Month: January 2016

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Hold My Beer and Watch Me Participate in My Favorite Water Sport, by Ricky

As a pre-teen, I could never hold my beer very long. For that matter, I could never leave it on the table or TV tray for long either. My parents had a modestly stocked liquor cabinet under our built-in BBQ in the kitchen. Jimmy and I did sneak a taste, once only. Neither of us cared for hard liquor but the beer we attacked without hesitation each time he visited until it was all gone, followed by a somewhat lengthy visit to the bathroom to see a man about a horse as it were. My parents were not blind and noticed the disappearance of the containers. After that, they did not buy me any root beer in large qualities when they went to the store.

One day when I was 13, I was attending a Red Cross swimming class to learn how to swim. I had no bathing suit so was wearing a one year too small pair of green shorts. The shorts were not tight anywhere except at the waist but, they were loose at the crotch. Did I mention they were small or perhaps I should have said “too short”? During the classes, my favorite thing to do was to be up to the waist in water at the shallow end, take a deep breath and hold it, dive down to the bottom, then swim underwater to the other end of the pool, all the while slowly rising towards the surface. I would do this repeatedly as long as the female instructors would let me. This was and still is the only way I can swim for short distances.

At the end of the second swimming class, I was walking home with Roy, the brother of another boy who was in my rival scout troop. As we were talking, Roy told me that as I was swimming he could see my testicles through the leg opening of my shorts. Remember, I did say the shorts were too short. The shorts were not a swimming suit so there was no liner in them either. Naturally, I was slightly embarrassed but also titillated as I imagined all those female instructors feasting their collective eyes on me and whispering to each other “Look at that boy’s balls”. Roy’s revelation to me about my equipment, shortly thereafter led to some naked playtime before he had to go home.

So, you can see why as a teen, swimming class was my favorite water sport—just ahead of seeing a man about a horse.

© 26 Oct 2015

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Scars, by Phillip Hoyle

I’ve been lucky to live 68 years with almost no scars. As a result of that I don’t much relate to this topic even though after many years think I can still identify the scar Jeanetta Olson left on the back of my hand from a fingernail cut. I don’t recall the occasion except that it happened in the car during one of our families’ many trips to Topeka to see Dr. Peuzit. Jeanetta and my sister Christy both doctored with him due to polio. The scar now may be obscured by an age spot.

For some years I sported a scar on one of my fingers due to a cut I got from wrangling with a 16mm film take-up reel when I was working as a student minister at Central Christian Church, Wichita, KS. My wife Myrna was helping me to stop the flow of blood from the cut. When Dr. Parrish, the senior minister, came out of his study to help with a bottle of Witch Hazel, we saw Myrna sink to the floor and almost faint. I held my own paper towel bandage while Dr. Parrish worked with her. After that I was always properly careful around projectors and aware that Myrna might easily faint in any medical situation.

I do have stretch marks in the skin around both of my knees, scars due to having dislocated them. I always felt they seemed like nothing when compared with my wife’s proud stretch marks for having born two children.

In my psychic life I have suffered little pathos, so I have little of that kind of scarring. Still, I have become aware of a price I paid due to the many years of living in the closet. I also am aware that if I stay in this storytelling group for another five years, I may uncover scars of various kinds, even if it is only a callus on my right middle finger from writing stories so intensely every morning to have something ready to read. Also I am aware of the slight possibility that I may have so many scars on my feelings so deep that I cannot distinguish touched from untouched. There are a few scars from medical procedures of the last year and a half. Probably from now on in my ageing life I will be able to add a scaring episode or two from these kinds of new experiences every year. Perhaps I will eventually have a book out of them. I hope not.

Denver, ©22 June 2015

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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Compulsion, by Gillian

At bottom, my personality is not one to encompass compulsion. I am essentially too laid back, too relaxed, and also too logical and pragmatic, to be driven to do something which is not logically in my best interest. Or, as one definition has it, against one’s conscious wishes. I don’t generally let myself go in that direction; and Lord help anyone who tries to push me.

Yeah, that sounds good. Like most such statements, it is not exactly the whole truth and nothing but. It needs a little qualification.

