Month: May 2017

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The Drain, by Ray S

Finally the rain softly and lightly announced its arrival. Little by little the drops became bigger and more insistent. Finally it fell with full force pelting the window panes. A couple of claps of thunder and just as suddenly as the cloud burst had come, the clouds opened up and there was the sun again.

With umbrella in hand I left the house headed for my office. The sidewalks were all shiny and washed and gutters were still flooded with the tidal wave headed for the drain.

The walk to the office gave me the time to reflect on the long ago rainy time when we were six or seven. Four of us were playing “Kick the Can” in a vacant lot near the edge of town. A rainstorm like the one today came up and being caught all drenched, all of us simply stripped naked and proceeded to dance in the rain like little elves escaping the wolf in the forest.

The merriment was in full blast until a local constable arrived on the scene at the behest of the self-appointed morals squad, Mrs. Templeton. Hers was the only house near our play field.

We were rounded up with wet clothes in hand and sternly lectured to on the lack of morality and the nasty, dirty actions we were participating in.

Actually the thought of sex hadn’t even caught up with us at this age, except casually taking note of each others’ endowments, if even noticeable.

Another thought while walking, another time maybe five or seven years later evidencing the discovery magic of puberty and all of its causes and results. You could liken it to Pandora’s Box or letting the Genie or Johnny out of the bottle. With no thanks to Mrs. Templeton and later Sister Charles/Ophelia, some of we heathens began our long residence in the closet. I always envied my friend with the power and conviction to never get into a closet. He never needed to for he had always known who he was and the gay road was his high road. Some of us strayed down a path of conformity and even various degrees of happiness, then only to find the “honestly real me” before it was too late to live a liberated life.

At the intersection waiting for the “WALK” light I looked down at the curb and gutter to see the rain water and my memories wash down the drain, to wait for another rainy day and maybe the very right man to steal my heart away.

© 28 November 2016

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Maps, by Phillip Hoyle

I like maps. They remind me of a map game we played at home when I was a kid. Mom would get out some old geography books and world atlases and hand them out to us older kids. Then she’d say, “Find the Europe map.” When we all had one she’d say, “Prague,” or “the Volga River.” She might say find the Asia map, and then call out, “The China Sea,” or “The Bay of Mandalay.” Her challenge for the South America map might be, “Asunción,” or “The Amazon River.” The first one to find the place—and show it to her—was the winner. The winner would then pick out the next place name, a river, city, country, sea, ocean, continent, and so forth. One of the special challenges of the game was that the maps were not the same, so a river might not be named in one of the books. I suppose it trained our pronunciation and our ears for the language suffixes that might indicate a location by country. The teacher in Mom created a number of these games for her children to play, but I especially liked the map game. 

Map-like Art Cards by Phillip Hoyle 2017
Migrating birds.

Now I paint on maps, print on maps, sometimes even write on maps. I collect them from brochure racks in tourist places and at rest stops along freeways. I tear them out of magazines and occasionally buy one at a convenience store. I look for them in antique shops and secondhand stores. I sometimes cover them with thinned gesso or acrylic paints to make a ground for a mixed media work. I splatter them, pattern them, block out spaces, or tear them in order to match some traveler’s dream. I print on them, draw on them, paint on them, glue other things on them and in so doing create places of memory or worlds of fantasy. Most of my map messages are personal, a few political. With these maps I travel, juxtaposing unusual images, feeding some internal need that is often unclear to me, the artist. I go to places in my art, places that feed me, soothe me, please me, challenge me. I often don’t even pause to look up the name of the place. I wonder what my mother would make of these map games I now play. But I know of all the unusual people I have befriended, she would be the most likely to understand.

© 20 March 2017

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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Winter Shades, by Louis

Winter shades means for me memories that kept recurring this past winter which was like so many others. To catch up, I also missed, I noticed, the prompt for Feb. 27, “Where I was on 9/11.” I would like to respond to that prompt also. I assume that the prompt “Backseat of the car” was for March 6, which I also missed but to which I would like to relate my reaction.

