November 2015 – Sage Telling Your Story

November 30, 2015February 26, 2019

Forgiveness, by Will Stanton

Where has the time gone? More than three score years. What do I have to show for it? Why so many trials and tribulations along the way?

I have not suffered alone. That is the fate of being human. Everyone is familiar with disappointment, malaise, unfulfilled dreams — some more or less than I.

Since time began, humankind has asked for answers to the purpose of life, why we are here, do we finally go somewhere else. I started out life relatively innocent and painfully naïve. I can’t say that I know much more, despite the experiences I have had these many years.

I have tried to be kind to others and have hoped for kindness in return. They say, and I have sensed, that love is the most powerful force humans may experience. Those who have loved and have been loved may have possessed the greatest treasure humans are permitted to enjoy. Yet, those fortunate ones who have experienced love ultimately are left open to loss and grief. Love is a two-edged sword.

In my own small way, I have made my mark, nothing grand, perhaps nothing particularly memorable. I have helped a few people, and I have made efforts to share with others what beauty exists in the world. But, I have left for posterity no great symphonies, no great architectural monuments, no cure for cancer. Only a select few are granted such privilege.

I am no philosopher; I have no deep thoughts as to the purpose of life. Perhaps the whole thing is some kind of ironic joke. Perhaps Robert Frost sums it up best in just two lines:

“Forgive, Oh Lord, my little jokes on thee
And I’ll forgive Thy great big joke on me.”

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.

November 27, 2015February 26, 2019

Preparation, by Ricky

The Scout Motto is “Be Prepared.” I was a scout, so I learned as a young teenager to think ahead and prepared for any situation. It did not matter if it was for an upcoming camping trip, scout meeting, school tests, potential rain or snow fall, driving on less that a full tank of gas, or fixing dinner for my siblings; I always tried to have everything I might need to successfully complete the activity.

One rather dramatic failure to look ahead was when Deborah and I bought a new Toyota Land Cruiser to prepare for a job within the Sheriff’s Department which I did not get. I obtained two used “jerry cans” each of which held 5-gallons of gasoline and bolted their “holders” to the side of the vehicle. When it was time to use the gas while on a trip to Sacramento, I poured the gas into the main gas tank and soon thereafter the engine began to miss and eventually would not run at all.

Fortunately, we were near our destination in Sacramento and our friends came and towed us to their home. One of their friends diagnosed our problem to be a clogged fuel filter. I had not anticipated that the “jerry cans” were older and had rusted inside. Eventually little particles of rust in the gas had clogged the fuel filter. After installing a new fuel filter and cleaning out the “jerry cans” and refilling them with gas, we were able to finish our trip without any further trouble.

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

November 26, 2015February 26, 2019

My Favorite Fantasy, by Phillip Hoyle

In my junior high and senior high school years while listening to LPs I directed orchestral and choral music before the mirror in the front room. I fantasized myself back then as a conductor. In my young adult years I fantasized that the children I taught would retain as adults useful information, memories, and impressions that would inform their thinking and provide insightful reading of biblical, theological, and religious experience. I hoped that when they read they would find the religious landscape familiar. I hoped that they would realize they had learned skills in childhood that were still informative and not a block to their continuing growth. Such educational fantasies I entertained. As for the adults I taught, I simply hoped they would find new perspectives rather than insist on the same old ideas! For the past fifteen years I have fantasized that my massage clients in the sessions would relax deeply into the relief the therapies provide and from our work together would discover the ability to change postures or otherwise improve their day-to-day movement. But these days those fantasies serve me little, for now I am facing retirement in which I will sever my formal work relationships, a retirement that in its anticipation is engendering a whole new fantasy world.

