Teachers, by Phillip Hoyle

Teachers: I’ve had a lot of them. Some I recall for their
names, others for their engaging communications, still others for the lack of
impact they made on me. From grade school I recall Miss Weenes whom we second
graders called Miss Weenie, although not in class, and Mrs. Schaffer who read
“Treasure Island” to us, my first novel; there were others whose names escape
me, but I do recall the woman who taught us cursive writing in fifth grade leaving
me with a rather readable hand and the rather effeminate man who taught music
in fourth and fifth grades introducing us to Bizet’s “Carmen.” From junior high
I recall Mr. Moon who at the board always pointed with his middle finger and
who told memorable stories about science, Miss Oliver who taught Latin not only
to me but to my older sisters and to my mother, the effective algebra teacher who
also taught my mom and started geraniums in the windows of her classroom, and
Miss Costello who sent home a mustard plaster recipe when too many students got
colds. From high school I remember Mr. Martin the choir director, Mr. Snodgrass
the band director, Miss Perkins the Latin teacher and drama coach, and Mr. Unruh
the football coach and government teacher. In college, I remember Dr. Van Buren,
President Lown, Mr. Secrest, and Professor Jamie Morgan; in graduate school,
Mrs. Kiesgen and Dr. Lee; in seminary Dr. Duke, Dr. Routt, Dr. Hoehn, and Dr.
Rowell. But that’s only the beginning of the list. I also had music teachers in
piano and voice studios, art teachers at the Oklahoma Art Workshops, leaders of
numerous seminars and workshops at hotels and conference centers, and informal
mentors whose revelations and advice paved the way for a rich life of learning,
work, and enjoyment. Trying to list all my teachers indicates I learned many
things from many different instructors over a long life. I owe a lot to these
people.
Mother taught us kids to respect our teachers although she
well knew they had feet of clay. She supported them through her tireless work
in the PTA but also challenged them when their behavior overstepped their role
of teacher and nurturer of young people. So when I heard harangues from the
pulpit that some faithless people scandalously thought of Jesus as only a
teacher, I felt unsettled. Mom taught us that being a teacher was one of the
very best occupations anyone could pursue. Of course, those preachers were
defending the orthodox doctrine of the divinity of Christ. I was not concerned with
orthodoxy and thought if Jesus back then or as a spiritual presence could teach
anyone, he could be my teacher as well and earn my deepest respect. Like Mom, I
liked my teachers. Two, though, stand out as the most influential: the first
for inspiration, the second for technique.
I knew Dr. James Van Buren by reputation long before I got
to school and took his demanding class, “Survey of Biblical Literature.” After
that there were other classes in biblical studies, philosophy, theology, sociology,
and literature. Studying in a small college, I got to make a rather thorough
study of this professor who was both the hardest one to get good grades from
and the one who opened worlds of knowledge most widely. I can say confidently
that Dr. Van taught me how to run successfully on the liberal edge of
conservatism. By ‘successfully’ I mean not only getting beyond political
hurdles but also doing so while maintaining theological self-respect and
integrity. He taught me to read broadly, to think openly, and to communicate
creatively. For instance, he lectured on Christian humanism, Christian
hedonism, Christian stoicism, and Christian Epicureanism insisting that
Christian thought was not a complete philosophy in itself but a base from which
one examined and utilized perspectives of the ages. He taught humor as an
essential ingredient in the most serious communications and sex as a broadly
celebrative dynamic of life. In Dr. Van’s approach God as the creator and
approver of creation served as the starting point and essential part of a
healthy approach to life, morality, and ethics. He insisted that creative and
playful thinking stands as a necessary component in one’s life and insisted
