Month: July 2014

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The Recital by Betsy

It was 1944. In Europe bombs were falling; in London, but mostly in Berlin. The Allies were preparing to invade Normandy. I didn’t know any of this at the time. My parents didn’t think it would be good for a 7 year old to know about the horrors of war–not the details anyway. Everyone knew there was a war going on across the ocean. I knew about rationing, I even had my own book of savings stamps, there was never enough gas to go anywhere, but otherwise the war didn’t really effect my life. Life for me in 1944 was pretty normal.

I had recently started piano lessons. My grandmother, an accomplished musician, had hoped that the talent she had perhaps had skipped a generation and maybe all the music genes had descended into my being.

Life was normal until I got into my piano lessons. My teacher had escaped the war in Europe and, I suspect, had escaped the Holocaust. Of course, at the time we didn’t know there was a holocaust going on, and if we had known, adults certainly weren’t going to talk about it in the presence of children. The war in Europe had effected my teacher’s life all right. I suspect she still had loved ones suffering in concentration camps, or maybe they were already dead. Maybe for her making a living in a strange country in hard times was barely endurable. But I sensed my teacher’s insecurity and volatility. I did not want to make her life more difficult by being unable to perform.

“You must count!” screamed my teacher. “One and two and three and one and two and three and. I turn on the metronome, yes?”

“Tick, tock, tick, tock,” chanted the metronome. “We are running out of time. Recital coming, recital coming,” chanted teacher.

“Maybe my mother will tell me it’s okay just to play the right notes. Don’t worry about the counting at the same time,” I thought.

Am I ready for a recital? Mommy will know.

My mother assured me I was ready for the recital. After all. My velvet dress was back from the cleaners and we would soon go to the city to buy some Mary Janes and socks with lace cuffs. My hair was the perfect length for braiding. Everything was in perfect order for the recital, my mother assured me.

Everything but the music. I was to play three pieces: Marilyn Dances, A Soldier’s March, and In an English Country Garden. I actually had no idea whether or not I would be able to get through those pieces. I have to wonder if my teacher had any idea if I could get through them.

My mother was confident that everything would be perfect. After all, she was in charge of seeing that I was properly clothed and she herself would be doing the braids.

This particular occasion called for braids with rolls. The first step is to divide the hair in 1/6th’s perfectly symmetrical and each 6th–that is, each hank–being perfectly equal in volume. Mother would then roll the front hanks to form rolls of hair directly above the ears. The remainder of the hank is then braided into the other two hanks. “One and two and three and,” as she deftly wove the hair together into two smooth, perfect braids. I could only hope that in a few hours my hands would move as smoothly and deftly over the piano keys as hers moved as she worked my hair.

The day arrived. I was ready–braids with rolls in place, velvet dress with lace collar, shiny patent leather Mary Janes, socks with lace cuffs. I couldn’t have been more ready–except for being scared stiff. Would Marilyn dance, would the soldier march, would the garden flourish? Or would they all just die there on the stage in front of all those people.

Interesting that I remember such detail about my outward appearance. What I don’t remember is how I performed the music and how I felt after the recital. I guess to my mother–and therefore to me–that was an incidental of minor importance. And perhaps that explains why this was my first–and last recital.
© 8 Oct. 2011

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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Favorite Literary Character by Will Stanton

When I decided to join the Story-Time group in submitting stories and essays to the blog, I needed to decide whether to use my own name as author or to create a pen-name. I considered the fact that, in some of my stories, I use the names of real persons and real places, which may not always be advisable in a blog. Also, some of my essays speak of especially unusual experiences. As a consequence, I decided to use a pen-name.

Fellow Story-Time member John was showing me how to join the blog, and I had to choose a name and avatar right on the spot. Rather than taking a long time to ponder those decisions, I quickly went with my instincts for both. What immediately came to mind was the name “Will Stanton,” the main character in one of my favorite books. There are a number of Will or William Stantons in the real world; it’s a fairly common name. One even was an author of humorous fiction. Yet, the character I thought of is totally fictional, unless the author knows something that I don’t know.