Last week I received a retirement package from Heather, my daughter-in-law, a kit that includes a children’s book titled The cat with two homes Text by Tim Henley, illustrations by Jo Burroughs. Reader’s Digest Association Limited, 1989). Heather told me she has read the story to dozens of children and thinks it may help me prepare for my retirement. She wants me to meet the main character named Olly who she is sure will help me conceptually. She suggested I become a part-time vagabond somewhat like that cat. Of course that means I make longer visits to Mid-Missouri to see the family, play cards, work, live on the farm, and have long creative conversations. I’m imagining that but hope trips there wouldn’t include milking the goats.

Heather also sent watercolor and pastel paintings made by two of my granddaughters. I’m inspired by Rosa’s works and entertained by Ulzii’s. I framed one picture from Rosa to hang in my studio. Soon I hope to work with a teacher to learn watercolors. That means buying MDV boards, attending a class, and more. I already purchased a portable kit of paints that has brilliant colors and have a fine set of watercolors in tubes. I’ve got the other goods too: tape, paint, papers, and brushes. Now it’s time to learn how to use them with greater effect than I have been able to produce on my own. I’ll start the work soon.

During trips to my Missouri farm home, I imagine sketching plants and animals as well as buildings in towns and the countryside. I can make Artist Trading Cards galore from the new images using my watercolor supplies and techniques. I’m sure to have a wonderful time. I can send cards to my artist friend Sue who can trade them in Denver on my behalf.

I’ll also take my laptop and write a book. That will require more time than I have ever given myself in my trips there. Surely I can arrange to write in one of my vagabond homes. Oh I’ll have to find a nice coffee shop nearby, preferably one that has a resident cat, wonderful scones, and only the best coffee. I am pleased at these fantastic details. I’ll carefully plan my trips at the best times of the year. I’d hate bad weather to mess with my sunny fantasies unless clouds should provide interesting subjects, colors, and shadows for my anticipated watercolor works.

Heather also wants me to join my granddaughters and grandsons in art and music making and perhaps to get them summertime coffee house bookings in Denver, making way for their first interstate tour. This fantasy goes on and on, and all of it arising from one short letter and a small book about a cat who not only had two homes but also disappeared in the evenings to places even the storyteller didn’t know about. I’m finding that my life anticipating retirement is good; details flourish in this my favorite current fantasy.

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

November 25, 2015February 26, 2019

For a Good Time, by Lewis

There are a thousand ways to have a “good time”. “Good” can mean “exciting” or “feel-good”–whether emotionally, physically, sexually, or by getting high. It can involve exercise, dancing, playing games, telling jokes, jumping out of an airplane, or simply driving to a destination that provides you with a sense of positive anticipation. It might even involve taking a Viagra, putting on something sexy, and waiting to see what cums, whether alone or accompanied.

However, the story I would like to share with you today is of quite a different nature. It does not require a car, a well-stocked bar, reefers, needles, electronics, or jewelry. It does not even require clothes, if one is discrete. What I consider to be about as fun as anything else that I do requires only a chair, a table, and pleasant surroundings. I have to put nothing in my ears or nose, although a little bit of a favorite beverage and a few chips or nuts seems to enhance the experience.

What I do for fun most days is to simply sit out on my terrace and eat a meal, do a crossword puzzle, read from Laurin’s journal or write in my own, or simply sit and watch the amazing beauty of a sunset or my terrace garden. To feel the breeze against my skin, to watch as it caresses the leaves and blooms, to observe the shadows on the furniture, walls and floor and the sunlight as it slowly traverses its path from east to west–this is my private little kingdom which I have created. It is a time to be alone with my thoughts, my memories, my dreams; to anticipate the coming hours and relish the past few.

It doesn’t matter that the cacophony of construction pierces the air from next door. It’s a minor annoyance, no more. I turn my eyes to the horizon, where I see Buckley Field, Fitzsimmons, DIA (on a clear day), East High School, The Pinnacle, the industrial South Platte River valley, downtown, Sports Authority Field, Cheesman Park , and a long expanse of foothills and mountains. I see blue and green everywhere–they are the colors of restfulness and relaxation. The clouds play out their drama before my enthralled eyes and a tear may form. I can hardly wait for the next few minutes until, at last, my favorite time comes, as the sun sets and twilight begins. Soon, it is time to go inside and begin to wind down into sleep, knowing that my “good times” will surely begin again when the morning comes.