Memories

“Where I was on 9/11”: 72-16 = 70-14 = 66, so that I was 66 years old when that happened. I was still employed at the Division of AIDS Services in the New York City Human Administration. I was taking the Q-65 from College Point headed for Flushing where I was planning to board the Long Island Railroad stop, located at the corner of 41st Avenue and Main Street. This train was bound for Manhattan but was stopped at 61st Street (which is still in Queens County). Before boarding the train, while still on the Q-65 bus passing through a swampy road, I had a good view of far-off World Trade Center Towers, since, where I was there were no tall buildings. I saw a large volume of smoke coming out of the side of one of the twin towers, and I thought to myself it will be a technical feat to fight a fire so far up on a sky-scraper, meaning I did not at that point know the whole story, and did not learn until much later. Still that would make me an eye-witness though I was not actually in Manhattan at the time so avoided getting poisoned.

I was kind of happy I did not have to work that day. A surprise day off. Whoopee!

I returned to Flushing where I visited the gay sauna where I had a few regular boyfriends. I met one and had a very good time. It is kind of embarrassing to admit that I was enjoying myself while three thousand people were suffering and dying. But who knew?

Backseat of the Car: my father, DeWitt Brown, repaired air conditioners, TV’s and refrigerators for a living. He also repaired and collected junk cars. One John Doe worked for my father, and one evening I sat with him in the backseat of one of my father’s junk cars, we talked, and we had our honeymoon. In a trite sordid way, it was quite romantic, I thought.

©13 March 2017

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.

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Hair, by Lewis

Off the top of my head, I have very little to say about hair. It and I have had a major falling out over the past fifteen years or so. In fact, I first sought out a dermatologist about my receding hairline when I was in my mid-20’s. He gave me this black ointment that smelled like axle grease to spread on my forehead while showering in the faint hope that it might slow down the recession. As with my hair itself, he and I quite soon had a parting of the ways. As I have related here before, even at the tender age of eight, an encounter with ringworm left me with a premature bald spot that forever after made me a huge fan of the old Carl Anderson comic strip, “Henry”.

[Conversely, I regularly shave my body as the random and sparse nature of my hair there put me squarely in the middle between bear and twink (the term “blink” comes to mind).]

In summation, when it comes to my appearance, hair has always been an issue. At least here and now I can say that I have perhaps gotten a little of my frustration off my chest.

© 25 January 2016

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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Leaving, by Gillian

This topic got me humming ‘Leavin’ on a Jet Plane,’ the old Peter, Paul, and Mary hit, which got me thinking about leaving on jet planes – or not.

It was 2003 and I was heading for DIA for a flight to London. Unfortunately, it was Tuesday March 18th of that year, and Denver was in the grip of one of the worst blizzards in the city’s history. All day, as the snow fell and the winds raged, I repeatedly checked on the departure status of my flight. Each time I was assured it was ‘on time’, even though every other flight out, or in, appeared to be cancelled. Eventually we could delay no longer and Betsy and I battled our way through at least a foot of heavy wet Spring snow in Betsy’s ancient Honda Civic – we had no four-wheel-drive vehicle at that time – and somehow made it to DIA. Sure enough, my flight was still listed ‘on time’ so Betsy left to fight her way back home, which by some miracle she was able to do.

Right on time we began boarding our plane; the only one visible at the entire airport with it’s lights on. The rest were hunkered down: abandoned, dark, and dormant. Meanwhile, the snow kept falling. The plows went doggedly up and down one runway which we London passengers began calling ‘our’ runway. But, no matter how the plows tried, they could not keep the surface clear. The snow was simply coming down too hard. After a couple of hours we moved away from the gate and onto the white runway. Some cheered. Most peered apprehensively out of the windows. Safely on the runway, engines roaring, we sat. And sat. Almost three hours later we slunk back to the gate. We were not leaving.

Over 4,000 people were stuck that night at DIA. The runways were closed and the roads were closed. Nobody was leaving. Most of the people were in the terminal and on other concourses, especially Concourse B which is always busy. Our flight had been leaving from Concourse A which is a little off by itself. The 500 or so passengers from that flight were the only people on the eerily dark and quiet Concourse A. The entire airport was without power except for that provided by the emergency generators. By the time we disembarked from our failed attempt at take-off, all the restaurants and shops were tightly closed up, dark and gated. So to bed without supper. Oh well! Come to that, without a bed either! We discovered that cots and blankets had been provided from DIA emergency supplies while we were spinning out wheels on the runway. There were not nearly enough, so we late-comers to the party had no hope. It was the hard marble floor for us.