religion should never become a wooden legal transaction or set of rigid laws.
He taught an appreciation for beauty through arts, literature, science, and everyday
interactions with fancy and plain people. Poetry, storytelling, drama, and
lively insights transformed theology into a process for living. The arts
pointed to dynamic creativity in the name of the Creator.
This overweight professor rested a little notebook on his
stomach as if it were a lectern. This enthusiastic professor lectured from the
book of Job on the dances of whales in the ocean, leaping about like one of
them himself. This insightful professor opened the way to Shakespeare, Milton, and
Whitman. This scholarly professor had been granted a DD and then earned a PhD
in English Literature, his dissertation an examination of Old Testament Apocryphal
references in John Milton’s poetry. This superlative teacher supported in me my
love for books and libraries and my proclivity toward creative thinking in
matters of education and religion. I continue to think about Dr. Van Buren’s
advice, knowledge, and approach whenever I try to solve problems or speak from
my own heart.
I knew Dr. Karen Bartman years before she was conferred a
doctoral degree in piano pedagogy. She served as the church’s music coordinator
and organist where I worked as associate minister and director of the Chancel
Choir. We made music together for several years before I studied in her piano
studio. I recall this teacher for both her pianistic and pedagogical techniques—carried
out with consistency, musical depth, and always the encouragement to keep
making beautiful music. I’ll never know if I could have learned piano technique
at an earlier age, but I did learn it in my late thirties under her tutelage.
When I approached my 40s crisis (a la Goldberg and Sheehe), I became
“angry with the gods of literature” as my friend Gerald put it and went on a yearlong
book fast. I joined Karen’s studio to learn to play piano, knowing I’d have
about three hours a day to practice, time I would not be reading books. I
remained a student in her studio for two and a half years. Since childhood I had
played—my father said banged—the piano but always with great limitation. Gerald
once said I was quite musical but had no technique. After two years of Karen’s
discipline I played a piece for my dad. He declared, “She’s a miracle worker;
you’re not pounding.” Even Gerald seemed impressed at her work and my response,
and Dr. Bartman said what she appreciated about teaching me—an adult—was that I
always played musically.
This physically fit teacher sat at the keyboard with
perfect posture and insisted I do so as well. This enthusiastic teacher with
beautifully strong hands didn’t just give me scales and arpeggios to strengthen
my hands but showed me how to execute them in ways that engaged listening,
phrasing, and trusting that my hands would know where they were on the
keyboard. This insightful teacher showed me how to ground myself at any point
in a phrase, a measure, or a beat giving life to the composition in
performance. This scholarly teacher helped me know Bach, Mozart, Brahms,
Schubert, Schumann, Chopin, Debussy, Mompou, Shostakovich, and Prokofiev in
ways I had never grasped even after extensive graduate study in musical style
analysis. This superlative teacher inspired me to practice with confidence that
I could play effectively and beautifully. Eventually I quit piano instruction
and returned to books and writing. Still, I continued to practice and put to
use my grasp of her technique when I played. From her I learned the value of
technical proficiency. Her consistent teaching encouraged me to continue to
develop as an artist and to bring artistry to bear in all my work.
In summary, Dr. Van Buren taught me to love life and the
arts, Dr. Bartman encouraged me to find consistent techniques for any creative
work I undertook. My life as a learner continues inspired and enabled by these
two great teachers. There have been plenty more teachers, loads of learning,
and lots of creative outcomes that today I celebrate along with this litany of my
teachers’ names.
© 1 Nov 2011 
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 