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.

November 24, 2015February 26, 2019

In the Zone, by Betsy

As one member of this group has mentioned, Mozart may be an exception to the statement “any writing is experimental.” True, Mozart was writing music not words. But there is no reason that the statement which is today’s topic cannot apply to the writing of music as well as the writing of words. Mr. Mozart is said to have been divinely inspired never having to go back over his work to correct or improve it. His writing was perfect the first try. Some might say he was continually “in the zone” at least when he was writing music.

It’s hard for me to relate to always being in the zone when I am writing. Although, I must say, some writings have come a lot easier to me than others. On occasion, depending on the topic and/or depending on my state of consciousness, I have felt myself “in the zone” as I was writing. Mostly, it is the experiences I have had that have given me awareness or knowledge which make it possible to be there. Being in the zone could be equated with being mindful—a state of complete awareness. Also a requirement for being in the zone when writing might be an element of passion for the subject and a clarity of one’s feelings about it.

I best relate to being in the zone when I am immersed in a sports activity. Some days—though they may be rare—it’s as if you can’t make a mistake in a tennis game. Or the body flows particularly easily, gently and rhythmically through the moguls on the ski slope. Those days might be rare, but we remember them—at least I do. Probably the sun is shining as well on that day, and there is little or no wind and the temperature is just right for perfect conditions.

I can recall also being in the zone in a beautiful spot surrounded by nature—feeling part of nature or one with one’s natural surroundings. Being in the zone and being completely immersed in the moment, I believe, are one and the same thing.

As for being an experiment, I’m quite sure writing falls into that category. I often set out to write about something related to the topic of the day and I find I am completely surprised at the outcome of that writing. The piece may take a totally different tack than what I had first intended.

This can apply to other art forms as well. I have attempted to draw or paint an object, a landscape, a tree or what have you. In this case I know when I start out that it is an experiment.

I have no idea how the project will turn out. I suppose that’s because I have very little experience in creating visual arts, and almost no confidence. Yet I find that to draw a tree or paint, even try to copy an object or a landscape is an adventure, and most certainly an experiment. I start out with no idea where the effort will take me, how I will feel about it, or what the outcome will be—other than either boosting my confidence or totally obliterating what little bit I had to start with.

The fact is that most active things we do—that is active vs. passive—most things we do are an experiment. Even everyday activities. That is, if we define an experiment as a course of action taken and followed without knowing the outcome. Cooking certainly can fall into that category—at least MY cooking does. Even the laundry, shopping, etc. What the heck, which outcomes CAN I be sure of. Even when I sit down to watch television who knows, (I certainly don’t)—who knows how long I will be awake.

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.

November 23, 2015February 26, 2019

The Zoo, by Will Stanton

I was told of a most extraordinary zoo, unique, in fact — the only one like it in the whole world. All of the examples at the zoo were endangered species, some of them right on the verge of extinction. I was warned that, if I did not go to see this zoo soon, some of the specimens might be gone by the time I visited it. So, I made a point of going right away

I spent an entire day at this wondrous zoo from morning to closing at dusk. I could see why my friend warned me that everyone on display was endangered of disappearing. They were all human beings, people of the most admirable qualities, apparently qualities not much valued any longer in our society.

The sign on the first display read, “Statesman.” It did not say, “Politician” or “Congressman,” or some such degraded title. I looked into his eyes and saw there deep knowledge and wisdom. I also perceived empathy and compassion. He did not have that facial affect of hate, rage, or deviousness that we have grown so used to with politicians. I spoke to him for quite some time, and he always responded in calm tones, his words truthful and rational. I then asked him where he came from, and he explained that he once was, what was called a very long time ago, a “moderate Republican.” All the others had died off, and he was the very last one. Lonely and rejected, he accepted his home here at the zoo. Out of compassion, I felt inclined to remain even longer with this lonely soul to give him some comfort, but I knew that I had much more to see and moved on.