The author, Susan Cooper, is a graduate of Oxford University and a brilliant British scholar and writer who has a very deep knowledge of ancient British mythology, Arthurian legends, Celtic and Norse mythology and their connection with each other. She won the Newbery Award and the Welsh Tir na n-Og Award for excellence. In 2012, she won the lifetime Margaret Edwards Award from the American Library Association. In many ways, I consider her books superior to those of J.K. Rowlings, but unfortunately they preceded by a generation the Potter genre and its highly successful marketing and, consequently, were over-shadowed.

The first time I that I read “The Dark is Rising,” the second volume of her series by the same name, I felt an immediate connection with Will. I saw in myself many of the same character traits as Will. I also was very moved by the humanity of some of the central characters.

I do not know why I am the way I am, why I have such discernible aspects to my personality, feelings, and values. Like most of us, I have tried throughout my life to understand myself, to try to figure out what experiences might have influenced who I am. I gradually have grown to understand that much of who I am is in-born as well as learned.

I have an ingrained sense of right and wrong, and I feel terribly uncomfortable with the idea of anyone, including myself, being tempted to do wrong. Even if there appeared to be great profit or benefit in doing wrong, I feel that I just could not bring myself to engage in it. I also care very much about the good people of the world and feel pain and sorrow if they are harmed or suffer loss. I would like to be able to assist them, to prevent their hurt, wish to undo any hurt, or to heal them if I can not.

There are, however, far too many evil-doers in the world. I am terribly dismayed by the dark side of human nature, the lack of empathy, falsehood, physical and verbal violence, the readiness to harm others. Such negativity seems to affect me more than many other people.

So apparently, I seem to have had throughout my life a powerful connection to Good (with a capital G), often referred to as “The Light.” The concept of “The Dark” that embodies all that is negative and destructive repels me. The two factions of Light and Dark repeatedly struggle to determine the destiny of mankind. The Light fights for the Good, for freedom and free will, whereas the Dark fights for chaos, confusion, subversion, and control of humankind. I actually recall vivid dreams where I joined The Light to battle black, shadowy entities of The Dark. Somehow, I knew that I had the capacity to do battle with Evil. It felt natural to me.

 

The character “Will Stanton” discovers his true role in life upon his eleventh birthday. I suppose that this is pure coincidence; however, I always have had an unexplained, deep connection with the number eleven, my favorite number. When I was very young, I looked forward to becoming eleven, just like Will.

I never have regarded myself as particularly special, no more or less than any other human being. The literary character “Will,” however, does turn out to be special. He is the last of the so-called “Old Ones,” those of the Light whose mission is to prevent the rise of the Dark. When I read that passage for the first time, a deep emotion welled up inside me. Being one of the “Old Ones,” Will does possess some remarkable abilities that are supernormal that help him defeat the Dark.

As for myself, I never have been presumptuous enough to claim special abilities, although I have had upon past occasions, especially when I was young, some rather exceptional experiences that are hard to explain. Occasionally, I have spoken of them, but I realize that some listeners may dismiss them as unreal or at least exaggerated, perhaps because they have had no similar experiences or, perhaps their minds just don’t work that way. I’m not aware of any such notable experiences in my later years. Perhaps that is because I became so focused upon trying to deal with the demands of daily life that my my mind was hindered in functioning in a natural manner and without stress.

I hesitate to mention one other comparison; but, to be sincere, I do need to mention it. Will bears the sign of the Celtic cross on his forearm where hot metal of that shape touched his arm. In my case, a professional palm-reader brought out a very large book showing lines found in people’s palms, telling me that I have crosses in the palms of my hands, signs that are extremely rare, signs supposedly that indicate, as the books stated, “divine power.” I am too much of a “Doubting Thomas” to be particularly impressed. I dismissed her revelation as unscientific and of no practical significance, whereupon she showed me the pages with the lines and description stating that such signs are, in fact, very rare. Still, it would have taken much more than that to convince me to go bounding off trying to do marvelous things. For the sake of the argument, if I was somehow granted a few special abilities, I can’t say that I have found a way of putting them to good use, at least not in any recognizable way.

