Stanton

Have you ever been caught…caught looking?  I have, and a lot of my friends have, too.  Sometimes, we just can not resist looking.  What is it that makes one human face more
attractive than another?  What is it that
makes someone’s appearance so astonishingly beautiful that it even can take
your breath away?  Believe it or not,
studies have been conducted on this question and some answers found.
Regardless of race, it has been discovered that there are
common factors among all that help to determine beauty.  Even babies were tested to observe their
responses to a large variety of faces and which ones they were most attracted
to.  All of the preferred faces had
features in common.  Of course, as we
grow older, we develop various preferences based upon our own ages,
circumstances, psychological needs, and experiences.  Our preferences often vary from the ideal
elements of human beauty.
Some of the elements of idealized beauty are obvious, such
as youth, good health, fine skin, and luxurious hair.  Then there are finer points, such as the arch
of eyebrows implying openness and friendliness, the wide spacing of eyes and
their bright clarity, and the youthful blush of cheeks and lips, attributes
that contributed to the origins of lipstick and rouge for the aging to imitate
youthfulness.  Another facial factor is
symmetry of features, that is, each side of a person’s face being identical in
a mirror-image manner.  This gift is more
rare than one might think.  Sometimes for
fun, pictures of people have been split down the middle, a right-side matched
with a right-side mirror-image, or a left-side matched with a left-side mirror-image.  The results can be surprising.  They may look like two different people.  I have noticed with one highly successful news
anchor than his face is remarkably asymmetrical. One eyebrow slants somewhat
down, the other dramatically down; his nose is not centered and curves to his
left, his jaw sits slightly askew, and his mouth is not exactly horizontal.  As a person, he is attractive, but I would
not call his physical appearance ideally beautiful.
Along with an attractive face, being physically fit and having
a well proportioned body certainly help. 
Just look at the advertising posters outside Charlie’s.  These physical gifts have been noted for
centuries.  All those Baroque painters, along
with those Greek and Neoclassical sculptors, can’t be wrong.  Of course, non-physical factors can influence
our perception of how attractive a person is, such as  brightness of spirit, charisma, intelligence,
and personality. 
What nature intended by attracting one human being to
another may have to do with assuring reproduction and the continuation of the
species; however, that factor may not account totally for same-sex attractions
nor beauty so intense that it creates an adrenaline rush and butterflies in
your stomach.  That experience can, at
times, prove to be embarrassing, especially for shy gays encountering good
looking guys.  There always is the risk of
being caught when engaging in surreptitious, prolonged glances.   Sometimes, we may be caught off-guard by a
sudden appearance of someone, and our startled responses may alert him to our
reaction.  You run the risk of being
caught.  A glazed look, panting, and
drooling are dead give-aways, too.
I’ve mentioned before a college friend whose roommate was
drop-dead gorgeous, and his big, blue eyes could melt any heart.  Supposedly, the young student was not aware
of his impact upon other guys until gay roomy explained it to him.  From then on, this freshman had his radar
turned on, and he soon detected every time that a gay guy was looking at
him.  He became quite adept at catching
them, and he enjoyed seeing their blushing embarrassment when he suddenly
turned toward them and looked into their eyes with those blue eyes of his.
Another gay friend was standing outside the gym when he
noticed, some distance away and coming down the sidewalk, a jogger in gym shoes,
little blue shorts, and nothing else but his wonderful self.  He was described to me as being like a young
Greek god with remarkably beautiful facial features, well defined chest, a
half-ounce of excess weight on his sculpted stomach, and skin like honey.  Some description!  Happening to have his camera with him, my
friend aimed his camera from some distance away and took a picture.  At that distance, he was sure that he was not
noticed, safe that is until the jogger came near, at which time he said, “Thank
you.”  The jogger immediately caught what
my friend was doing.  At least the jogger
appeared to accept and to appreciate the admiration directed at him.  I certainly admired him, once I saw the
photo.  Of course, he was only mortal,
and he may look like us now.  Too bad.
Getting caught can be rather dramatic when the encounter is
sudden.  On our campus, there was a very
long flight of concrete steps leading up a hill.  Impatient students would dash up those steps,
keeping their eyes trained on the steps rather than looking ahead.  Another friend of mine, Jim, nearly collided
with one of these young Greek gods coming down the steps.  When Jim suddenly looked up and came
face-to-face with this vision of loveliness, he exclaimed, “Shit!”  The startled student responded at first with
surprise but quickly gave Jim an understanding grin.
For those who are familiar with the remarkable film “Death
in Venice“ and
the character of “Tadziu,” who was the object of von Aschenbach’s fascination,
we also had a “Tadziu” on campus, albeit a few years older; and his name was
Peter, not Wladislav Mose.  Peter was so
astonishingly beautiful that even the homophobes stared at him, and that is no
exaggeration; they did.  Some gays on
campus were beaten up, but Peter never was. 
Straight guys seemed to be far too fascinated with Peter to ever
consider harming him.  On the contrary,
Peter once shared expenses with two straight guys in a van going to Florida for spring
break.  When Peter came flouncing down the
front steps to the van, and his house-mate called out, “Have a good time, and don’t
get any nice boys into trouble!,” their jaws dropped.   Apparently, the two guys overcame their
initial surprise, for by the time they pulled over in a rest stop for the
night, Peter ended up being, as he described it, “the meat in the sandwich.”  From what Peter told me, I don’t think that he
minded traveling with straight guys.
Peter also was an unabashed flirt.  He always knew when people were staring at
him; it was obvious.  He caught them all,
but he did not leave it at that.  He
deliberately would embarrass the observers by sensuously sideling up
uncomfortably close to them, pretending to be doing something else, but
obviously teasing the viewers.  He
occasionally would smile at them and not leave until the observers, now
beet-red, were thoroughly upset with themselves for not being really macho,
that is, not having had the strength and presence of mind to ignore Peter’s flirtations. 
Like Tadzio, Peter had long, golden hair.  Between that and his good looks, some of his
friends thought it would be a fun idea for Peter to go in drag to a big party
full of straight people to see how they would respond.  At first, he resisted, but eventually he
agreed to do it.  As it turned out, his
appearance was so stunning that a lot of the guys abandoned their dates, went
over to Peter, and were trying to chat him up. 
Their dates were furious.  Peter
was so convincing that he never was caught. 
He may have been, by nature, flamboyant, but he did not care for
drag.  He never did that again. 
 
