Month: October 2015

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Bumper Stickers, by Gillian

Bumper stickers,
to me, are a kind of precursor of Facebook. I don’t partake in Facebook because
my miserably puny ego cannot begin to imagine there is one person out there in
cyberspace, let alone millions, remotely interested in what I did yesterday or what
I think of today, or what I think of anything. Similarly, I assume that the
people in the car behind me have little interest in who I voted, or plan to
vote, for. Neither do they care that I want to free Tibet or Texas, am ALREADY
AGAINST THE NEXT WAR or that my daughter is an honor student at Dingledum High.
It strikes me as a
very strange, and I think almost uniquely American, need; this urge we seem to
have to tell everyone around us such facts about ourselves. It’s only, what,
three generations ago at the most, that no-one would dream of telling anyone
how they voted – even if someone asked, which of course no one would. Now we
apparently feel compelled to scream it to all those complete strangers who
chance to glance at our car. I’m no psychologist but surely it must be all
about ego? My candidate is better than yours. My causes are greater than yours.
I am right and so, if you think differently, you are wrong. I’m a better parent
than you, see, with my honor student daughter and my son who plays football for
the Dingledum Dummies. And I proudly display a Dingledum University sticker,
managing to imply even higher levels of success. I even have a better dog than
you, as I proclaim BULLDOGS ARE THE BEST BREED.
Sadly, these
things have now gone beyond simple proclamations. They are frequently
derogatory, angry, and confrontational. That poor Honor Student particularly
seems to attract attention, as in MY KID CAN BEAT UP YOUR HONOR STUDENT, or MY
SON IS FIGHTING FOR THE FREEDOM OF YOUR HONOR STUDENT. No longer content with
advertising how we vote, or don’t, we now have to add a comment. VOTE DEMOCRAT.
IT’S EASIER THAN WORKING or VOTE REPUBLICAN FOR GOD, GUNS AND GUTS.
In our gun-crazy,
polarized, society, I am constantly surprised that those kind of bumper
stickers don’t engender more violence, and also those commanding that you HONK
YOUR HORN IF YOU’VE FOUND JESUS, HONK IF YOU HATE OBAMA or HONK YOUR HORN IF
YOU SUPPORT GUN CONTROL, the latter a clear invitation to be shot, if you ask
me. Al Capone supposedly said that an armed society is a polite society but
that doesn’t seem to hold for bumper stickers!
Some stickers, I
have to say, are creative and funny. There’s little that cheers me up faster
when I’m stuck in a traffic jam, than a good laugh at the bumper sticker in
front of me. A WOMAN NEEDS A MAN LIKE A FISH NEEDS A BICYCLE is one of my
favorites, along with TV IS GOODER THAN BOOKS and INVEST IN YOUR COUNTRY – BUY
A CONGRESSMAN, and one most of us can relate to, INSIDE EVERY OLD PERSON
IS A YOUNG PERSON WONDERING WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED.
I confess I have
not always been totally immune to bumper sticker appeal. My car sported a U.S.
NAVY sticker when my oldest stepson signed up, to be joined by U.S. MARINES
SEMPER FI when my youngest went that direction. But that was simply to show my
support to my stepsons, not to anyone else. Which of course is probably, in
large part, the justification for all those honor student stickers. I only once
succumbed to the political cause sticker, and that was in 1992 when I felt
strongly enough about it to post VOTE NO ON AMENDMENT 2 on my bumper.
As I waited at a
stop sign in Denver one day, another car pulled up close behind and a man with
a tire iron in his fist jumped out. He ran at my car, yelling queer abuse, and
brought the iron bar down just as the traffic cleared and I was able to gun the
car forward. The blow broke the rear side window and I sped into the nearby
King Soopers parking lot where I knew there would at least be a security guard.
But the crazy guy didn’t follow, and that was the end of the incident.
And, call me
coward if you like, it was also the end of my brief involvement with bumper
stickers.
© 5 Jan 2015 
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 28 years.
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Depravity, by Will Stanton

[Public Figures]