What do I know? What can I know? I who spent the first forty-odd years of life playing a part, pretending to myself and everyone else that I need not be, in fact was not, the person I was born to be. Simply acting a part, of course I was not prey to compulsion. I was not affected by really strong emotion of any kind. An actor pretends an emotion; plays at having it, but does not truly, deep down in the soul, feel it.

When eventually I came out to myself, I must honestly admit, it was completely compulsive. I have often described it as being swept up on the cow-catcher of a run-away train; going wherever it took me, without conscious choice – and that most certainly is acting compulsively.

I cared not a jot whether coming out to the world as quickly and loudly as I could was, in fact, in my best interest. Many of us, had we looked at our coming out in the clear light of logic, would probably have stayed firmly in the closet. On the whole. it was not a welcoming world awaiting us out there.

For some time after coming out, my behavior remained compulsive. For the first time in my life, I fell madly in love. And love, or at least it’s for-runner, infatuation, surely is pure compulsion: we are compelled to pursue that person, to be with her every minute of every day, to make it last forever. Fortunately, as we settle into a less dramatic true love which goes so very much deeper than infatuation, we are able to swim free of that rip-current of compulsion and return to a more rational frame of mind.

I say fortunately because, as I began by saying, my personality is not really a good fit for compulsion. I am uncomfortable with it. It scares me. On the other hand, I have just said that the two best things I have done in my entire life – coming out and loving Betsy – resulted from irresistible compulsion. And now I think more about it, I’m not sure that Betsy would agree that I am so free of compulsive behavior. Yes, I am a wee bit obsessed with photography. And screaming Stop!! Turn around! at Betsy in the center lane of 80 mile an hour freeway traffic because we’ve just passed a perfect photo op. just might be construed as not acting in one’s own best interest!

© September 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 25 years.

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Wrinkles, by Will Stanton

Human cells are supposed to repair themselves by being replaced with duplicate, new cells. If that process worked perfectly, then we would look about as young as when we first were fully grown. Mother Nature, however, with her cruel sense of humor, arranged it so that, sooner or later, that replication begins to fail, resulting in malformed or even diseased cells.

Aging is a major contributing factor to this breakdown in replication. So are disease, injury, smoking, chronic drugs and alcohol abuse, and too much sunshine. Unfortunately, cellular deterioration can occur with any cell, inside the body and visible on the surface. I once read that medical research has identified 12,000 diseases and afflictions humans are prone to, many caused by cellular failure. I imagine by now that many more have been discovered.

For many people, wrinkles are the most obvious evidence of aging, along with a few other delightful imperfections, such as gray hair, baldness, obesity, and loss of those youthful facial features. My time spent at the mirror is minimized to those brief moments when I am required to shave. Otherwise, I avoid mirrors almost as often as do vampires.

Speaking of other bad contributing factors, it is well known that chronic stress can contribute to premature wrinkles. Outdoorsy-people, such as traditional farmers and cowboys, often ended up with wrinkled faces and skin like leather. I also have seen a picture of a pair of identical-twin sisters aged fifty. The one who smoked and drank heavily looked seventy-five; whereas the one who did not drink or smoke looked forty. I have seen pictures of men and woman who have abused methamphetamine, and their faces looked like actors from the movie “Night of the Living Dead.” Meth is terribly destructive. On perhaps on a more positive note, there are such things as “laugh lines,” too. So, if your face is very wrinkled, just tell people that you laugh allot.

It is said that facial wrinkles give a face character, showing much of one’s life-experience. That makes sense among us superannuated folks. Of course, the young, and also those who admire or even envy the young, would prefer never to show signs of aging. Why else would billions of dollars be spent on face-lifts, botox wrinkle-removal, cosmetics, expensive hairdos and fancy clothes?

Ending on a silly note (and I must hasten to explain that I very rarely, if ever, indulge in humor that possibly can be regarded a repellent) the subject of wrinkles never fails to remind me of a little story once told to me. Now I can inflict it upon everyone here.

Once during one hot summer, two little boys were taken to their great-grandparents’ house for a weekend stay. The little boys woke up early the next morning. Hungry and bored, they went looking for their great-grandparents. They climbed the stairs to the sweltering second floor. Very quietly, they opened a bedroom door and looked inside. They were surprised to see their great-grandmother lying naked on the bed. The littlest boy whispered to his brother, “What are those wrinkles all over Great-Grandma?” — “Great-Grandpa.”