One major difference between Will and myself is our families. Will is a part of a large, happy, close-knit family that is wonderfully loving and supportive of each other. As you have learned from some of my previous stories, my family was not. So, I was very attracted to the homelife enjoyed by Will and felt that I would have loved to have been part of Will’s family, too. As far as the image that I selected for my avatar, I now realize that it coincidentally matches the appearance of Will. That had not occured to me when I chose it. It just turned out that way.

So, although I would not be so presumptious as to claim that I am like Will, one of the “Old Ones,” at least I can identify with part of that term. I feel rather old.

© 8 November 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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Self Labeling by Ricky

Interestingly enough this topic is so two sided in the sense of positive and negative labeling (three or four sided if you consider the options of secret labels or deceptive labels). Perhaps a better way to describe labeling would be: uplifting, destructive, or even empowering. I leave it to each of you individuals to discover or categorize labels into whatever groups you desire.

When I was serving as an officer in the military in the position of a Flight Security Officer in charge of 40 enlisted nuclear missile security guards, at one point I was assigned to lead a flight of personnel who were not pulling together to get the job done smoothly without interpersonal problems. I was not the typical air force officer so, I did not impose “severe punishment” for trouble makers right off the bat when I took over. Instead, I did the following to defuse the problems by emphasizing the similarities between everyone.

At my first “guard mount” I had the men repeatedly organize themselves into different groups as I called out the categories (i.e., one group over here, another stand over there, etc.). The categories (labels) were: Republicans here, Democrats there, others by me; blacks to the right, whites to the left, American Indians across from me, others next to me; Catholics to the left, Protestants to the right, Jewish across from me, others next to me (and so fourth through…); enlisted vs officers; NCO’s vs non-NCO enlisted; rural vs urban origins; Western vs Central vs Northern vs Confederate states; high school vs junior college vs college graduates; 4 year vs 6 year enlistees vs lifers; 18-20 vs 21-25 vs 26-30 vs 31+; married w/no children vs married w/children vs single vs widowed/divorced; action films vs chick flicks; and so on for about 15 minutes. At the end I reminded them that regardless of rank or position or psychological temperament, we all belong to different groups with different people we work with at one time or another; we all have something in common with others that perhaps we didn’t get along with prior to today. So, lighten up and see if you can’t become friends rather than enemies because we are all “stuck” together in the Air Force on this flight.

I am happy to report that as far as I could tell, all the interpersonal problems became non-issues and the flight became the best performing flight in the missile security squadron. Naturally, it was not all my doing, I happened to have an extremely well qualified Flight Security Sergeant as my second in command and most of the credit goes to him.

So moving on to a more personal level, I was quite naïve about many things dealing with sexuality growing up. I engaged in what has been labeled as “age appropriate” sex play/experimentation with both boys and girls as I hit puberty but the only label applied was “this is fun, but don’t let mom, dad, older brother, or anyone else know what we do.” There was one member of my Boy Scout troop who was my main sex play partner but we never did anything while on scout campouts or events. After he moved and I was in high school, my naivety continued to confuse me and I began to wonder why I was not attracted to any girls. Mentally, I was fantasizing about sex with boys (and rarely girls) but noticed that I was not attracted to any particular girls but I was to a few school mates. I just never thought of or realized the implication.

It wasn’t until I was in the Air Force as an officer that the possibility of being gay crept into my mind on a few occasions, but since I was married with kids, I put that thought out and eventually accepted that I might be bi-sexual. Ultimately, after my wife died and through the years of depression and self-evaluation I realized that I am (or at least have a large percentage of gay orientation). With the acceptance of this dual labeling, the stress in my life (and the confusion that went with it) disappeared and I feel much more relaxed and comfortable in my skin and around other men regardless of their orientation. In other words, I now know who/what I am.

So, some labeling can be damaging if it is “true” but denied and acceptance can be liberating but under many circumstances can still be damaging if one is not living in an environment where “truth” is tolerated. I’m pretty sure many of you have had experiences that demonstrate the accuracy of my last statement. Even if you have not, you must know of others who have had those negative experiences of revealing the “truth” to those who don’t tolerate or can’t accept it.