Of course, there are some people who have so much
experience, so much self-esteem, and maybe so much money, that they seem
invulnerable to embarrassment.  Instead,
they see what they like, and they go get it. 
This happened with Peter in Florida
at least once.  The first morning that
Peter was in Fort Lauderdale,
he deliberately took a graceful stroll along the beach, wearing a flowing
caftan, and with the sunshine glowing in his golden hair.  He was fishing, and he immediately caught a
big one.  And, that is how Peter had room
and board for his entire stay in Florida.  The host’s name, however, is too famous and
prominent for me to mention it in writing.
I guess that whether a person is embarrassed or not depends
a lot upon his own nature, his upbringing, perhaps his religious or social
background.  For gay guys who were taught
that being gay is a terrible and unforgivable sin, or for gays who still are in
the closet, getting caught can be emotionally devastating.
There is a scene in “Death in Venice” when Gustav von Aschenbach enters a
hotel elevator; but just before it ascends, he suddenly is joined by an
exuberant group of youths including Tadzio. 
Von Aschenbach vainly attempts to maintain his artificial image of
disinterest; however, his eyes betray him. 
The lads pick up on it; they sense it, he is caught.  To his consternation, they begin giggling and
whispering among themselves.  As the
elevator door opens, von Aschenbach flees toward his room, thoroughly
mortified.   His emotions are so
overwhelming that he hurriedly packs up and heads for the train station to
leave Venice.  Of course, he is obsessed with Tadziu.  When delayed at the train station, he jumps
at the first excuse to turn around and come back.  Apparently, he subconsciously concludes that
repeating the opportunity to see the object of his fascination is worth being
caught.
I suppose that some habitual observers eventually may have
become insensitive to embarrassment themselves and choose brazenly to gaze
unabashedly as long as they wish.  They
should, however, be courteous and not make the objects of their admiration uncomfortable
by endless, rude staring.  My late
partner once said that he could not wait until he became old because he had endured
so many years of people staring at him. 
I never have had that problem.  

© 3 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.