A Guilty Gift?, by Pat Gourley

In an effort to catch up with
the group topics I am combining “Gifts from Afar” and “Guilty Pleasures”.  I am using the title of this piece “A Guilty
Gift?” as a possible metaphor for my own HIV infection. Please don’t interpret
the use of this metaphor on my part as personal “slut-shaming” since nothing
could be further from the truth. Nor do I for a minute view my HIV infection as
a gift.
I was most certainly infected
in late 1980 or early 1981 and it could have been in the rectory of the
Methodist Church in Aspen Colorado or as likely at the Empire Baths here in
Denver. Either way I suppose that the behavior, most likely with my legs in the
air, that lend to my infection could be viewed as the result of indulgence in a
guilty pleasure.
By 1980 though I had long ago
stopped viewing getting fucked as something to feel guilty about. It had become
one of the true pleasures of my life. It did not start out that way though with
my first bottoming experience being with a cop in Gary Indiana in the summer of
1968. Note to self from that experience: do
not ever use shaving cream again as lube.
This was a very unpleasant
experience that I did feel guilty about for a few years actually. However, in
large part on the basis of my first very positive sexual experiences with a
dear man a few years my senior the previous year (1967) I was able to work
through the guilt in time for my move to Denver in late 1972.  By the mid-1970’s I was a raging homosexual
activist and enjoying the many pleasures of the heady sexual liberation that
came with the blossoming of the emerging LGBT movement back then.
As I have written before I
have often wondered if a mushroom trip one night in the fall of 1979 at the
Empire Baths, that went a bit array, was not a premonition of a much bigger
nightmare to come. Were the gargoyles that adorned the walls of the outdoor pool
at the Empire Bath speaking to me, telling me that night to flee for my life or
announcing the arrival of a “gift from afar”? Maybe both! A gift in the form of
a resilient little virus called HIV.
It is now widely accepted that
HIV in humans originated from a similar virus found in a species of chimpanzees
in western equatorial Africa. This Simian virus was likely transmitted to
hunters infected when butchering these chimps for bush meat and it then mutated
in them into the HIV we know. Why this seems to have blossomed mid-20th
century is still conjecture but one interesting theory is that the European
colonization of parts of Africa forced the native Africans off the more
desirable land for farming and into the jungle areas where hunting bush meat
became a necessary source of protein. That would be one bitchin’ bit of Karma
wouldn’t it?
Hindsight can be a most potent
and effective teacher. The proverbial “if I only knew then what I know now” is
a frequently engaged mental exercise.  However,
we really aren’t psychics so feeling guilty that we are not is a big waste of
time. Living life to its fullest is inherently a risky proposition, and
mistakes will be made.
 I think it is certainly true for many of us with
HIV infection to view this virus as a gift from afar and that it is the direct
result of a guilty pleasure.  That view I
think though comes from very faulty thinking around health and illness, a view
still very prevalent today. The unsound and simplistic view is that being
healthy comes from being good and being sick from being bad. I would remind
everyone that no one gets out alive or as the Grateful Dead so succinctly sang
“if the thunder don’t get ya’, the lightning will”.
It may seem that I am blowing
off the reality that my actions have had consequences. Certainly they have even
if many of those actions were quite pleasurable in the moment and the
consequences a real bite in the ass down the road. I accept total
responsibility for my HIV but I really don’t engage in feeling guilty about it,
certainly not now 30 plus years down the road. I am much more likely to feel
very lucky to be alive today with this infection when so many in my life are
not. Guilt I think can be viewed as a form of regret about something that has
already happened and it is really a bit of toxic self-indulgence.
My main “guilty pleasure” these
days is primarily an addiction to ice cream almost always eaten in the evening
before bed. The “gift” if you will for my persistent indulgence in this
sugar-laden fat bomb several times a week may very well be Type 2 diabetes
eventually.
I was recently stunned by a
comment made by one of the Physician’s Assistants in the Urgent Care Clinic I
work. He had I think probably just seen a diabetic patient with unfortunate symptoms
related to diabetes, a necrotic toe perhaps that would require IV antibiotics
and maybe amputation. His rather forceful statement was:      “These
days I would rather have HIV than diabetes”.
Needless to say this comment
has stuck with me on more than one occasion when I am downing a pint of Ben and
Jerry’s, this shortly after taking my evening HIV meds. Guilty pleasures and
gifts from afar indeed!
© 17 May 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.