© 13 September 2015

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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Grandparents, by Ricky

I never met my father’s father, John Leonard Nelson. He died when my father, John Archie Nelson, was only 9 years old. As the oldest of six siblings (2 girls and 4 boys), he became the “man-of-the-house” and had to help his mother, Emma Sophia (Ungar) Nelson, support the family. He ultimately left school after the 8th grade to work full-time. Emma was a short but not frail woman. After I was born, she lived with us in Redondo Beach and Lawndale for awhile. During that time she would dress me like mothers did back in the early 1900’s; in clothes that looked like small girl dresses. I was too young to care, but when, as a teen, I saw the old photographs of those days, I was embarrassed to have a record of how I had been dressed.

As I grew into my teens, I remember Emma as a thinner elderly lady with silver grey hair and a really nice personality. At that time in her life, she was a live-in “nanny” for a down’s syndrome girl, Jackie. I first met Jackie when she was about 3 and the last time before she passed away she was about 13. In all those years whenever we would meet, she would run to me and give me a big hug. I always felt awkward and uncomfortable around Jackie, but I can still see her round smiling face and her radiating pure love to this day. Truly, she was one of God’s special gifts to our world.

In her later years, Grandma Nelson alternately lived with my dad or his oldest sister, Marion, until she finally passed away.

I first saw my mother’s parents, Richard Pearson and Signe (Erickson), when they came from their farm in Minnesota to visit us shortly after my birth. Of course, I don’t remember any of that, but I have seen the photographs of the event. For my 3rd birthday, my “party” and birthday cake were served at the farm because their 25th anniversary was less than 2-weeks after my birthday and our family was there to help celebrate. I don’t remember that event either, but once again, I’ve seen the photographs.

When, at the age of 8, I was sent to the farm to live while my parents divorced, I was able to learn somewhat about them during the 2-years I lived there. Both Richard and Signe were the first children born in America in their respective families, so they were raised in the traditions of the “old” country, Sweden. As such, they were not very “touchy-feely” people. Others would probably classify them as being rather “cold” or “distant” emotionally.

I felt pretty close to both of them; to my grandfather, because I was named after him; John (after my dad and his dad) and Richard (after grandpa). I was “close” to my grandma because my mother was in California and I missed her so much.

While I was there, I was not allowed to do anything with the fun farm equipment, or fun chores, like driving the tractor while plowing, mowing the lawn with a power mower, etc. I suppose that was because I wasn’t raised on the farm from infancy AND because I wasn’t their child only a grandchild. They were very protective of me (irritatingly so).

I was allowed to help feed the cows, stack hay bales onto trailers and then again in the barn. I was no good at milking because the cows were so much bigger than I was and I was VERY hesitant in getting between any two of them in their stalls to install the milking machines onto their business ends. I did watch and laugh, as grandpa would occasionally hand-milk a cow just to squirt milk at all the cats and kittens that would sit on their hind legs and beg like a dog.

Grandpa did allow me to ride on the tractor with him while he would plow, plant, cultivate, and harvest his crops. I could also ride whenever he would mow, rake, and bale hay. I spent many long hours riding with him.

Grandma absolutely refused to let me mow the yard with the power mower. She considered it too dangerous. She did assign me the job of collecting the morning eggs, however. That didn’t even last two days as I was terrified of the rooster or more accurately, of his talons and extremely aggressive behavior.

Grandma made the most delicious dessert, which remains my favorite to this day. It’s called, Cherry Delight and is extremely “rich” in flavor and calories.

Sometimes, I helped her do the laundry, not from any sense of duty but because my part was running the clothes through the “wringer”, (it’s a boy vs machine thing). While grandpa was generally proportionally muscled for his average frame, grandma was a bit on the husky (not fat) side as she was a hard worker who not only managed a two-story farmhouse but also had a nice medium sized garden. Every autumn she would do a lot of canning of her garden vegetables, including the ever-present rhubarb. Even into her older age, she was quite a lovely woman and nice to look at.

Because he spent so much time out in the sun, grandpa resembled one of those ancient cowboys one occasionally sees on greeting cards. He had a very dark tan, but with his shirt off, the sun, reflecting off his alabaster chest could be quite blinding. He was truly a “red neck” but not in intelligence or personality.