Getting Caught by Ricky

          From
June of 1956 to June 1958 I was living with my grandparents on their farm in
Isanti County, Minnesota.  I was eight
and nine years old at the time.  On
Saturdays, after the morning chores were completed, grandpa always drove us
into Cambridge, in their 1949 Kaiser Deluxe Sedan.
He and grandma would run their
individual errands as my uncle and I eventually ended up at the drug store to
spend our allowances.  My weekly
allowance of $1.00 allowed me to purchase a model airplane kit and a Cherry
Cola from the drug store’s “soda jerk.”
          In
the beginning, I could buy each weekend a model airplane and a comic book for
98-cents, including the tax.  The comic
book was only a dime.  As time passed,
the comic book price increased to 12-cents and I could not buy both for $1.00
so I began to buy more comic books and the Cherry Cola.  My grandma said I had to save the left over
money so I could still buy a model and drink or model and comic book, if I had
saved enough left over allowance.  I
really didn’t like that plan, but I did not have a choice between alternatives.
          Thus,
for two years I developed a strong attachment to reading and building my model
airplanes.  Now jump forward to when I
lived with my mother, stepfather, stepbrother, and my twin half-brother/sister
at South Lake Tahoe.  The year is
1960.  I am 12 and we live in our second rented home on Birch Street.
3745 Birch Street, So. Lake Tahoe, CA
          The
house is a two-story edifice of what I call a rather rustic design and
matching interior.  Our allowed part of
the upstairs is about one-third of the total area available.  Crammed into that small space were two cribs,
end-to-end, and a set of bunk beds.  Back
at the first rented house, I had the bottom bunk as my then fifteen year old
step-brother, Eugene (Gene for short), insisted on the top bunk.  In this second house, at seventeen Gene was
literally tired of climbing into bed and so claimed the bottom bunk.  The twelve-year old man that I was enjoyed climbing into my top bunk.
          The
roof sloped steeply but not quite as steep as an “A-frame” constructed
house.  This resulted in a shortage of
space near the upstairs walls that were actually the sloping roof.  Nonetheless, Gene and I made two small “cubby
holes” among the “rafters” for each of us to use as a study and personal area.  It was a tight fit for Gene, being bigger
than I am.  I was considerably smaller
but it was a tight fit for me also.
          Gene
and I got along well.  We never fought,
wrestled, or were loudly argumentative with each other.  I suspect that was mostly because he was so
much bigger and intimidated me by his size and status of being in high
school.  We each were very protective of
our study areas and did not like the other to enter or touch anything in our
areas.
          Our
parents did not bring home cookies very often, but when they did the package
contained about 40 or 50 of them.  Gene
and I learned early on that the cookies (or other treats) would disappear
quickly.  Therefore, to ensure we both
got an equal share, when the cookies arrived home, mother would watch us divide
them up between us.  She always held some
back.  Gene and I took our cookies and
“hid” them in our study areas so we could not steal each other’s treasure.
          One
day, being the immature man
that I was then, I ate my last stashed cookie but still craved more.  Since Gene was not home, I searched his study
area and found his cookie stash.  I
didn’t think he would miss one or two and that’s how many I ate of his.  I did it again a couple of days later and he
noticed.  The next time our stashes were
refilled, he raided mine and of course, I retaliated once too often.
          I
came home from school one day and found that Gene had broken a part off two of
my model airplanes.  I bought these same
model airplanes with my precious left over allowance money back on the farm in
Minnesota.  As such, they were important
to me.  I thought that breaking my
airplanes was going too far.  I mean I
didn’t break anything of his—I just ate his cookies.  I quickly escalated the “war.”
          I
loved model airplanes.  Gene loved his
paint-by-numbers kits.  I took four of
his small paint bottles and began to throw them out the upstairs window onto a
pile of chunks of broken concrete on the vacant lot next door.  My step-father was home but I believed him to
be inside doing something.  I was
wrong.  He came in from outside and
called to me asking if I was throwing anything out the window.  I lied and said I was not.
          He
went back outside and I watched from the window as he began looking around the
vacant lot but didn’t seem to find anything and left the area.  Apparently, he either remembered what it is
like to be 12 and questioned by his father, or somehow he knew I was lying and
was waiting for me to throw something again. 
In any case, I still had two little paint bottles to throw so I
did.  This time he called me down to him
and asked what I threw out the window.
          At
that statement, my guts and butt suddenly developed a serious case of major
“pucker factor.”  I did not lie
again.  I told him what I threw and when
he asked why, I explained that Gene broke my models.  I was afraid he would spank me or do
something similar but worse.  He
didn’t.  He only told me not to lie to
him again.  I never did and never needed
to either.  I do not remember if I told
him the whole truth though.  I am fairly
sure I did not tell him I started the “war” by eating Gene’s cookies.  If I had, things might have turned out
different for me.

© 4 February
2013


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.