Terror, by Gillian

I don’t understand terrorism
or terrorists. I mean, intellectually of course I do. I understand what
psychiatrists say about the factors causing people to become terrorists; but I
can’t get inside their heads. I simply cannot feel what it is they are feeling.
With an estimated minimum of a thousand young people a month from different
parts of the globe currently rushing off to join forces with ISIS, however,
it’s clear that creating terror holds an attraction for a significant number of
people.
Not only am I completely
mystified by that desire, or compulsion, to bring terror to others, but I am
fortunate enough to be able to say that I have never felt true terror myself.
That is not because I am remarkably brave and tough. Neither am I in denial of
some unacknowledged terror. It is simply that I have lived my life in a place
and time that has been terror-free. For me, that is. Not, alas, for everyone.
I can only imagine the utter
terror I would feel, hiding in the bushes in Rwanda, waiting to be discovered
and hacked to pieces by my erstwhile friends and neighbors. Or hiding in a room
in Nazi Germany, waiting to be turned in to the Gestapo by my erstwhile friends
and neighbors. Sadly, the list is endless. I would know what real terror was in
Stalin’s U.S.S.R and Mao’s China: the Cambodia of the Khmer Rouge and on and on
to today’s North Korea and most places in the Middle East.
I say I can only imagine, but
in truth I’m sure I cannot. I have lived so far from the horror of so many
people’s lives that I cannot begin to imagine what it would be like. I
have lived in my own little warm and cosy cocoon, safe and secure. Oh sure,
I’ve been a bit afraid occasionally. For instance, long before the advent of
cellphones, on business in Florida, I got lost in Miami in the dark and pouring
rain and my rental car broke down in a part of town which looked seriously
uninviting. Walking home in Denver one night after dark someone followed me
step for step. When I slowed, the footsteps behind me slowed; they kept pace if
I walked faster. Nothing bad resulted from these minor incidents, and the most
they made me feel was a bit nervous: just a frisson of fear. I’ve had health
issues that made me feel much the same, but that’s nothing approaching terror.
They call it a cancer scare, after all, not a cancer terror, though I’m
equally sure that being diagnosed with some horrific Stage Four cancer would
certainly invoke terror.
The most frightened I have
ever been, I think, were two instances involving airplanes.
One was on a flight from New
York’s La Guardia to London Heathrow. It was at the height of the Falklands
“war,” so it must have been 1982. I was working God knows how many
hours a week at the time and as soon as I settled to watch the movie, which was
Tora Tora Tora, I fell into a deep sleep. Over the mid-Atlantic we hit
some really rough air, and even that didn’t wake me, but a combination of
things suddenly did. We were bouncing around so badly that one of the overhead
bins bust open – it must not have been securely latched – and a hard-sided case
fell out onto the woman directly in front of me. It must have been heavy as
blood started pouring from her head and she began to scream. At precisely the
same moment, a voice from the cockpit announced with regret that the H.M.S.
Sheffield had been sunk with heavy loss of life. Well, you know what it’s like
when you are rudely awakened from a very deep sleep. You lust can’t get your
bearings. I was awash in confusion. My last memories, from the movie, were of
air battles; planes crashing into the ocean. The name Sheffield bothered me
because that’s where I went to College. Were we at war? What was happening? Why
was that woman screaming and bleeding?
Why was the plane pitching and
reeling? Were we going down in the ocean? I’m sure this complete lack of any
grasp on reality was very short-lived, but it seemed like forever and I was
truly scared. But I think I was too confused to be really terrified, and I
realized well enough that I was confused. Had we really been going down, yes,
then I’m sure I would have felt undeniable terror, for real. I think, now, of
those doomed passengers on that flight that went down in Pennsylvania on 9/11,
and more recently the one that wandered off course around the skies for several
hours before, they think, ending up at the bottom of the Indian Ocean; some
terror involved there, I would guess.
The other time was when my
husband of the time was flying us back from California in our little
four-seater plane. There were the two of us and my two youngest step-children.
We had just cleared the Sierra Nevada summit, heading East back to Colorado at
about 8,000 feet in a clear blue sky. Suddenly an invisible hole in the sky
opened up and we fell through it like a rock. My stomach hit the roof. The
clipboard securing the navigation charts, which I always held on my lap, shot
up and the metal clip gouged a big gash under my chin. My step-daughter started
screaming. The hillside was coming up to meet us at a really frightening speed.
The plane stopped falling as suddenly as it had started, and we landed at the
first available spot to make sure there was no damage. There was a crack in one
wing and in the tail, but not enough to stop us flying on home. We later
calculated that we had dropped about 6,000 feet in very few seconds.
And it was scary, but it was
all over before I had time to work up to real terror. Maybe it’s just that my
reactions are too slow!
I had planned to end there,
but you know how these stories go. Sometimes they seem to take on a life of their
own and go off on a tangent you had not planned to take. So we’ll just follow.
Some of you may remember that
several months ago I wrote about my dad, who, lost in a daze of dementia,
created havoc by trying to liven up their electric heater, which was made to
look somewhat like a real fire, by jabbing at it with the old metal poker. 
I was writing this current
story, last week, on a very cold day, around zero outside. Somehow when it’s
that cold, it seems to seep into the house regardless of how you have set the
thermostat.
I was cold. I huddled closer
to the cozily-glowing gas insert fireplace and noticed that there was a
considerable gap between two of the “logs.” No wonder it’s cold in
here
, I thought, and unbidden the next thoughts leapt into my head. I
need to get the poker and rearrange those logs a bit, that’ll warm things up.
Now that truly terrifies me.
© 24 Nov 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 25
years.

Cowgirls Come on Out, by EyM

Roy Rogers exuded cool.
He wore his neck scarf knot to the side. Roy Rogers always impressed Dale
Evans. So naturally when my little 8 year old wanna-be cowboy body and soul
craved to impress a girl, I copied him. Sure enough that scarf sat over my
jugular as I stood there wide-eyed looking into my Mother’s dresser mirror. My
exuberant rendition of a TV ad “Going out on a date in my Rocket V-8!” flew out
of my mouth full blast and full volume. Shame followed long after with
startling fear that I could have been heard. This magical mirrored moment
undeniably marks my early lesbian feelings.

Before that, my Father completely perplexed me when he shamed me at age 6 for asking if my neighbor, a boy, could stay all night and sleep outside with me in the tent. It took years to know just what his problem was. It took even longer to know that it was all his problem.