Herman “999” Cain
Coach Jerry Sandusky
Sheriff Pat Sullivan
Former House Majority Leader Newt Gingrich
Former House Majority Leader Dennis Hastert
Gov. Mark Sanford
Senator John Ensign
Rep. Mark Folly
Rep. John Gibbons
Rep. Don Sherwood
Congressman Anthony Weiner
Senator Larry Craig
Wisconsin State Senator Randy Hopper
CA State Senator Roy Ashburn
Mit Romney aid Matthew Elliott
Florida State Rep. Bob Allen
Prosecutor John Atchison
Judge Ronald Kline
S. Dakota Rep. Ted Klaudt
PA Congressman Joseph McDade
Christian Coalition Chairman Louis Beres
Anti-John-Kerry ad producer Carey Cramer
Christian Conservative Activist Jeff Nielson
NY Committee Chairman Jeff
Patti

FL Rep. and Chairman of John
McCain’s Presidential campaign Bob Allen.
Party Chairman Jim Stelling
Whitehouse religious adviser Ted Haggard
Mayor John Gossack
Mayor Jeff Randall
National Chairman of the Young Republicans Glenn Murphy Jr.
Focus on the Family’s Physician Resource
Council and Bush appointee — W. David Hager
And certainly NOT last or least,
Neal Horsley who (among other things, has called for the arrest and imprisonment
of all homosexuals) admitted in an interview with Alan Colmes on the Fox News
Radio to having engaged in sex with a mule. 
He said, “When you grow up on a farm in Georgia, your first girlfriend
is a mule.” He then credited Jesus with forgiving him and cleansing him of his
“sin.”  
Incidentally, one of the people
named above is a Democrat.
© 9 Sep 2012 
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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Being Gay Is …, by Ricky

Being gay is a many
splintered thing. A gay person faces many splinters during their lifetime.  If these splinters are not removed and the
wounds treated properly, the splinters will remain under the skin working their
way deeper and deeper into a person’s psyche infecting the brain with festering
and toxic mental traumas.
One such trauma is the lack
of knowledge resulting in confusion as to why one feels “different” from other
boys while growing up; resulting in making interpersonal mistakes at a young
age and becoming labeled, shunned, isolated, or assaulted. These negative
experiences last for years or a lifetime if not diagnosed and treated.
Since the seeds of a happy
life are sown from the moment we are born, traumatic splinters must be removed
as soon as discovered lest their toxicity prevents the seeds of happiness from
growing and propagating.
In America, gay orientation
is slowly being tolerated on the way to becoming acceptable to the heterosexual
culture.  I anticipate that today’s gay
youth may have fewer splinters in their lives and may live to see a time when
gay boys and girls can become complete and mentally undamaged or traumatized
by toxic attitudes towards them.
© 29 September 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 was sent to live 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 9-11-2001
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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Tat, by Phillip Hoyle

I
had proven myself the occasional social drinker and social smoker, but there
was to be more. I became a social tattoo wearer. Not the temporary tattoos, not
henna patterns from the subcontinent, not painted designs like kids wear at festivals.
No, I got a tattoo, a permanent crescent moon with its old man looking
thoughtfully on my life: its constancy, its changes, and its crises; a July
blue moon that arose that summer night twelve years ago and still shines on my
left calf.
My
tat caught the attention of the security guard at the Denver Public Library the
other day. He asked if it had any particular meaning. I said it didn’t, but
went on to tell him about the crazy choir member from Tulsa who, when I was
planning to move to Denver, said she was coming out soon to visit her daughter
at CU Boulder and we were going to get tattoos. “Oh we are?” I asked. “Yes,”
she affirmed, “and I’ll have my daughter call you with the name and number of
the guy her friends have been going to get their tattoos.”
I
moved here, got the information, called the artist, set the appointments, and
thought: what would I indelibly mark my body with? I had already decided I’d
get my ears pierced; I could always remove the posts or hoops, but a tattoo
seemed different. What design was I willing to sport around town for the rest
of my life? I chose a crescent moon, and when the artist asked what kind of
expression I wanted the man in the moon to have, I quickly responded,
“Thoughtful.”
So
the moon has been looking on, watching my life with its important changes from
married to single to partnered, from minister to masseur, from kind of straight
to kind of gay. He’s watched my continuing generous style, and my life’s
plentiful crises over finances, relationships, and losses.
I
got my moon. My friend got a ladybug on her ankle. A few months later I
arranged for more tattoos for her and her husband but declined to add more to
my body. I’ve grown so used to my moon that am surprised when someone asks
about it. My man in the moon smiles thoughtfully as if to provide me a sense of
calm, determination, and love, all three feelings I inject into all my social
relationships whether drinking, smoking, or otherwise fitting in.
© 17 Sep 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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My Earliest Queer Memory, by Pat Gourley