I came to the next display, and the sign read, “News Journalist.” At first I was confused because he looked rather similar to the first display. When I spoke to him, he, too, sounded rational and well educated. After a lengthy conversation, I asked him what brought him here. He explained that there still remains a limited number of true journalists in the country, but mostly they had fled their environs because of increasing atmospheric toxicity and decreasing clean, healthful oxygen. Some of them had found new homes with lesser watched, sanctuary broadcast-channels that were attempting to counteract the toxins as best they could. He, himself, once was hired by Fox Noise but was fired after only 24 hours because he did not fit in. The fact that, after a day’s exposure to that environment, he threw up and passed out did not help. He was brought to this zoo as a dying breed.

I came to the third display, and the specimen reminded me of a weary laborer in old, mended clothes. That, in fact, was what he was. I asked him, “Why are you here? There are millions of people just like you.” “Yes,” he replied, “but many of us don’t last long. Affording shelter, food, and health care with such limited funds means that, too often, we find it hard to survive. I countered, “But, this nation has so much wealth.” “That’s true, too,” he said, “but only a tiny number of people control most of it. I met one of them once. He was a Wall Street hedge-fund manager. He reminded me of the most splendorous peacock, so well dressed was he in his five-thousand-dollar suit and thousand-dollar shoes. I stared at him, trying to understand how such a creature could exist. He reeked of smugness, and I perceived a sense of arrogant entitlement. I asked him how he had become so rich, and he answered, “Because I have barracuda blood in me.” The weary man then sighed, “I don’t have barracuda blood,” and hung his head. I moved on.

The fourth exhibit contained an elderly, blue-haired lady with spectacles and neatly pressed cotton dress. The sign read, “Public School Music Teacher.” I looked at her, and she responded with her own sad eyes and a look of resignation. “Why are you here?” I asked. “Because we no longer are wanted and are dying off.” “But, music is such a wonderful part of life!” I exclaimed. “How, can that be?” Patiently, she began to explain. “People have forgotten what quality is, and most schools have eliminated it from their curricula,” she lamented.” “What passes for music these days bares no resemblance to what once was cherished and enjoyed, music that could enhance the lives of the performers and listeners, music that could sooth animals, music that actually can create fresh new brain cells, music that can enhance the ability to learn other disciplines. Most people no longer understand its value and, frankly, don’t care.” I told her, “I care,” and we talked together for a long time, sharing our knowledge and love of fine music. Finally, she said, “Perhaps the people in the next exhibit may interest you. Go speak with them.” She sighed and sat down on a little stool, her eyes taking on a distant look, probably “hearing” in her own mind some beautiful melody. I slowly turned and walked on.

I noticed at the adjoining exhibit a sign that stated, “Singers.” “That’s odd,” I thought. “There are tons of singers out there. Just turn on the radio, the TV, go into an elevator or a restaurant or supermarket. You hear it all the time and all around us. You almost can’t get away from it. There are billboards announcing the imminent arrival of popular singers, and the $300 seats all are sold out. Curious, I walked up to the display. This one contained a young boy along with a man and a woman.

“Are you all singers?” I asked. “Yes,” they replied. Puzzled, I then posed the question, “You can’t possibly be rare and endangered. Why are you here?” They smiled at me sadly, and the woman spoke up. “It’s all relative. There are so many people who claim to be singers, but really who are not, that those of us who truly are singers are in a small minority.” “What do you mean?” I asked. She explained, “The human voice can be used in many ways to make a sound, but to produce a sonorous, beautiful tone and a controlled technique is special. You must have a good voice to begin with; then it helps to have the voice trained properly. In the past, more people, from popular singers to opera professionals and boys choirs, used to sing well; but that art is being lost with most people these days. Now they scream, which is a different vocal mechanism. That’s not singing.”