© 11 September 2011

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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The Sprint by Phillip Hoyle

Morning Pages excerpt, September 19

… I’m writing my Morning Pages, the daily exercise I’ve employed the past fourteen years. I am at the beginning of Page 3. So here I hope to sprint. Get into racing position. Put pen to paper. Ready, set, go. The gun sounds. I bound down the college ruled lanes filling each line with words, phrases, sentences. Eventually they form a paragraph, but that doesn’t seem so important while I sprint.

It’s speed I pursue, a record for swift writing. I want to write faster than I can process what I’m doing, to get caught up in the action of it, to open my mind, to disconnect through the physical movement, to discover my writer’s second wind as it were, but how can I sprint writing such complicated sentences? So I write. I don’t care about anything but the speed. Write, write, write. This is no texting with buttons to push, no Twitter, no Facebook, no images except written, but I write, ink runs along the track, a wild spewing of images, ideas, even ideals, like the ideal of being the best, somehow perfect in this sprint, a record-setter. Oh well. I have finished this short jaunt. My page is full. The tape has broken. I pant. I am an artist in a hurry. I am doing the work. I write; I paint; I massage. Life is good. My life is good. Yes.
September 20
…I’m having a slow morning with watering the lawn out front, playing cards, stretching, making data entries, eating fresh-baked cookies, drinking coffee, talking with Ruth, and now at this late morning hour (it’s 11:30), writing my Morning Pages. Perhaps I’ll try sprint writing like I described yesterday.
I work in spurts. Always has as far back as I recall. My lack of physical coordination may have contributed to this style or need. Even more influential are the speed of my thinking and feeling and my fast-changing interests, call this last my tendency towards multi-tasking. Or ADD. Whatever.
I’ve been sitting here attending to this writing.
I hope to be bitten by the inspiration bug so I can successfully write about my most Unusual Day, this week’s challenge in my storytelling group. I still haven’t settled on a topic—a particular day—although I have listed several possibilities. I want to write on something I’ve never before tried to describe. The realization that I have fallen in love is my topic now. I’ve worked on it before, but I don’t think I’ve looked at each instance. Somewhere I wrote a list of such experiences. But I don’t want a list; I need to make a decision for a particular experience. 
I’m thinking about Michael O., the two of us looking at each other. I found the realization of his interest quite moving. When I saw him again I thought, “Oh that guy.” I was pleased. Invited him to stay for tea. Pleased when he called to talk. Then to meet for coffee. I recalled my first impression of how clean he was. I heard his nasal voice and thought of Steve, my longtime lover. I wasn’t especially attracted to Michael’s voice, but I liked his offbeat humor. I liked his kind manner. I was confused when another guy answered Michael’s phone. Later I asked. Michael told me it was Chuck. I didn’t understand. He told me they had been partners but that he was in the process of moving out. He had already been searching for a place to live. We had dinner with his friend Frank. Leaving the restaurant I met Chuck although I didn’t put it all together until later.
Michael brought me gifts: lotions and lubes for sex. I was really pleased. I liked the open signal that approved of and encouraged our love making.
My most defended self speaking.
I accompanied him to an eye appointment. I didn’t understand why none of his friends arranged to go with him. 
“I always go alone,” he said. 
“Not when you’re having your eyes dilated,” I protested. I drove the car home. I didn’t like the inattention of his ex-partner and current friends.
February brought bad news. I had information; I observed swelling lymph nodes. I asked him to be sure to have his nurse palpate them. They started tests. He was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. He would have to start chemotherapy.
Chemo started. I agreed to stay at his house on the nights following his treatment but preserved several days to stay at my own apartment. I didn’t want to signal to his friends that he didn’t need them. But I felt manipulated by the fact no one volunteered to stay with him. I realized Michael was unable to ask. Still I defended some of my independence and looked forward to being alone, to have coffee and walks with Tony, and so forth. 
I had worked downtown giving massages that day. It was one of my free nights. I walked home up Capitol Hill. As I turned south on Downing, I realized I wanted to be with Michael. When I got to my place I called. “What are you doing?”
“Not much.”
“Would you like if I came to spend the night?” I asked.
“Yes, I’d love that.”
So I got on a bus and made my way out to his street. I realized on that unusual day I’d rather be with Michael than preserve my precious independence.
But I realize that while I have been writing without stop, it was not a sprint. I actually took time to feel into what I was recalling. Fortunately I liked the topic. I’ll sprint tomorrow or some other time I need entertainment.
I am an artist. 
Life is good; my life is good. Yes.