In first grade, oh how I wanted to impress Susan. I lovingly wired rag strips from the rag drawer to a piece of broomstick I cut just for her. I strutted on my Schwinn to her house to present the wonderful homemade mop. I grasped the bag at the top of the mop head and thrust the stick handle out with great flair. But ugh, only the stick came out.
It’s icky that I still feel embarrassed by the failed mop mistake, and even worse to hold the fear that my Rocket V-8 date song had been heard. How messed up is that? How messed up was the mid 50’s world that dumped so much shame. Obviously, our work is just beginning if even one little cowgirl or cowboy heart feels shame for who they are.
My Dad never really got it. “Don’t hang out in the back of the church with the boys! It just doesn’t look right!” Boys got to be ushers. He didn’t know how much I was one of the boys.
This year, about 60 years later, you cowgirls Barrel Racers took my breath away. Watching you young women fervently running your horses around those barrels was delicious to watch!
That was me as a teen. What a great full circle awakening. Thank you cowgirls. I don’t care how you tie your scarves. You rock! You RIDE! Oh how you ride, right here in my heart.
© 30 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.

Finding Redemption, by Don Johnson

Growing up Mormon is like growing up Jewish; it’s a way of life
as well as a theology.  The way of life includes certain non-negotiable events, including (if you’re male) a mission for the church and marriage and family. 
I served my mission in French-speaking countries from age 19 to 22, married,
and had a family with three children.  In hindsight always at some level
knew I was gay but never came to terms with it until 1979 at the age of 38.
 
After struggling with owning my identity for many years, I
eventually came out to my family, ended my marriage, and left my church.  
I began attending coming out meetings with a group of gay men in
Denver, leading me to participate with a group of them in the first March on
Washington for Gay and Lesbian Rights in 1979.
I had requested excommunication from the Mormon Church, which
procedurally includes a trial.  My trial was scheduled for the morning of
that march.  With the time difference between Washington and Colorado, my
trial ended as the march began, 7 a.m. Boulder time and 9
a.m.Washington time.  
As my friends and I parked and headed toward the assembly point
for the march, I was vividly aware of the time, and as we stepped onto the
mall, I looked at my watch and realized that the trial was over and I was out
of the church.  This was highly emotional for me, and I began to quietly
cry.  
At that very moment I looked up and two men were unfurling a
banner that said “Gay Mormons United.”  The synchronicity felt like an
affirming message from God.  I ran over to the men and blubbered out my
story.  One of the men took me in his arms and held me, and stepping back,
he shook my hand and said, “Congratulations, Welcome home.”  And all the
pieces fell into place.  
The march ended at the Washington Monument, which was open to
the tourists, and for a moment in history, the odds were changed and I was part
of the majority and the straight tourists were the minority.  I realized
that they were intimidated by our presence and were quietly looking at the
ground.  I thought to myself, “I have spent my whole life looking at the
ground.  Never again.”  
Upon returning from the march to the University in Boulder, I
came out to my colleagues at the University and then to my students in my very
large (500 students) Human Sexuality class.  
I had been advised against being public by many people,
particularly regarding the impact it might have on my career and future. 
But from the point of view of personal integrity, it felt as though if I had
not come out to my class, it would have been the equivalent of running a
marathon and not crossing the finish line.  
The public coming out led to both television and newspaper
coverage, which in turn produced a large number of contacts from gay Mormons,
gay married men, and closeted people in general, who for the first time had a
name of someone they could contact.  This process has become one of the
most gratifying experiences of my life.  
As trite as it might sound, I’m still thoroughly convinced that
the single most important political act each of us who is gay or lesbian can do
is to come out in every possible setting.  
In coming out, I lost my traditional church and biological
family and gained an immense new family of choice of gays, lesbians, and
allies.  “I once was lost but now I’m found.”  My redemption came on
the Washington, D.C. mall in 1979.  
© 1 Sep 2015 
About the
Author
 
  

Don was born in Twin Falls, Idaho in 1941.  He grew up in western Idaho outside of Boise.
 He was raised in a Mormon family and
followed that cultural script, including undergraduate and MA degrees at BYU
(Brigham Young University), and a Ph.D. from the University of Minnesota.  He did a mission for the Mormon Church in
French-speaking countries and married and had three children.  He became a psychotherapist at the Counseling
Center at the University of Colorado in the 1970s and came out as a gay man in
1979.  Since his divorce, he has been
involved in national marches on Washington, PFLAG, national speaker on
developmental issues for gay and lesbian youth, Founder and President of
Boulder County AIDS Project, taught human sexuality at the University of
Colorado, and is currently retired and living in Denver.