This is more difficult to
write on than I at first thought it would be. I believe the realization that I
was different or as Harry Hay was fond of saying “other” was a gradual process
with many little steps and discoveries along the way. This process of
realization long preceded my actual coming out which I define largely as an
internal acceptance and certainly not an initial sexual act. Again paraphrasing
Hay it took years to realize that the only thing I did have in common with
straight people was what I did in bed.
I think this is true of
queer awakening in general in that it rarely initially involves the sexual but
rather a profound and deeply real sense that we are not like our peers in some
fundamental way.  This may take the form
of what society would call gender nonconformity perhaps in dress, actions,
mannerisms and speech but again I think it can be even less blatant and more
elusive than that.  These expressions
despite their honest innocence are often met with quick and at times harsh
rebuke. For me personally it took the forms of loving to cook and garden and
when we did play cowboys and Indians I always insisted on being Crazy Horse or
Cochise, an interesting twist on being “other”.
Oh and of course there
were those times when we played school and I was always the nun.  Prancing around with a couple bath towels
serving as a shawl and headgear for a makeshift nun’s habit. This was behavior that
should have been a siren-like clue to somebody that this little kid was not
fitting into the norm.
My first sexual encounter
with another man was a spectacular bit of mutual masturbation that took place
in the biology lab of my Catholic High School with a wonderful man 20 years my
senior in the spring of 1967. This was though preceded by years of many little
messages some subtle and some others not so subtle that hey I wasn’t like a lot
of other little boys. I date my real coming out though to almost a decade
later. The Gay Community Center of Colorado and the LGBT folks I met there
playing a very significant role in cementing my comfort with my queer identity.
For years I was
fascinated and aroused especially by older men and any snippet of their naked
physiques I could spot and believe me I went out of my way to catch a glimpse
whenever I could.  My dad’s beautiful naked
ass being on rare occasions a wonderful source of inspiration! I was in some
ways sheltered from blatant homophobia in the form of overt harassment because
of my fey nature in part by the all-encompassing cocoon of Catholicism that
totally enveloped my life at home and at school. Something that I really only
broke free of when I went off to college in the fall of 1967.
Though I have no doubt I
was exhibiting less than desirable “little boy” qualities from an early age it
wasn’t until about the 4th grade that I started to respond ever so
indirectly to little cues that this could be a bumpy ride. In hindsight it all
proved pretty smooth from about 1960 until the full Monty so to speak that was
my life by the mid-1970’s. I attribute my coming out being relatively smooth
with little drama , even though it took about a decade and a half, to wonderful
parents and a host of older teachers and mentors along the way that were
accepting and even celebrating of difference and not of course only in the
queer arena.
Queer awakening is rich
with possibilities for growth that are unique to us as a people.  If we make it through this process alive, and
most of us do, we come out the other side so often strong and vibrant
individuals. Despite gains in the areas of marriage equality and military
access the coming out process for most remains initially a unique character
building solo-process with still very few societal supports and unfortunately
to this day many very negative messages. These admonitions to shun the “other”
may not be as blatant and intense as in the past but they still remain and are
quite daunting for little queer folk.
Again it is amazing how
many of us make it through to the other side stronger than ever. And this is
why continued support of community-based organizations that programmatically facilitate
the coming out process remains paramount in moving the gay agenda forward. This
Story Telling Group comes quickly to mind as one such effort.
© 17 Jul 2015 
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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When Things Don’t Work, by Gillian