© Denver, 2010

About the Author 

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Camping (It Up) by Pat Gourley

I am opening here today with a short read from Larry Mitchell’s iconic The Faggots & Their Friends Between Revolutions, a few personal photos documenting just a few of my own campy experiences and a quote from someone else’s work.

“… Camp itself should almost be defined as a kind of madness, a rip in the fabric of reality that we need to reclaim in order to defeat the truly inauthentic, cynical, and deeply reactionary camp – or anti-camp – tendencies of the new world order.”
Bruce LaBruce from GLR, March-April 2014

A short definition of camp I found on Wikipedia: “Camp opposes satisfaction and seeks to challenge” seems a very appropriate definition of the gay male act of being “campy”. Camp can be a form of almost spiritual acting out sometimes in private but often as public street theatre that on the surface seems to be just silly. Not that there is anything wrong with being silly. Society could use much more silliness it seems to me.

Though being ‘campy’ is certainly not exclusively the purview of gay men we really have a corner on that market and have and continue to this day to take it to new and challenging heights. I would refer you to watch just a single episode of RuPaul’s Drag Show if you have any doubts that camp is still alive and well. I would also be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge certain Diva’s male and female, past and present who have also mastered the art of camp: Cher, Lady Gaga, Mae West, Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, Paul Lynde and Liberace to name just a few.

For many of us gay men the art of camp starts early and often involves dress up. Much to the consternation of my parents I am sure I would on occasion grab a couple bath towels one for my shoulders, cape-like, another around my waist skirt-like and one over my head. I would then pretend to be a nun, Sister Mary-the-something-or-other, and my several siblings and cousins would be my pupils.

Really, where the hell did that behavior come from in a little farm boy in rural Indiana in the 1950’s except from somewhere deep in my budding queer soul? Trust me I was not mimicking any role models or recruiters I was aware of. My juvenile gender-fuck drag appears to have been pretty spontaneous, I had no ‘gay uncles’ to mimic in any fashion that I was aware of. Early TV with the possible exception of Uncle Milty provided only the straightest of heterosexual role models and they were often quite sanitized and asexual. Remember Ricky and Lucy had separate beds!

One of the most powerful components of ‘camp’ involves its often-loving play with gender roles. I really think we are getting in touch with our being ‘other’ and since we usually only have the male and female as culturally defined to draw from and neither really fits we tend to mix them up in an attempt to create something that speaks more directly to us, often with startling success. The often-cruel taunts of ‘tomboy’ or ‘sissy’ really don’t begin to address the reality or do the behaviors justice.

Gender-fuck drag is a classic form of camp, something that has been around a long time and continues to survive today despite the tremendous push towards ‘respectability’ in the LGBT community. This I think sometimes get confused and mixed up even within our community with the powerfully emerging Trans community and their emerging forms of identity. They are very profoundly separate issues. It behooves everyone to appreciate and to be sensitive to the difference in the worlds of transsexual and transvestite and drag queen and gender fuckers and what each very differently involves and implies. There is also a significant amount of cross-pollination between these entities and those realities a bit much to try and get into here. It can be quite the sticky wicket and I would simply refer you to Ellen’s comments at the Academy Awards show she made to Liza Minnelli as an example of the thin ice here one can find yourself venturing onto.

Again I think I can say that much of ‘campy” behavior involves a messing with gender roles as often defined as the appropriate ones by our society. It is one of the most powerful change creating weapons we have in our arsenal in implementing the ‘gay agenda’.

© March 2014

About the Author

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

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Boredom by Lewis

Boredom is a condition of the conscious mind with which imagination, creativity, and initiative seldom run afoul. I have never felt myself being bored in a situation over which I have even a smidgeon of intellectual or physical control. There are few things more tiresome than to hear someone complain to another that they are “bored,” as if it is up to someone else to entertain them.