One of the chores I got to do, I did because I wanted to, not because they asked me to. I just loved to go out to the fields and trap gophers. My grandpa was the township’s “gopher bounty” paying agent so he paid me 10 cents per gopher trapped. Other farm boys would come over to our farm with their dads and show him the tails from gophers that they had caught and he would pay them 10 cents a tail. I just brought home the whole body. Killing the gophers in my traps was one thing; I did not want to cut the tail off.

I loved all my grandparents and I miss them as much as I miss my own parents.

© January 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 began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Doors, by Phillip Hoyle

Two doors controlled the comings and goings in our early 1940s Cape Cod house in Junction City, Kansas: the front door and the back door. Both were wooden, both had latches and locks, both greeted and debarred. The front door was made of oak, the backdoor of fir. The front door opened onto a stoop where in summer Mother tended flowers in planters; the back door opened onto a screened porch. A second back door to the porch was a frame with screens and a simple hook latch at about adult eye level. I liked the way the screen door whacked like a gunshot when we’d let the spring pull it closed from a full open position. The doors must have been quite strong for they withstood the abuse of two adults and five children, a dog and several cats, neighbors and neighborhood kids, all of whom provided a kind of Grand Central Station feel to the house. The house was open, the doors seldom locked.

Formal visitors used the front door. Even Santa Clause entered there; we had no fireplace. We kids used the backdoor usually because we played in the backyard, garage, or the yards of neighbors who lived across or down the alley.

Thus it almost seemed a ceremonial moment when Dad locked the front door with his key, a ritual that occurred annually when we went on our week-long family vacation. We’d drive west to the Colorado Rockies to cool off during the end of July or first of August. When we returned he would unlock the door and we’d hurry inside amazed at the size of the small house that now seemed so large, an effect of living for a week in a mountain cabin and spending too many hours in a crowded car.

So far as I know no one ever broke into our house. Perhaps it was the time and place or simply good luck. We all felt safe at home, but I learned more. Mother was threatened once when we kids were small. Dad was out of town. Late at night an unidentified man phoned saying he was going to come and get her and the kids. She was ill, hemorrhaging at the time. Following some home remedy, she got out the bottle of wine someone had given Dad for Christmas from a high shelf in the back closet, Dad’s double barrel shotgun out of their bedroom closet, and sat on the kitchen floor in view of both doors with the bottle at her side and the gun across her legs. “No one came to get anyone,” Mom told the story years later, “but if they had, and saw me, they surely would have fled the crazy drunk woman with the gun.” Of course, Mom didn’t open the wine bottle; just had it in case she needed it. With family stories like that, we kids felt safe at home. No one would ever dare come to get us.

I learned that a good door and attentive parents may be able to keep out unwanted visitors but not necessarily prying eyes. On summer nights when the temperatures soared way too high for comfort, my parents would sometimes sleep on the back porch on a double cot that folded out from the glider. I recall Mom’s story of the night she woke up to see a man staring at them through the screen. She sat up hurriedly, nudged Dad, and yelled, “You get out of here.” The Peeping Tom ran but didn’t see the wires of the clothes line that clocked him in the throat. Choking, he got up and ran down the alley. Dad called the police who located the man hiding in the trees at the high school sports field one block to the west. They identified him by the wire mark on his throat.

One night years later when I was in junior high and things were settling down for the night, Mom wearing her robe ran into the living room from the bedroom where she and dad were dressing or undressing, I don’t quite recall. She threw open the front door and looked out. I was surprised and asked, “What’s wrong?” She replied, “Someone was peeking in our window. I think it was Dinky.” I wasn’t surprised at that detail. Dinky was my rather creepy friend from across the alley who was always getting into trouble. In fact, for years when we kids played Monopoly and landed on the JUST VISITING border of the Jail we always said, “Just visiting Dinky,” who to us looked like the cartoon character peering through the bars. I think we were polite enough not to say it when he was playing with us. That night there was no call to the police, but I suspect my parents were more careful about closing the blinds while they were changing clothes. Still they rarely locked the doors except late at night when we kids were all safely in bed.

© 27 Apr 2015

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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Once Upon a Time, by Gillian

Progressive Dinner parties were the in thing, at least with my social group, once upon a way back when. I guess they’re still around, but I haven’t been involved in one in decades. It must have been the 1970’s when I was, because I was still married to my husband and living in Jamestown in Boulder County. Did you ever get caught up in those things?