Throughout human
time, I believe, there has been a certain protocol to be followed when things
don’t work. You change them, stop using them, or eliminate them. This is more
or less the pattern today. But we seem to have added a little something. We
apply the same rules to things or procedures or systems which do work!
A prime case in
point would be computer programs. I struggle for months to master how to use,
say, hypothetical programs photomax, to share my photographs on line, or
readywrite for my weekly story-writings. I don’t find either of them
particularly user-friendly, but then, at my age new cyber-tricks do not settle
instantly in my brain. I can guarantee, the moment I become fairly comfortable
with them, I shall receive notice of the dreaded upgrades. I dither. I do not
want to install the bloody upgrades because then I shall return to the bottom
of the learning curve. But if I don’t, I run the risk of the whole thing
becoming so down-level that it slowly bogs down in computer mire. Timidly, I
click on ignore. The screen is instantly filled with flashing WARNING signs. If you do not install this
upgrade, oversized, over-excited words threaten me, you will no longer be able
to use readywrite 4-1. Meanwhile photomax is telling me that unless I download
their upgrade my system will lose security integrity. But why is it, that in
order to upgrade security, they also change every little thing about how it works?
When I pressed *4, this used to happen. Now, nothing happens. But if I hit
command S, which used to sort my photos, the screen now goes blank. Oh, I see.
It transferred everything to the trash. Why oh why, I moan, do they always have
to fix things when they ain’t broke? It worked perfectly. I had learned
to love it. Now I hate it all over again!
The real-world
equivalent of cyber-upgrades would be the similarly dreaded new and improved.
That phrase can generate panic attacks. Oh no! That means it will no longer
work for me. That blouse I have bought three of over the last couple of years
will now be too tight and have sleeves that end, as modern female fashion seems
to dictate, four inches below my fingertips. My favorite shoes, now new and
improved, are suddenly only available in strangely psychedelic colors. A
few years ago they “improved” many of my favorite deli and restaurant
dishes by loading them up with pico de gallo; a flavor I really do not
appreciate. When a new and improved bus schedule comes along, you can
bet it provides a diminished service.
Often appearing in
tandem with new and improved is the worst one of all; for your
convenience. Any time you are greeted with that one, you know things are
about to become very inconvenient indeed. For your convenience,
with that new and improved schedule, the bus will no longer run after
6.oo p.m. and will no longer stop at Union Station. For your convenience the
parking lot will be closed for two weeks in July. This, of course, in order to
provide new and improved parking spaces. A few weeks ago King Soopers
reorganized it’s stores for, of course, our convenience, so that now no-one can
find anything. I think my favorite to date is a sign posted recently on a bank
door; for your convenience this branch will no longer be open on
Saturday morning. Really! Where are these people’s heads? Do they believe that
simply saying it makes it so? 
Maybe we should
give it a try!?
There are, happily,
many of us in our Monday story-time group these days, so I’m trying to keep my
offerings pretty short. But my future new and improved stories will be a
minimum of 10,000 words. For your convenience.
© 8 Dec 2014 
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 28 years.
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To Peggy, My Horse, by EyM

Moments
away in your humble little barn filled me deeply.  I savored the rich natural smells, and loved
so well your big deep brown eyes, 
and  the warm air from your soft
nostrils.  So carefully you moved your
big puffy lips to take my gifts.  These
were moments precious and forever true.
Never
was there a brown so lovely as your hair. 
Never was there a cologne so soothing as your smell.  Never was a flower’s aroma any sweeter than
the hay where we communed.  I believe my
visits were deep in your heart too.  You
were my get away, my comforter.
I
loved to climb on your back and hug you as you lay on the ground.  You made me laugh as you got up so smoothly
that I could hang on and go up with you. 
Looking back now, you always took me to the barn.  I suppose you knew I’d give you some grain
and my little hand full of hay. 
When
we saddled up and traveled from there, someone else was with us and talk took
over.  I trusted you and reveled in those
rides.  But the times alone with you at
your hay window were more special.  Those
were the secret healing heart times. 
Thank you Peggy.  I think you
understood that I needed you.
© 28 Sep 2015 
About the Author 
A native of Colorado, she followed her Dad to
the work bench to develop a love of using tools, building things and solving
problems. Her Mother supported her talents in the arts. She sang her first solo
at age 8. Childhood memories include playing cowboy with a real horse in the
great outdoors. Professional involvements have included music, teaching, human
services, and being a helper and handy woman. Her writing reflects her sixties
identity and a noted fascination with nature, people and human causes. For
Eydie, life is deep and joyous, ever challenging and so much fun.
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Doors, by Betsy