Occasionally, I run into a situation that makes me wish I could get the heck out of. It could be a well-meaning individual who simply does not realize how hard it is for me to maintain any level of interest in what they are rambling on about. It’s not that they are boring me. The issue is that I do not know how to tell them how I feel at the moment. As with anyone who might say that they are “bored,” it is my problem, not theirs. I still have not found a polite way to say, “You’re making me sleepy.”

Fortunately, minds once plagued by lack of imagination now have the capability of overcoming that unfortunate situation with the advent of Twitter, texting, FaceBook, YouTube, and Google. Boredom may well be on its way to consignment to the endangered species list along with, sadly, face-to-face human interaction.

In a complementary way, I have a phobia about boring others. My motto is, “It’s a gamble to ramble.” Of course, now, with my failing memory, I cannot remember half of what I wanted to say in the first place. Thus, my sentences are tending to be interspersed with long pauses, which truly are very boring. Thus, I tend to be much more interesting when I write than when I speak. I won’t say any more than this, so as not to risk boring you.

© April 28, 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 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.

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Going Shopping by Nicholas

I don’t like shopping. I’m a buyer, not a shopper. When I venture into the world of retail, it is for something specific that I need—socks, underwear, a new shirt or slacks, groceries or some such stuff. The basics of life. I don’t see shopping as entertainment; it’s more like a chore, an odious chore, at that. If I can’t help it, I will go to the store. Shopping is boring and other shoppers are a nuisance merely blocking me from achieving my goal.

Usually I do have a purpose, a mission. I make a shopping list. I know where I need to go and what I need to get. Far from meandering aimlessly and gazing at a bewildering array of products and stuff, shopping is one of the most directed activities I engage in. Whatever I don’t want is merely a distraction and I will not be distracted.

But then, there are those moments. Of course, it does happen, though very rarely, that my tight little system breaks down and I do go shopping. I mean just plain old aimless shopping. I resort to indulging in retail therapy. It can be fun to buy new things. Maybe once a year on a spring afternoon, I will head for the shops or even the mall and just browse around looking at all the incredible things I could have. I might even buy some gadget that strikes my whimsy or perhaps stumble across something that I really could use and have wanted something like it for ages. Some trinket, some teensy little fashion statement like a shirt of a new color. Just slap the racks. Sometimes it’s fun to wallow in the midst of all the over-consumption possibilities of this American culture. I go from boredom to over stimulation and back to boredom in minutes.

I have my weaknesses, however. I can at times go shopping, I mean, really just shopping, not aiming for anything in particular, just handling the merchandise. Bookstores, for example, are for me like candy stores. I can’t walk into a bookstore without buying something before I walk out. Browsing always leads me to some title that looks really interesting, something I must read and will read—someday. Maybe I’m hoping for immortality. As long as I keep adding to the unread books on my shelf, I won’t die and it’ll be a damn long time before I get to reading all of them.

This used to be true for music back in the day when there were record and CD stores. I could always find something. I miss those stores and I fear the day when the dwindling Tattered Cover will shut its doors. I don’t know what I will do then. Give up candy?

Well, then there’s my second weakness. If I won’t be able to put anything into my mind, I will, I hope, be able to put stuff in my mouth. I mean food and wine. The other afternoon, I spent a delightful time pouring over the wine racks at Marczyk’s to select wine from Argentina, France, California and Spain. Another favorite is the Savory Spice Shop where I love to walk into and just breathe in all the aromas. And Saturday mornings in the summer will always find me wandering through the farmers market gawking at all the good food to bring home and cook up and eat. I usually buy too much but not half of what I’d like to buy.

So, I do like to go shopping after all—but I rarely admit it.
© Denver, 2014

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.

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Wisdom – A Recipe by Betsy

1/2 cup fresh information
1 lb. knowledge
3 quarts experience
1T time
1T sage
pinch of spice
Mull information until clear.  Add time and sage. In a large pot simmer the
3 quarts of experience for several minutes, then add the knowledge. When the
knowledge is well blended with the experience stir in the fresh, mulled,
clarified information.  Continue
simmering for a long, long, time, stirring slowly and constantly to keep the
mixture from curdling. 
Allow ingredients to blend for a
few years before serving.  Then, when the
time is right serve with a flair by
adding spice and color to your presentation.