Between about ten and twenty people gather, say, at our house. We have a drink or two to kick off the evening. Cocktails were popular then, though beer was always my drug of choice; or becoming a wino held a certain appeal, but I never cared for mixed drinks. Most of us, of course, puffed cigarettes as we chugged our drinks in those carefree days. After all, you’re already wrecking your liver so what’s the point in worrying about your lungs? From Jamestown we convoy to, say, South Boulder. There we gather at another home for hors d’oevres and another drink. Then on to Longmont and another home for what I think we called, back then, the main course, or simply dinner, the term entree not coming along until later. And, needless to say, more drinks. And off to Lafayette, then still a small town out in the sticks, for desert and after-dinner drinks, then to one of those new things called condos for a night cap. Finally off home in different directions, not a designated driver in sight. By some miracle no-one ever had an accident amongst all this. Nobody even got a drunk driving ticket. But of course in those days, even if you were spotted weaving your way along the center line, it usually earned you little more than an urge to be more careful next time, which you knew you could translate freely as, be more careful not to get caught next time.

In the here and now, Betsy and I might go to East Denver in the morning, to take an old friend who can no longer drive, out for lunch. On the way home perhaps we’ll make a detour to deliver a favorite candy bar to another old friend in a nursing home. Not so very different from a Progressive Dinner, is it? OK, maybe, but at least we’re sober. There is nothing good about the headline, “Great-grandmother arrested for drunk driving.”

Once upon a time, my calendar was covered in scrawled names, places, and times. But only around the edges. Essentially everything was crammed into evening and weekends. The big black hole in the middle was all WORK, leaving little opportunity for personal life. The other little squares were crowded with ferrying kids to endless varieties of activities, and adult celebrations.The future was looking wide and bright on a limitless horizon, and we were ready! We celebrated friends’ new jobs, new cars, new babies, new homes, new marriages, new lovers, and new divorces: promotions, graduations, undreamed of vacations.

In the here and now, the calendar on the fridge looks very similar. Except that it’s reversed. All the crowded-in names and places and times are in the middle, in that space once occupied solely by WORK. The outer squares are largely empty. We, like many older people, really do not like to drive after dark unless absolutely necessary. So we, and our friends and those accommodating family members, plan most things so that we can get home before dark. Somewhat in the same way, if not to the same extent, we tend to schedule activities on weekdays. Weekends are all crowded out with those wild young working folks who have to be accommodated so that they can keep on paying our Social Security.

If we are among the really fortunate, our children’s calendars are now covered in times and places they are ferrying us. The very fact that we’re still here means we are still having birthdays.

We probably still go on great vacations, but although many of us continue our education in one form or another, we don’t bother much about promotions and graduations – our own, that is. Our celebrations have taken on a different view. They tend to be celebrations of the past rather than future.Our calendars have a few too many memorials scheduled on them, our friends number among them too many now living alone, and if someone is moving it is usually to somewhere smaller, and sometimes to a place where they really do not want to be.

So the once upon a way back whenever was a much better place than the here and now? I’d go back in an instant given the chance?

NO WAY!!

For one thing, there’s one mighty steep learning curve I had to struggle my way up between there and here. I never want to have to do that again. And anyway, I sincerely love life, here and now.

Yes, the calendar has a few too many memorials and hospital visits, but it still denotes many other wonderful things – like Monday afternoons. The dates I now keep with friends seem so much more meaningful somehow than the endless get-togethers of my youth. The people mean more to me. In reviewing the memories of those Progressive Dinners, I realized that, other than my ex-husband, I couldn’t recall who any of the people were. Back then, anything that happened was just another excuse for a party rather than a true celebration of the event, or even the people involved. A “Celebration of Life” as we like to call memorials these days, has a whole lot more sincerity about it, and in some ways more true joy, than all that meaningless round of long ago parties.

No, of course they were wonderful times. My life has been great, I have terrific memories. But, from my current viewpoint, I have to say it seems almost as ridiculous to wish I were in my twenties as it would for someone twenty-five to yearn to be seventy-five.

© May 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 25 years.