Ten years ago I was on the trip of a lifetime. This was not
my dream trip. That is, it was not a trip I had dreamed of going on all my
life. As I was approaching retirement several years earlier, I had dreamed of
hiking the Colorado Trail. After all, I had helped build the trail as a
volunteer on a couple of occasions when I had vacation time from work or a long
weekend. Unfortunately I never could realize the trek of my dreams because of a
condition in my spine which was causing pain when I was on my feet for long
periods of time. The Colorado Trail Trek door was closed.
So one day I decided instead to take a cycling trip. The “Bike
Trip Directors” website opened that door. It lead me to a group called Woman
tours. Perfect, I thought.  The door to
cycling had opened when I started participating in the MS 150 fund raising
event years earlier. Now I wanted a trip that would take me to other places and
for a longer stretch of time. Woman tours offered trips all over the U.S. and
some in Europe and Asia. A simple trip in the U.S. was what I was looking for.
This would open the door to something even bigger in the future maybe. 
So I laid the information and the maps out on the living
room floor and called to my partner Gill to take a look with me. “Oh this
week-long trip in the Mississippi Valley looks good. Or how ‘bout this one: 10
days on the Maryland coast, or the California coast.” So much to choose from.
Gill is just shaking her head. “Look at this. Pacific to Atlantic two months
across the southern tier of the U.S.”  “Well,
yeah,” said I. “But I’m
not ready for that. I need to take shorter trips first.”  Sometimes it takes someone who knows you very
well–a loved one–to bring you down to Earth–to reality.  Her words were so true: “My Darling, you will
be 70 years old this year. I think you need to do this cross-country trip NOW.”
The door thus opened to my trip of a lifetime, pedaling
from San Diego, California to St. Augustine, Florida.  Sixteen women over 55 cycling for 58 days
through 7 states averaging 70 miles per day. We would have one day off per week
for rest and laundry. Pay up front and your food and lodging is covered for the
entire trip except for days off.
Our group of cyclists from this adventure has had a reunion
every year except for one. This year we will celebrate our tenth anniversary in
September near Cape Cod. Our friendships have grown over the years. The cycling
trip opened the door to many more cycling trips as well as the friendships
created on that trip.  Happily Gill is included
in the group even though she did not cycle. When I chose to do this trip, she
told me she would drop me off in San Diego and pick me up in St. Augustine. I
should have known. There was no way she was going to miss out.  Drop me off and then drive home. No way! She
never intended to do that. She followed us in the van and gave unofficial SAG
support the entire way. Oh, she would disappear for a day or two on a side trip
to some interesting site. But she always showed up again especially when needed;
such as, the day we ran out of water and could find no source nor was there any
sign of Bo-Peep, our official SAG. Or the day we were freezing cold from the
rain.
I have just recently completed transcribing my journal from
this trip which I dictated at the end of each day of riding. Here is a short
excerpt from 10 years ago almost to the day.
May10 Live Oak to High
Springs, Fla. Day 55

Last night we were in
Live Oak and I didn’t get a chance to record. We had a 100 mile ride yesterday
and it was quite amazing. I really didn’t feel very tired from it. It was a
beautiful ride. We have had lovely rides in Florida and we have been lucky in
that we haven’t
had much rain. Today we had one of the best rides of all.  We stopped about 20 miles outside of the town
of High Springs at High Springs State Park. We went into the park to one of the
springs and all went swimming. Great fun! It was a welcome break. It was only a
58 mile ride so we had plenty of time to enjoy the cool water.
We are at the Cadillac–a
50’s motel. Gill has
been quite active with the group the last few days sagging and helping the Kiwi’s with their filming. She’s enjoying that a great deal except she
will be camping in the parking lot again tonight.
I can sense some strong
feelings among the group about the tour coming to an end. Since there are just
two days left.  Etc.
May 13 St. Augustine Day
58
Yesterday was our
triumphal entry into St. Augustine. We met at the fire station after an easy
ride from Palatka. We were escorted by two police cars and a motor cycle,
sirens blaring. We dunked our tires into the Atlantic, true to tradition, then
we all ran gleefully into the surf holding hands and screaming making quite a
spectacle of ourselves. We played in the water and hung out on the beach for a
while. Some family and friends were there with flowers and greetings of all
kinds and it was a grand celebration.
I was quite emotional as
we rode ceremoniously into St. Augustine. It was an honor to be leading the
group along with Mary and Glenna as the oldest members. I was quite proud to be
one of the six who pedaled every mile with no sagging. A lot of that is luck.
 A group picnic followed by teary goodbye’s ended the day. Many would be on their
way home before breakfast tomorrow. Gill and I decided to stay for a couple
more days.
I am having trouble
focusing today since I am so used to focusing on push my pedals every day. I’m sure I will adjust to normal life
quickly.
The fact that we have
just pedaled across the country 3165 miles has not yet fully registered in my
head. I expect it will sink in at some point or maybe not. It’s a bit overwhelming. No question about it
. It was the trip of a lifetime and a most extraordinary experience with a most
extraordinary group of people.
There is no doubt in my mind. A door was closed to me when
I developed a condition in my spine. But, I believe when one door closes
another one opens up. When the hiking door closed the biking door opened. That’s why I love revolving doors.
©  27 May 2015 
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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Acting, by Will Stanton