I stopped to think about what she said and realized that it is true. It seems that, everywhere we go these days, we are held hostage to hearing screaming. At first, I thought that perhaps district managers chose recorded screaming because it could force restaurant-goers to give up their seats and leave more quickly. Then I remembered that a waiter told me that the restaurant chain was paid by the distributor of that noise with the hopes that the listeners would be so enthralled with it that they would rush out to buy or download that atavistic noise. It all came to money. Having been given food for thought, I slowly turned and continued on my way. As I left, I heard the man, woman, and boy begin singing in harmony some sublime melody. I felt a very pleasant sensation growing inside me.

The next exhibit had a sign that read, “English Teacher.” “Now how does that make sense?” I wondered. “Every school has an English teacher. How can they be rare?” I introduced myself and asked her. “Oh yes,” she replied. “There are a lot of people out there called ‘English Teachers,’ and some of them really try hard to do a good job. But, it’s difficult when the students and parents no longer read and often don’t really care about literature and well spoken language, when the English teachers take a back seat to the math and science teachers and even the football coaches. Also,“ she continued, “many of the people who go into teaching no longer have a solid base-core of knowledge, read very little, and cannot even speak well themselves. People may have heard of Shakespeare, but how many of them actually have read any? Listen to newscasters speak, to people with advanced degrees and those with professional positions of importance, even professors. Apparently, it never has occurred to them that having a good command of English is of any importance, for their constant errors in diction, grammar, and style are egregious.” Tears began to roll down her cheek. She quickly picked up a small, hardbound volume of poetry and began reading one of them aloud, trying to console herself. I left her in peace.

I began to notice that, as I walked through the zoo, my shadow had grown longer, and the sky was losing its intense blue. I looked at my watch, startled to find how much time I had spent with the first exhibits. Evening and closing time were approaching. So much more of the zoo’s endangered species remained for me to see. I looked at the zoo signs erected ahead of me along the path. The first one read, “Honest Businessman and Honest Contractor.” I saw that there were two people in that exhibit. The sign beyond that read, “Faithful Husband and Faithful Wife.” Two people were in that exhibit, also. There actually was a small group in the next exhibit marked “Good Fathers and Good Mothers.” I stopped to think about that. Perhaps the most difficult and important task in the whole world is raising children to be happy, healthy individuals who constructively contribute to society. And, whether the child is raised by a father and mother, two fathers or two mothers, or a single parent, that daunting task remains before them. With so many failed families, perhaps, after all, that small group was rare enough to be in the zoo.

As I strained to see farther down the zoo path, I saw what appeared to be an endless series of signs, far too many for me to explore in just one day. I never realized until then how much was endangered in our society. I promised myself that I would soon return to explore further; however, I better have a solid breakfast and get an early start. I knew then that there was far more to see and to think about at that unique zoo than I had anticipated.

About the Author

November 20, 2015February 26, 2019

Hands, by Ricky

This story and memories are about hands, specifically my hands, although the hands of others may be mentioned. My hands are versatile; they work as a team or as individuals. They usually do good work but sometimes they shirk working altogether.

My hands like to do different tasks. One likes to write and brush my teeth. The other one likes to bowl, throw balls, and take the lead in batting a baseball. One pushes buttons and wipes both windows and my butt. One feeds me while the other helps and then loads the dishwasher. The first holds my rifle while the second squeezes the trigger. One likes to give me pleasure while the other usually watches, joining in on rare occasions. One operates my cell phone while the other holds it steady. Both make a great team using a keyboard and communicating using various non-verbal signs. They coordinate holding books and turning pages so I can read stories. They both chip in to sort clothes for the laundry and then to fold and hang them up later.

When I was a baby they both tasted good, even sweet like candy. At bath-time, they were my toys and servants, washing me at my command. As I grew my toys changed and my hands acquired new skills. They collaborated with my legs and feet and I was able to ride a tricycle and later, bicycles. They learned how to fly a kite and to operate lawn mowers. Still later, they would allow me to drive automobiles.