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Handy, by Betsy

I love my family and am proud of my heritage. However, the truth is that I come from a long line of unhandy men and women. I have no recollection of my grandfather, my father, my brother, my husband, my son, uncle, any male cousins, and likewise no females in my family ever fixing anything. They could handle a bad situation and maybe make it better, but never was there a soul in my family who could physically fix an object that was physically broken. They could fix things that were in their realm of expertise such as a human body in the case of my doctor husband and son. My husband and son are MD’s, my father was a businessman and expert in forestry, my grandfather was a businessman. One grandfather, my father’s father, possibly was a man who could be handy around the house. He was an engineer. The problem was that he was always off in some other part of the world building tunnels and bridges, never around the house.

Isn’t there always supposed to be a man around the house who can fix the plumbing, the squeaky door, the stuck window, the lawn mower that doesn’t start, the car that doesn’t start.

It was late in life that I decided maybe I could take on the role of Ms. fix-it. After all, if I failed, I could just say it’s in the DNA. At least I tried. But it turns out that I have been able to fix quite a few things. The key is in having the right tools and knowing what tools should be used for a particular job. I have lots of tools out in my garage—screw drivers, hammer, power drill, chisels, pliers, cutting devices of all sorts, etc. but these are only a percentage of the total number of household tools that actually exist.

One way I have learned something about fixing things is to find a hardware store where they actually give service other than taking your money. Once in the store to ensure the successful completion of a do-it-yourself repair be sure you can describe the problem to the hardware clerk, have the right measurements and sizes, or take the fixture or whatever with you. Find someone knowledgeable who can tell you what tools and parts are needed and how to do it. Often these guys are retired plumbers, carpenters, handymen or such and they are only too happy to demonstrate their knowledge and skill.

When I retired I took up cycling. I soon found myself training for a cross country trip. I learned very quickly at that time that it is a must to be able to fix whatever, change a flat tire, or put a chain back on track, or apply oil when needed, make adjustments when problems arise and you are in a remote place like the middle of the Mojave Desert.

The truth is I really enjoy fixing things. I feel quite creative when I succeed. Many years ago I took up furniture refinishing. I found it a very satisfying activity. Buying old furniture and putting it back together I find to be much more satisfying than assembling a new piece of furniture—the kind you buy on line and have delivered to your door by Fed-ex. Once you open the box (and you do need a special tool for that) you look at the myriad of parts, screw, fixtures that hold them together, scratch your head and decide you will be forced to look at the instructions.

A year ago or so driving by a house in our area we saw an old table at the curb not able to stand on its own, parts lying on the ground, covered in some awful kind of old black varnish and what looked like brown paint. A Tattered hand drawn sign hung crookedly saying “free, take me home. I once was beautiful.” It looked like it could be just the table we needed for our entry way. But it was in terrible condition. I said to Gill, “I can glue that table back together, refinish it, and we’ll love it!” I knew I could glue it because I had the right clamps left over from the old days. The clamps, unused, had moved with me many times over the years. I could now justify holding on to them for 2 decades. We did gather up the table and I did glue it together and refinish it and it is beautiful again—and useful. Very satisfying indeed!

I recently fixed some non-working, ancient door handles when I visited my daughter in Atlanta.

She and her partner had been keeping one door closed with duct tape for weeks—knowing I would be coming there for a visit soon. “Mom can fix it.”

Perhaps the women should have been the fix-it handy persons I could have emulated—but didn’t— as I was growing up. I say could have because the women of past generations did not engage in such activities. Maybe in the kitchen, but certainly not in the shop or the garage. Women were not supposed to get their hands dirty—not even in the garden. In addition to that women were not considered to be sufficiently strong or adept at such things as hammering, drilling, screwing, or working out mechanical puzzles.

Fortunately gender roles have become more relaxed since the late 20th century. My own ex husband was not at all rigid about gender roles. He thought nothing of cooking dinner while I chopped the wood for the fire. I know he was an exception. But why not share roles especially if you enjoy it and are good at it.

I’m not sure how young hetero couples are these days when dealing with gender roles. For those secure in their sexuality, probably they are relaxed and comfortable with sharing.

As for us couples in the gay and lesbian community, most of us probably more naturally fall into the roles we want and play the best. Or we do whatever is most expedient on a given day.