© 22 June 2014 

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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Reframing Reality by Will Stanton

Some years ago, I had a very curious experience with my elderly Aunt Muriel. She never had married and did not socialize very much. The person closest to her was her own Uncle Fred, some years her senior. Muriel was very fond of Fred and deeply felt the loss when he passed away.

Muriel apparently believed in mysticism and séances. Eventually, she thought that she could reconnect with Uncle Fred through a medium at a séance. I tried to dissuade her, telling her that séances are just a scam to take money from the gullible; however, Muriel was convinced that communicating with the dead through a séance was real. So, I reluctantly agreed to take her.

The medium welcomed Muriel and me to her appropriately decorated parlor, colored beads hanging in the doorway and the expected crystal ball in the middle of an old, oaken table. Fortunately, the medium did not ask for more than twenty dollars.

The lights were turned low, and the session began with the medium connecting with her usual spirits and imploring them to contact Muriel’s departed Uncle Fred. I was startled when a man’s, distant and wavering voice answered. Muriel’s head straightened, and she appeared to be excited. I, on the other hand, quickly guessed that the medium had strategically placed some small speakers around the room.

Then Muriel eagerly spoke up. “Uncle Fred! Uncle Fred! It’s so good to hear your voice again. Oh, please tell me, what’s it like on the other side?”

The man’s dreamy voice responded, “Oh, it is so beautiful and peaceful. When I awake in the morning, I am blessed with the sun shining warm on my face and the sound of songbirds singing. I am not obligated to be up right away or to go anywhere. I can relax as long as I like. When I feel like it, I can take as much time as I like having something to eat. During the day, I can take a leisurely stroll through the woods, listening to the breeze in the trees, enjoying the flowers, and watching the butterflies flitting from blossom to blossom. And in the evening, I enjoy just relaxing and watching the sunset.”

Thrilled, Muriel exclaimed, “Oh Fred, I had no idea that heaven was like that.”

After a moment of silence, Fred responded, “What do you mean ‘heaven?’ – – I’m a moose in Minnesota!”

© 9 June 2014
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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Favorite Literary Character by Ricky

At my age it is not surprising that I have a lifetime of literary characters to choose from to become my favorite. I have never before thought of which character was my favorite so the mental process of searching memories and titles should have taken quite a while. Fortunately, it did not take too long at all.

In my writings for this our Telling Your Story (TYS) group and in conversations with group members, I have often mentioned that my personality, psychological makeup, and emotions, are those of a 12-year old but with an adult body. That is to say, I feel and act not like a grown up but a not matured adolescent. Those of you who know me well enough through personal interaction or through my writings posted on my blog or the TYS blog could be presuming that my favorite literary character is — Peter Pan. I most likely contributed to that impression by my behavior and speech. In that presumption or educated guess, you would be wrong.

While the fantasy fictional character in the Disney animated version of the story Peter Pan has truly influenced, and even impacted my life to a very large extent, Peter is not my favorite character. Yes, he does have adventures with pirates, has fun with other boys, sparked my imagination as well as millions of other children, but in the end he is pure fantasy—no boy can stop growing up or fly with pixie dust in our world. Besides, I like the original version of Peter as written by the author, James Barrie. The original Peter was more realistic; he had undesirable character traits, even a “dark” side. He was more like me than the angle face portrayed by the Disney animated feature. Believe it or not, I can tell the difference between fantasy and reality or more to the point, between fantasy and a character who actually could have or does exist in some form or another.

My favorite literary character is a free spirited, quick-thinking, rapscallion prone to adventures, loyal to his friends, struggling with the morality of laws that enslave people, and willing to risk everything to do what he believes is right. In many respects he and I are quite similar but unlike Peter Pan, he actually could have lived in the time period specified and done the things attributed to him. It is easy for me to identify with his personality and almost become him as the story progresses. His name? Huckleberry Finn.

© 16 March 2014

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