Details, by Betsy

It takes all kinds to make the
world go ’round. Some come up with the grand schemes and ideas.  Others must find a way to work out the
details and put the schemes and ideas into practice. The devil is in the
details.
Consider the recent election campaign
and what is going on in Washington today. 
The ideas were put out there, affirmed by the people, but now, no one
seems to be able to work out the details to put those ideas into practice.
Clearly differing political ideologies is the reason the details cannot be
worked out, but there is a middle ground to which some are unwilling to travel
unfortunately.
The details end up being more
important than the grand idea.  The
Republicans are proposing to avoid the fiscal cliff and raising government revenues
by closing current tax loopholes. However, they are unwilling to reveal exactly
which loopholes should be closed.  So
they expect the Democratic administration and Democratic Congress members to
accept such a plan which either has no details written in it or those details
are being kept secret?  That, of course,
will never be acceptable.  The details
make all the difference between an economic policy which is good for the country
versus a policy which would be devastating.
Take climate change also, for
example. There are very few people who do not realize or will not admit that
human activity is influencing the warming of our planet.  Many people including some world leaders
propose that just cutting back on the burning of fossil fuels would and should
be a priority, but that idea is not being implemented.  Why? 
The details.  Just how do we cut
back on burning fossil fuels. Where do we start?  It can be done, but no one can work out the
details to the satisfaction and acceptance of all.
The problem is that when the
details are spelled out, it becomes clear that everyone will have to give a
little, bend a bit, be flexible–some more than others.  So it is with tax reform as well.  Is it not better to sacrifice one or two of
the details for the good of the whole? 
After all, if the whole, that is, the planet or one’s source of livelihood whether it be Social
Security, pension, the stock market, bank and corporate profits–if the planet
becomes uninhabitable by humans or the global economy collapses, details become
meaningless.
© 10 Dec 2012 
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.

ABCs of Life, by Will Stanton

Some people appear to sail
through life with fair weather all the way…at least that may appear to be so to
us.  Others of us struggle with the
adversities, challenges, slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.  All in all, life can be terribly
complicated. 
The factors leading to
relative ease or discomfort are many. 
Human nature is significant.  Some
people seem from the get-go to be imbued with great courage and fearlessness.  They blithely charge on without much
consideration and seem the happier for it. 
Others of us are more circumspect, a trait that can be useful but also
can inhibit risk-taking skills, skills that are necessary to begin and to
continue action.
Learning is a second,
significant factor; and much that is learned is from the home and parents.  That’s why it is so important that, when you
are born, pick really great parents, parents who themselves are
self-actualized, mature, stabile, educated, cultured, and (not least of all)
very rich.  Any lessening of these
factors already puts one at a disadvantage. 
Thirdly, one must learn for
oneself, learn from experience, good and bad. 
If one does not learn from his experiences, he is condemned to repeated,
unproductive behaviors and stagnation. 
In learning from life, one
develops coping skills.  That term can
apply to rational, practical skills, but it also can apply to irrational,
impractical behaviors.  The trick is to
differentiate between the two.  Sometimes
it takes a good therapist to figure that out if one has difficulty doing
so. 
Repeating realistic coping
skills can lead to practical, productive behaviors.  If one stops to think about his successful
skills and to verbalize them, they can be described as “The ABCs of Life.”  In my many years of observing human behavior,
I often wonder how many people truly know their ABCs.  The answer to that can be disconcerting if,
for example, one is watching the TV show “Cops” and sees a case of a man and
woman drunk and on drugs beating each other up, the cops being called, the man
shooting at the cops, and then engaging in a high-speed chase with police cars
and helicopters in hot pursuit.
Even the best-educated and
brightest are prone to unproductive behaviors. 
My friend Kathy has an IQ of 160. 
Her mind and her lap-top fingers move ten times as fast as most
people’s.  Some of her time on the web is
in useful pursuit of research information; however, much of her time is wasted
by fruitlessly attempting to engage in intelligent dialogues with people who
have oatmeal for brains and opinions that outrageously defy fact, reality, and
simple, decent empathy for humanity.  The
great cartoonist and wit Ashleigh Brilliant once wrote, “One cannot argue with
ignorance: ignorance won’t listen; and if it did, it would not understand.”  Yet for years, Kathy has driven herself to
distraction attempting, but often failing, to help people see the light.  Fortunately after several thousand attempts,
she is beginning to understand the too-often futility of her efforts. 
As for myself, I always have
regarded myself as a slow learner.  My
nature is always to have felt that the world can be an overwhelming place and
its challenges potentially greater than they actually might be.  Having the ability to stop, observe, and
think can be a two-edged sword.  On one
hand, careful analysis of the world and oneself can be informative and
useful.  By now, I gradually have learned
some of my ABCs, and they have been useful to me.  I wish that I had known them starting a long
time ago. 
On the other hand, too much
time spent just thinking about things can preclude action and
accomplishment.  Centuries ago, a great
Taoist, who was much wiser than I, said the following (in English translation):
“A centipede was happy quite
until a toad, in fun, said, ‘Prey, which foot goes before the other one?’  This threw the centipede into such a pitch
that he lay distracted in a ditch, wondering how to run.”
© 27 Dec 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.