As for the DNA and any genetic disposition toward being handy in my family I can only conclude this is not a dominant gene. My daughters always have things they want me to fix when I visit. They always ask politely and know just the things I like to do and the limits of my ability. Also in their favor when they ask, they always add, “That is ONLY if you want to, Mom.” But they know I’m a sucker for it.

© 30 June 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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Depressed, by Will Stanton

Homophobia, fear, hate, ignorance, and stupidity. Tragically, there still are hate-mongers such as Pastor Steven Anderson of the Faithful Word Baptist Church in Tempe, Arizona, who publicly rants and raves that all homosexuals must be rounded up and executed. No gays should be allowed to live; “The Bible says so!” I felt sickened when I saw in November, 2015, that Republican presidential candidates Ted Cruz, Mike Huckabee, and Bobby Jindal agreed to participate in one of Anderson’s hate conferences. Too many people agree with them.

Thank God, such insane hate and ignorance appears to be diminishing among younger Americans, at least among the more educated and cosmopolitan ones. Even the Supreme Court squeaked by with a five-to-four decision to treat gays equally in marriage, despite unlawful resistance by hypocritical Christians such as the Kentucky county clerk Davis, supported by Huckabee, who refused to issue marriage licenses to gay and lesbian couples.

The idea that so many ignoramuses staunchly believe that personal religious delusions override the U.S. Constitution’s guarantee of equal rights and separation of church and state is astonishing and depressing. I have noticed also that such people as that county clerk appear to have absolutely no awareness of the concepts of irony and hypocrisy – – in her case, committing adultery, having children out of wedlock with her third lover, yet having her second lover adopt the children, then marrying yet a fourth man. I suppose that none of this counts because “Jesus has forgiven her.” Many Christians ignore her transgressions.

That silver-tongued serpent Huckabee, who as a former governor, should know better than to employ his well practiced verbal skills to exacerbate the situation by lending his supposed authority to the clerk’s bogus claims. Also, those opportunistic lawyers pretending that there is legal standing to the clerk’s claims is an abuse of the Constitution and the legal system.

I hope the situation is improving in the general population, at least in the areas of the nation that are not so backward. In our time, two generations ago, otherwise even decent people, through ignorance, tended to lack understanding and acceptance of gays. There was so much fear and rejection. So many LGBT adults spent many years feeling isolated, lonely, unfulfilled, depressed. This obviously was especially hard on young people, struggling to come to terms with their own orientation and need for friendship and love.

In my hometown, there was a successful, upper-middle-class man who had built a lovely modern home in one of the better parts of town. I remember my classmate’s mother telling him to stay away from that house because a very bad man lived there. What was so evil was that the man was deeply enamored with youth and beauty, which led him into a ill-fated situation. The laws of that time still are on the books in this country that an adult may not have relations with a seventeen-year-old. Yes, I know seventeen is legal in Britain, and even sixteen is legal in France, however, not in America. He was well aware that he was risking fate entertaining seventeen-year-olds in his home.

Naturally, young guys potentially are less trust-worthy because of their immaturity and relative inexperience. So inevitably, one of them talked. The police came to the house and placed him under arrest. A court date was set, and he was released on bond.

Word rapidly spread among the townspeople about this “shockingly evil man.” The man’s whole life fell apart. He knew what his fate would be in the courts and subsequently in prison. He fell into a deep depression. He felt helpless, hopeless, and that his life had come to an end. So, he put a hose into the tailpipe of his car, turned on the engine, and committed suicide. It was reported in the newspapers, which probably satisfied the readers’ enjoyment of local scandal. I can just imagine that many people probably said, “Good riddance!”

Man feeling despair

With young people, statistically more gays commit suicide than straight kids. Remember also that teens, in general, tend to be more emotional than rational. Some emotional upsets may seem to be “the end of the world.” They may too easily think that life is just not worth living.

In one high school, not far from where I lived, one teenager, who was straight, generally was regarded as the most popular boy in school, and with good reason. Sometimes, it appears that some people “have it all” – – extraordinary good looks, intelligence, charismatic personality, athleticism, you name it. Naturally, probably all the girls in school fawned all over him, each one hoping to be chosen as his girlfriend. Inevitably, there always is the possibility that a few boys have similar dreams, too. There was one boy who did become obsessed with his idol.