The word “acting” first brings
to mind theater acting or perhaps movie acting. 
I, however, briefly considered delving into a deeper subject.  I always have been fascinated with human
minds, and I have been aware that people often put on acts in front of others
throughout their daily lives.  William Shakespeare wrote, “All the world’s a stage, and all
the men and women merely players.”
The degree of acting varies
greatly from person to person depending upon his perceived situational needs
and depending upon his own nature.  I,
for example, don’t care to engage in artifice; I’d rather be just who I
am.  Acting takes too much effort, and
perhaps I’m just too simple-minded to be clever at it.  Others, however, are like chameleons, saying
and doing anything and everything they deem necessary to attract and influence
other people.  An extreme example of that
is the last three (especially Republican) presidential primaries.  Many people enthusiastically succumb to such
manipulation, but I am repulsed by it. 
So, rather than my being
repulsed and spending time talking about the vagaries of human nature, I’ll
return to the more enjoyable subject of theater acting.  Here are a few snippets of theater
occurrences from my early days.
My first experience being in a
play was at age seven.  My elementary
school was run by the local university, which provided student teachers with an
opportunity to practice by assisting the regular teachers.  One young lady wrote “The Marshmallow
Mushroom.”  I was an elf name
“Muffin.”  I was a very competent
elf.  I enjoyed the experience and still
have the script secreted somewhere with all my keepsakes.
Two years later, the
university was celebrating the sesquicentennial of its founding, and they had
commissioned Alan Smart to write an historical play called “The Green
Adventure.”  I played a pioneer lad.  Ever since that time, I never have looked at
the script, but I have that one, too.
Of course, I participated in
the infamous genre of high-school plays. 
The usual botches and glitches occurred in all of them: forgotten lines,
mixed-up scenes, stiff acting.  I was
sufficiently unimpressed with our productions to remember them today.
I’ll never forget, however,
what happened to my oldest brother.  That
class put on the famous “Annie Get Your Gun.” 
My brother was cast as Buffalo Bill. 
The problem was the audience never did figure out who he was.  That is because the lead actor totally forgot
his first-act lines and kept repeating the lines from the end of the second act
to the point where the rest of actors just went ahead and skipped half the
play.  So by the time my brother wandered
onto the stage wearing a cowboy hat and a quizzical grin, no one knew who he
was.  That role did not lead my brother
to a career in Hollywood.
At the same time, the girl
destined to become my brother’s wife was participating in a high-school play in
Katonah, New York. They were performing “Arsenic and Old Lace.” As you recall, the
loony brother who thought he was Teddy Roosevelt always assumed the responsibility
of taking the supposed “victims of yellow fever” to the basement to be
buried.  The stage was built three feet
above the main floor of the auditorium, and a trap door provided access to the
space beneath.  The play director
decided, having no stairway to a basement that the trap door would suffice as
the apparent entrance to the basement. 
Of course, when “Teddy” dumped his victims down into the basement, they
had learned to bend their knees to simulate descending into a deep
basement.  During the first act, the trap
door was covered with a carpet.  The
problem was that, during the first act, the carpet was there, but someone had
forgotten to replace the trap-door cover. 
So in the midst of the first act, an unsuspecting student-actor walked
across the carpet and immediately slowly sank three feet down into the floor
where he remained standing, torso and head above the floor, and wearing a very
surprised expression.  Fortunately the
play is meant to be a comedy, however, the howls of laughter from the audience
came at an unexpected time.
I tried participating in just
one play as a college freshman.  The
theater department had a good national reputation, so I thought that I would
see what it was like.  I played the
servant “Mishka” in “The Inspector General.” 
I don’t recall seeing any mention of me in any newspaper rave
reviews.  Apparently, I didn’t have the
immediately recognizable attributes of stunning stature, handsome looks, and
captivating voice to merit much attention.  The young stud who starred in “The Fantasticks”
was a corn-fed Kansas boy whose natural talent and good looks guaranteed the
role, even without any prior experience. 
Apparently, I was destined to play character roles such as servants,
extras, or just one of the elves.
There is one charming play
that I sentimentally recall.  Although I
never had the pleasure to be in it, I saw a wonderful production of it by my
university theater department and, later when I arrived in Denver, by the young
students at Arapahoe Community College. 
The play was “Dark of the Moon,” a folk-play about simple back-woods
people living in the Smokey Mountains. 
Although the theme and setting may seem too antiquated for these modern
times, it was remarkably popular for many years from the 1940s through the
1970s, so much so that up-and-coming actors such as Paul Newman eagerly wished
to be part of the play. 
The story in a “nutshell” was
that “John Boy” fell in love with “Barbary Allen,” a beautiful girl previously
never seen in those hills.  It turns out
that she is a witch-girl with no soul and who lives three hundred years, after
which she turns into Smokey-Mountain mist. 
Of course, the story has love, rivalry, and tragedy.  There also were occasional scenes at the
general store with the old folks sitting around the pot-bellied stove with
their musical instruments and singing Appalachian ballads that coincided with
the story.  I became so fond of the story
that I bought the script to read, twice, once because I loaned a copy to a
friend who failed to return it. 
Now that I have reached my
dotage, I recall “Dark of the Moon” with sardonic humor.  That is because I recall the youngsters of
Arapahoe Community College doing their best to imitate the elderly, they
themselves never having experienced the stiffness, pain, and other afflictions
of old age.  They did their best, but
somehow, they just did not look convincingly old.  And, I don’t think that additional experience
acting would have made any difference.
© 2 Aug 2012 
About the Author 
I also realize that, although my own life has
not brought me I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life
stories.  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.
Posted on