My hands would often do things that got them dirty, and then they wash each other to remove the dirt and grime. When I was younger, they liked to play in the snow but don’t enjoy it very much now.

My hands traveled far and wide. They have been to Disneyland, Disney World, Euro Disney, Knott’s Berry Farm, Shasta Dam, Hoover Dam, the Golden Gate Bridge, Trees of Mystery, Crescent City, Grand Coulee Dam, Portland,

Vancouver, Seattle, Boy Scout World Jamboree, BSA Camps Winton and Harvey West, British Columbia, Alberta, Niagara Falls, Times Square, France, Germany, Moscow, Voronezh, Saint Petersburg, Tampa, New Orleans, San Antonio, Tucson, Sea World, the Eiffel Tower, Bitter Root Valley, Hot Springs Arkansas, both Titan and Minuteman missile silos, Pierre, straddled flag pole peak while holding on to the flag pole, and their favorite—piloting the Skipalong on Lake Tahoe.

Yet for all of this travel my hands are just two of many and are not particularly noteworthy like some others. Hansel is famous for getting lost. Handel is famous for composing music. Hans Christian Anderson is famous for writing stories for children. Hans Conried is a famous actor. Hans Zimmer is a composer. Hans Albert is a philosopher.

There are many hands. Black hands, white hands, Oriental hands, Polynesian hands, brown hands, straight hands, LGBT hands, and perhaps others, but they all have one thing in common. They are all attached to people who want to live a happy life and provide a happy life for their descendants.

The song says in part, “He’s got the whole world in his hands. …” Isn’t it about time all of us humans settle down and live peaceably together—before He uses His hands to slap us silly?

About the Author

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

November 19, 2015February 26, 2019

Close, but No Cigar, by Ray S

We finished up our job early so we closed the shop and I somehow knew a little happy hour pick up was a five o’clock necessity.

The proximity of the new art beckoned me to the rooftop terrace and bar. The sun was sinking in the west casting a golden glow splashing against the fading deep blue above. So much for aesthetics.

God, it was good to be done with the shop and studio for another day. The deadline for our next show was bearing down on everyone. The frosted stem glass with its lemon twist boded a welcome respite from the last ten hours.

There I was seated at a high-top surveying the view north and south of Denver’s own gay White Way, although it was not evident that it was so gay or not. As my gaze came back to the deck it fell upon an older man—I would have guessed him fifty years or something—reading the paper and having his own martini.

Not wanting to be caught checking him out, I quickly averted, as they say, my eyes. Only trouble was that this handsome “old guy” returned the glance. Putting his paper down, he looked up at me and simply said, “You like yours with a twist too.” Was that a question or an obvious fact?

Responding as though we had been friends for a long while, I said, “Always a lemon twist—can’t stand a dirty martini—no olives!” With that he got out of his chair and brought his drink over to my high top.

“I’m Howard Rafferty. Haven’t I run across you at the museum?” Suddenly my head was spinning and blood pressure was rising. “Be still my beating heart.” Almost speechless, I answered with a wide smile and a breathless, “Uh-huh.” By now you’ve got me figured out. I’m a pushover for older men. A little love handles or tummy never did any harm. He followed up with the usual come on’s, while in my mind at the same time I’m remembering last week’s fifty minutes with my Dr. Shrink. Boy did this slam me right between the eyes—after twenty-five minutes Dr Shrink said he felt I really had symptoms of a “Father-Son” complex. You know, unresolved conflicts in the subconscious over deep-seated incestuous desires by my struggling psyche. It was an alarming discovery at the time and now dreamboat Rafferty slid right into the puzzle part that Dr. Shrink had in mind. Come to think of it, Dr. Shrink was rather fatherly himself—but that could be another story for another day.

The martini was working its mightiest for Mr. Rafferty. Guess he’d been at the bar for Happy Hour’s opening.