The Dance, by Ricky

          In
the fifth grade of elementary school (1958/59), one winter week on a Monday,
instead of going outside in the cold and snow our teacher, Miss Herbert, had us
stay inside for morning recess.  On that
day and the remainder of the week, we learned to square dance and polka.  It was really fun, except for holding hands
with the girls, which was tolerated as it was necessary for “the dance”.  Nonetheless, we boys would rather have been
outside playing touch football in the snow and slush.  Since we were all bundled up for the
conditions, the “two-hand touch below the waste” rule was usually forgotten in
favor of full-tackle football.
          In
1958/59 South Tahoe only received Channel 8 television out of Reno,
Nevada.  One day in the spring of 1959 I
turned on the TV after coming home from school and to my surprise there were
many of my classmates dancing on Reno’s version of Dick Clark’s music and dance
show.  Now, I could not have attended
because I had to be home to babysit but, I wished they would have at least
asked me to attend.  It wasn’t rational
of me, but I did let it hurt my feelings.
          Once
during my high school years, my mother set me up with a date to the junior prom
with the daughter of family friends.  I
actually didn’t want to go and wasn’t planning on going but mom insisted, so I
did take the girl.  Her parents threw us
a pre-prom dinner featuring a small glass of champagne and some unremembered
food.  At the dance I danced every slow
dance with her (there were precious few of those) and the last dance was also a
slow one.  Other than those times, she
and I did the wall-flower imitation. 
Occasionally, another boy would ask her to dance the fast ones and I did
not object.  All in all, I don’t think
either of us really had any fun.  I can’t
speak for her, but I was just too self-conscious to go out and fast dance in
front of people as I really did lack coordination.
          Even
after I married in December of 1973, I was not fond of dancing, nor did my wife
ever get me to feel comfortable dancing although she did try quite often.  The only dance in which I am competent, is
the one I do while waiting for the bathroom to become vacant.
© October
2012
About the Author 
 I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale
and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I 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.

Left and Right, by Ray S

He is
fourteen going on fifteen. Fresh from eighth grade graduation and thinking with
wonder what will freshman year at RBHS be like? Everything is really going
right in this springtime of adolescence.
Soon,
a couple of days, he and his best buddies will be bussed north to Muskegon and
eventually to YMCA Camp Douglas.
Swimming,
canoe lessons, a trip to the sand dunes, and terrorizing bouts of “King of the
Hill.” He soon learned it was no fun always being pushed down when it seemed
like he could make it halfway up. Another learning experience. Probably the
most memorable learning experience besides lanyard weaving was right in
our cabin. Double deck bunks, two on the left and two on the right with a
single cot in rear for the councilor. Always a wholesome, eager sixteen or
seventeen year old who kept pretty much to himself—the boys didn’t bother him
and the same could be said of him. Later it was learned that nightly a number
of these wholesome young Christians would take off across the lake to tryst
with the young virgins councilors at the nearby girls camp.
At his
age our graduate knew little about birds and bees and sex, but our need for
enlightenment was handsomely accommodated by one of the cabin’s more fortunately
advanced and endowed occupants. Two of the boys had returned to get some craft
supplies when they encountered sitting on a top bunk, legs hanging over the
edge and no shorts or skivvies on, just plain bare assed. “Hey look at this,”
he said, not the least bit shy. And they did. If they had been old or savvy
enough, they might have uttered an appropriate expletive, probably the OMG or
just “I’ll be an SOB” in wonderment.
That nerdy
little guy had been busy taking inventory of his genitalia—and there it was
swinging from left to right.
That
summer at Y Camp was memorable not only for the repeat of the usual expected
agenda of activities but also the added Nature Study curriculum foretelling
what happens to boys when they find that certain anatomical equipment is good
for more than standing with your buddies in a Pee Circle.
It
sure seemed that a lot of the right knowledge became very evident and
important even if some of the roommates wondered why they might have been left
out when the necessary parts were distributed. Remember, it isn’t always size
that counts, it is what the left side and the right side of your brain
processes that bodes success.
© 31 August 2015 
About
the Author
 

Queens Community for Lesbian and Gay Seniors, formerly SAGE Queen, by Louis Brown