Believe It or Not, This Really Happened to Me, by Ricky

In the spring of 1969, I was
in the Air Force and stationed at Hurlburt Field near Ft. Walton Beach in the
western panhandle of Florida.  One day I
was alone driving north along a road which was basically the top of a mile long
levy which was dividing a swamp to the west from farm land on the east.  The road/levy was approximately 10-feet above
the level of the swamp to my right.
I saw, about ½ mile ahead of
me and traveling in the same direction, two boys riding on one bicycle rather
unsteadily.  I was driving at the speed
limit of 55mph.  In the distance way
beyond the boys, I could see a school bus driving south coming towards us.
Suddenly, I heard a voice in
my head telling me to “slow down”.  I was
surprised because I know what my thoughts sound like and this “voice” was not
mine.  When I did not respond as directed
due to my surprise, the “voice” spoke again saying for forcibly, “Slow down!
Those boys are going to fall in front of you.” 
I immediately took my foot off the gas pedal and the car began to slow.
Sure enough, when I was
about 40 yards away, the bicycle hit some kind of object near the edge of the
road and the boys fell off the bike right in front of me.  As luck would have it, the school bus also
arrived going the speed limit.  I was now
going slowly enough that I was able to stop in plenty of time.  If I had not received the warning or heeded
it, I would have had three choices.  Run
over the fallen boys, swerve to the left and hit the school bus head on, or
swerve to the right going off the levy into the swamp.
I got out and made sure the
boys were okay.  I then had one boy ride
in my car while the other one rode his bicycle to the end of the levy where the
boys would turn onto a side street to their destination.  I followed behind the bicycle so no other car
would hit him, if he fell again.  At the
end of the levy, both boys thanked me and rode off to their destination.
I have not heard any “voices”
since that time on the levy.
© 6 October 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 was sent to live 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 9-11-2001
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.