The irony of this could-be fortuitous meeting as it drew to a climax was an invitation to view the original art on the walls of Rafferty’s suite. If I had been cruising a bar instead of just trying to relax before going to my apartment and preparing for meeting the boys at the X-Bar in an hour, no telling how much abstract expressionism would have overcome me.

Hastily killing the last of the cocktail, I thanked Howard, exchanged numbers, and explained I had to run so as not to be late for some other business.

Close, but no cigar!

Made it to the X-Bar and found a place at a table with my four other thirsty queens. Then went to the bar and ordered, you guessed it, another dry one with a twist from a very cute, sexy, and tattooed bar “tendress.” She sported a figure in her T-shirt that could put Venus Di Milo to shame, and MY girl had two arms—Venus could have had tattoos too if she could find those arms. She smiled so charmingly that I even forgot fleetingly that I was gay and in a crazy gay bar.

I was looking over the patio full of every shade and age of a cavalcade male pulchritude when she inquired what I would have. I told her, “Anyone of these” and quickly followed with my drink order.

My Venus looked at me and then surveyed the yard full of men and said, “One martini coming up,” and then said, “What a waste.”

Close, but no cigar.

About the Author

November 18, 2015February 26, 2019

Scarves, by Phillip Hoyle

I started wearing scarves when I lived in New Mexico. The mild winters there when compared with the previous nine seasons of harsh weather in mid-Missouri made it possible for me to wear a jacket, scarf, and gloves and be plenty warm most of the time. I liked the light-weight effect. Of course, keeping track of scarves presented a new challenge to me. I lost several when upon leaving coffee shops I failed to put them around my neck.

Actually scarves and their care were the least of my complications in those days. I started doing quite a few different things during my Albuquerque mid-forties years and now realize that in addition to a change of scenery and culture, the exit of our children from the home had a lot to do with my adaptations. For the first time in my adult life I had freedoms I had longed for but had never exercised. It seemed like the challenges of my homosexuality were not going to be overlooked. Wearing scarves was the least among my new behaviors although not unimportant.

Looking back on it all I can say that scarves significantly symbolized a feminizing of my life, a simple step of my living into my girlishness fostered by being reared with four girls and by my personality that I now identify as gay, or at least as the gay part of it. I wasn’t at all surprised. I had long wondered how I got through childhood and youth without being beat up for being a sissy, a weakling, too girlish, somehow not a man. I wondered but thought happily about my enduring good luck. And then, in my middle-age-moving-toward-old-age, I could flip a scarf around my neck without a care. For me, scarves were a bit like umbrellas, things most men I knew had no truck with. Still, I had learned to use umbrellas in Missouri where it often rains, and then in arid and mild Albuquerque I sported scarves.

In my well-compartmentalized life I had already known scarves, actually worn them. They were present in our house due to having two older sisters who sometimes wore them when the bop was popular, poodle skirts and saddle oxfords reigned on the dance floor, and scarves in complementary colors were worn around the neck. Now I couldn’t wear them to school dances, but I did wear them when dancing at powwows. They were a standard part of my straight dance costume with its roach headdress, old fashioned bustle, beaded and mirror rosettes, trailers, apron, sheepskin anklets, bells, and moccasins. I preferred dark blue scarves and wore them in this other cultural compartment of my life. But when I left home for college, I left those costumes packed away in two suitcases and a few boxes wondering if I’d ever wear them again. They were stowed along with memories of childhood sex with boys, a nine-month affair with another teen, my love for doing artwork, and the like.

By the time I got to Denver a few years after leaving Albuquerque, I was wearing scarves almost every winter day. I also learned to pull a scarf into my sleeve so I wouldn’t have to remember it when donning my jacket. I now prefer plaid scarves although they often clash with my plaid shirts. I have even encouraged my partner to wear scarves and have noticed now he wants to tie them in a more girlish fashion like some kind of off duty drag queen! Oh, did that just slip out? Well, you can see that I have learned a lot but probably have a lot more to learn about myself. I wonder what else I may discover in those old suitcases of lost dreams.