I
have been in New York City for the past 2 months because I had to stay there to
wait for my scheduled cataractectomy of my right eye. When in New York City, I
reside in College Point in Queens County. I have noticed over the years that
the Lesbian gay community of Queens County is not really as well organized as
the gay community in Manhattan. For example, Manhattan has a healthy chapter of
MCC, and most churches have a Lesbian-gay caucus.
About
30 years ago, I organized a group called The Good Shepherd Christian Fellowship
which lasted about 2 ½ years in the basement of the Unitarian Universalist
Church of Flushing. My purpose was to have local gay and Lesbian people talk to
the local Protestant clergy. It worked up to a point, but in the long run it
did not catch on. About 2 years before I started my religious project, a
chapter of Dignity Queens was open for business that also met in the basement
of the UU Church of Flushing. I remember the UU Church only charged $75.00 for
the use of the basement, and it had a very nice kitchen the tenant could use.
This was perfect for the Good Shepherd Christian Fellowship’s special gay
Christian Seder Service.
Then
of course around Easter time the UU Church held its own ecumenical style Seder
service. Once, a rabbi said that a Seder service should only be held in a
Jewish Synagogue. I think the message of the Seder service is universal and
should be celebrated by various religious traditions of course in a reverent
respectful manner.
Personally,
I am only semi-religious, but I am uncomfortable with the general lack of
options for gay people to have safe churches to go to.
One exploring
soul I told you about last year was openly Lesbian Rabbi Laura who
coincidentally also lives in College Point, my home town in Queens County. Last
year Rabbi Laura gave a course in comparative religion at New York SAGE. The
course was well attended. Last summer, also by way of coincidence, Laura met
John Nagel, the director of Queens Community House for Lesbian and Gay Seniors,
which operates out of the Jewish Center in Jackson Heights Queens. They met at
Cherry Grove on Long Island which, as you know, is an important gay and Lesbian
mecca. I recently asked John Nagel if he met Rabbi Laura. John said he had and
even tried to start her comparative religion course at Queens Community House,
but there was an insufficient response so the course did not happen.
About
two years ago Queens Community House was SAGE Queens. For some reason I do not
know about, they split away from SAGE although they remain on good terms with
SAGE New York. Queens Community House’s program for gay and Lesbian Seniors is
set up like a Senior Center, which means lunch is served
daily, Monday through Friday. I go Tuesdays and
Thursdays, Tuesday because that is the day of the general meeting and
Thursday because there is the spiritual hour.
The
past 2 Thursdays John Nagel made a presentation of the Christian religious
thought of Emma (Curtis) Hopkins, 1845-1925. Quoting briefly from her
biography, as seen on Wikipedia:
Differing from Eddy’s (i.e. Mary Baker Eddy, founder of
Christian Science), lead in speaking of God as both Mother and Father, Hopkins
conceptualized the Trinity as three aspects of divinity, each playing a role in
different historical epochs: God the Father, God the Son, and God the
Mother-Spirit or Holy Comforter. Hopkins believed (as did Eddy, though not as parochially)
that spiritual healing was the second coming of Christ into the world, and this
was the hallmark of her early work. Hopkins also believed more specifically
that the changing roles of women indicated their prominence in the Godhead,
signaling a new epoch identified by the INCLUSION [my caps] of the Mother
aspect God.
I
particularly liked that idea of INCLUSION. John Nagel’s obvious purpose in
discussing Emma Hopkins’ theological writing is to tell Lesbian and gay people
that obviously homophobes do not have a monopoly on faith, on Christianity. It
is all up for interpretation, and our community needs religious scholars to
develop a gay and Lesbian positive theology to fit our needs. Previously John
read passages about an ancient Islamic scholar Rumi and his soul mate Seth.
Their affectionate correspondence with one another points to a gay and Lesbian
history and an as yet unnamed Lesbian and gay history in Islam.
Also
on Tuesdays and Thursdays at the Queens Community House meetings, Tony the Personal
Trainer, has a bunch of us do our exercises. Previously that would not have
interested me much, but, I had to have a lot of physical therapy since last
September 2014 when I had my bicycle accident, and Tony’s exercises make a very
appropriate extension of my physical therapy. I have already run out of what
Medicare would pay for this. Tony’s exercises are practically the same thing. I
go to Queens Community House with my College Point boyfriend Kevin who is
slightly spastic from aphasia so also derives benefit from these exercises.
My
“moral” for SAGE of the Rockies is perhaps an attempt to see if you can obtain
further services from Denver’s version of Office for the Aging. For example,
last summer Queens Community House’s annual trip to Cherry Grove was free. On
paper, New York City paid the bill although in reality some wealthy game, I am
pretty sure, ponied up the cash.
Joining
up with the New York City Department for the Aging also means lunch which costs
$2.00. It is always on Tuesdays and Thursdays chicken with barley or rice with
vegetables. It’s not that lunch is all that great, although it is well cooked,
it enables the participants to stay longer perhaps to participate in the
afternoon programs.
© September 2015 
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.