Out of desperation, the gay teen approached his idol and, best as he could, presented his case for their becoming close friends, perhaps even becoming intimate. I frankly do not know whether the straight boy truly harbored hateful feelings toward gays or, instead, if he merely was frightened of what others might think of him if he hung around this school pariah. Either way, his rejection was humiliating. The gay teen felt absolutely crushed. His despair and depression increased to the point that he felt that life was not worth living. He thought, however, that he would leave this world demonstrating to his never-to-be love the depth of his love and the worthlessness of his life without love.

Quite often when persons contemplating suicide make the final decision, they ironically lose their sense of impotence and inaction; for they now have a plan. This was the case with the gay teen. He made sure the object of his love was home, then drove over to his house. He honked his horn to draw attention. The straight boy came out onto the porch and saw him sitting in his car. Certain that his love was watching, the teen put a shotgun to his head and pulled the trigger.

That horrifying incident was so tragic. A young life lost. Yet, can you also imagine the impact of that terrible scene upon the straight kid? What did that experience do to him? It is safe to say that this trauma would remain in his memory to the end of his days. We here in this room can feel the pain of this tragic story. Unfortunately, however, there probably still are many people who might say, “Good riddance.”

Boy who feels that life is not
worth living.

© 2015

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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Culture Shock, by Ricky

“Culture” is a word that strikes fear into the world’s families of bacterium as if they know that shortly following the culturing will be an anti-biotic of the lethal type for all or specific families. A situation quite shocking from the point of view of the bacterium.

“Culture” is a word that creates feelings of loathing in the stereotype masses of the American populace. For some reason they feel that quality music in the form of opera, symphonies, and songs where one can actually hear and understand the lyrics is not of any worth. Thus, they vote to stop government support for these enterprises. As for TV entertainment, the masses do not seem to like a broadcast which does not contain lots of violence, sexual innuendo, or cheap humor.

These same masses will support government spending taxes for the things they prefer, for example baseball, football, and soccer stadiums. (If such things are good for business, shouldn’t business pay for it and not taxes?) But worse of all is their tendency to label those who do like quality music, songs, TV, screen play, or drama productions as elitists (at best) or snobs (at worse).

“Culture” is a word that creates feelings of joy or happiness in the stereotypical well-to-do (previously referred to as elitists or snobs). This group also tends to view the “less fortunate others” as undesirables for friendships and as a drain on the public treasury. Thus, they vote to cut social programs that support the poor, as the poor are viewed as lazy and uncouth leeches.

Of course these stereotypical views are not totally accurate and there are those of us who enjoy activities and recreations that fall into both camps. Sadly though, we are a minority.

“Culture Shock” commonly occurs when persons from one background encounter persons from another. An example is when “Johnny-Reb” moves into “Damn Yankee” territory or vice versa; or when a “New Yorker” moves to San Francisco; or when anyone from the east or west coasts moves into the mid-west or America’s “heartland” (the “fly-over” parts from which many gay men and women escape and move to either of the coasts).

One example occurred in my own home. My oldest daughter married a man from the Republic of Georgia. After he obtained citizenship here, he arranged to have his parents move to Lakewood and live with me and them. His parents grew up entirely under the authority of the old Soviet Union and its economic and social “values.” Maria grew up on a collective farm and so worked hard as she grew.

One day, my daughter took her mother-in-law to a discount store to buy her a new purse. While trying to decide which of many different styles to buy, Maria began to cry. When asked why by my daughter, she replied that there were too many choices and she could not make a decision. Maria was faced with “culture-of-plenty” shock.

Other “shocking” opportunities occur when military, police, gang, generational, and sexual orientation cultures have values that clash.

I have not experienced culture shock per-se. What I am experiencing is culture confusion. Being a closeted gay boy since my young teen years, I lived in the straight world most of my life. When I finally officially “came out,” at age 63, I was gently exposed to the gay “culture” of senior men. Then I learned a little of other sub-groups of gay culture; some of which apparently don’t “play-well” together, physically or politically.

So just as Maria experienced culture shock trying to adjust from a Soviet life of “little” to an American culture of abundance, So in my case, I am trying to understand all the subtleties of the elusive gay culture. Since I do not generally expose myself to the sub-groups of that culture, I am not likely to ever comprehend them well enough to form a cohesive or unifying understanding.

© 26 November 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 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