November 17, 2015February 26, 2019

Grief, by Pat Gourley

“By meditating on death, we paradoxically become conscious of life”.

Stephen Batchelor – from Buddhism Without Beliefs. 1997

This is one of those Story Telling Topics that really brings home to me what a lazy undisciplined writer I am. My life certainly dating from the death of my father in August of 1980 up until my most recent shift in Urgent Care, which was yesterday, has been chock-full of experience after experience of life’s impermanence and the personal grief that causes. I should be writing at least several chapters on grief if I were ever to get off my ass and write a memoir. The reality though is that the topic of Grief is going to get less than a thousand words as usual.

If I were in a really self-indulgent mood I suppose I could conjure up reams on grief around my own HIV infection and that of many, many friends and clients and their suffering and too often deaths over the past 35 years. An issue of self-exploration here for me would perhaps be how much of my own grief over the decades has really just been self-indulgent wallowing in the pool of “poor pitiful me”. How unfair that I am “forced” to face my own mortality every day when I swallow my HIV meds. And even worse how come I have witnessed so much suffering and death of others? I really need to watch this tendency in myself carefully and continually realize that no one gets out alive and many through the ages up until this minute have it so much worse than I do or ever will.

Nevertheless, that all said let me delve self-indulgently just a bit into my own grief issues, as they seem to come into focus for me especially this time of year. Yesterday was the 20th anniversary of Jerry Garcia’s death. The Grateful Dead were an integral part my life for decades. During the darkest years of the AIDS epidemic, from the late 1980’s until 1995 when I was not only looking down the barrel of my own infection I was also the nursing manger in the AIDS clinic at Denver Health and living with the love of my life who was dying in front of me. The music of the Grateful Dead was a great solace in those years and remains so today actually. I was at the last two shows Garcia and the Dead performed at Soldier’s Field in Chicago July. 1995.

Those shows were not particularly memorable at the time in large part because Garcia was not well but it never occurred to me that he would be gone himself in a few short weeks. The memory of hearing the news of his death on August 9th, 1995 is indelibly etched in my mind but not for the reason you may think.

Minutes after the news exploded across the world of Garcia’s death of a heart attack in a rehab center in Marin County my life partner David Woodyard, who was battling several major HIIV related issues of his own at the time, was on the phone deeply concerned about me and how I was taking the news.

This was and still is for me the real lesson on how to handle the feeling of grief in my own life. I need to always take a moment or several no matter what the circumstances and look around, outside my own little puddle and attempt to be “conscious of life’ and what an amazing trip it is to get to experience that at all, even when filled with grief.

David was teaching me that lesson right up until his own death five weeks later at 9 AM on September 17th, 1995. That was when my own real grieving began in earnest with no Grateful Dead song able to console me. Not even the beautiful lyrics of Brokedown Palace, which we played at his memorial.

Fare you well my honey
Fare you well my only true one
All the birds that were singing
Have flown except you alone

Going to leave this broke-down palace
On my hands and my knees I will roll roll roll
Make myself a bed by the waterside
In my time, in my time, I will roll roll roll
In a bed, in a bed

By the waterside I will lay my head
Listen to the river sing sweet songs
To rock my soul
River gonna take me

Sing me sweet and sleepy
Sing me sweet and sleepy
All the way back home

It’s a far-gone lullaby
Sung many years ago
Mama, Mama, many worlds I’ve come
Since I first left home

Going home, going home
By the waterside I will rest my bones
Listen to the river sing sweet songs
To rock my soul

Going to plant a weeping willow
On the banks green edge it will grow grow grow
Sing a lullaby beside the water

Lovers come and go, the river roll roll roll
Fare you well, fare you well
I love you more than words can tell
Listen to the river sing sweet songs

To rock my soul

Songwriters: GARCIA, JERRY / HUNTER, ROBERT

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.