Everyone seemed pretty cheerful all the same; nothing to be done about it. We all fanned out across Concourse A picking out a spot for the night. There was no hope of stretching out across a few chairs; they were all of the kind where several chairs are joined together in a row, with hard immovable arms between each. I remembered that behind the service desks there were rubber mats for the employees to stand on. Aha! That would soften that marble surface. I staked my claim by leaving my hand luggage in the middle of the mat and went off to see what others were doing. Of course our luggage was on the plane, and with carry-on alone it was hard to be very creative. Many of us hoped to use our coat as a pillow, unless or until it got too cold, with only a little emergency heat to keep us warm.

I sauntered over to a group of twenty or so in the midst of animated discussion. They were gathered around an old man being taken back to the U.K. for a final visit to celebrate his 90th birthday. No, they were all agreeing, he certainly could not be expected to sleep on the floor. He needed a cot. And a blanket. A raiding party of four young things was dispatched to the terminal, returning after a few minutes grinning broadly and carrying a cot and two blankets. They were greeted with cheers. Even pumped fists. Amazing, I thought. After a very few hours we had already become a village, a tribe, isolated out here, bereft of comfort, ready to attack that main body of refugees lolling around in the terminal in relative luxury, and simply take what we need.

After a pretty uncomfortable night for most of us, we nevertheless greeted each other cheerfully enough in the bathrooms in the morning. We had running, if cold, water; and, most important of all, we had flushing toilets. No morning coffee, no breakfast, but never mind, at least we had water to drink, and we’d be leaving this morning one way or another. Having encouraged each other in this way, we unanimously refused to see that it was actually snowing just as hard as it had been the day before and it now looked as if there was a good two feet of snow out there.

For a while we waited, expecting some official to appear momentarily with news. Nothing happened. Some child discovered, just playing around, that the phones were working. This was before cellphones were ubiquitous, and there were still banks of pay phones scattered around the airport. They couldn’t be working. Surely lines must be down? There was a rush to try them and they offered up the friendly hum of a dial tone. Unbelievable! After a wait for a phone to free up, I was able to call Betsy. She had spent a nightmare three hours getting back home from dropping me off at DIA, and of course had not been anywhere since. Assuring that I would call as soon as we knew about our flight, I joined the chattering people. That tribal village feeling was back as we fell over ourselves to exchange the news we had just heard via our phone calls.. It was as if we had been cut off from the outer world for weeks. There’s over two feet of snow. …. all the roads are closed in the city and in most of Colorado …… all the Interstates are closed; Denver is completely cut off ….. they’re calling out the National Guard to rescue stranded motorists …… it’s gonna snow all day and tonight and maybe stop tomorrow ….. the Red Cross can’t get here with food ………

The last two pronouncements left a little cloud of gloom in the air. Another whole day here without food? Another night on the cold hard floor? We gave a kind of collective shrug. Nothing to be done. Just fill the day.

A group of us went wandering off along the train tunnels, feeling like adventurous explorers. What would we find? Was there a food stash on Concourse D? Had more cots and blankets appeared in the terminal? Was there, by some miracle, coffee anywhere? We found none of the above. What we did find was water pouring in from the ceiling of the terminal onto astonished wet people, and, sadly, now wet cots and blankets, below. Apparently, so rumor had it, the weight of the wet snow had caused a rip in one of those famous tents on top of the Jeppesen Terminal.

Our little tribal band leaned over the railings on the second level and looked down upon the soggy scene below with, I am ashamed to admit, a certain grim satisfaction. That’s just what they deserved for hogging all those cots and blankets. Wondering, without much sympathy, how bad that waterfall would get, we returned to our village with the news.

We found a surprisingly varied scene. Some people sat quietly reading a book from their carry-on or doing the crossword in yesterday’s Denver Post. Other groups played cards. Again, this was prior to the days of universal laptops and tablets and smartphones. Further down the concourse was a young woman instructing a very well-attended aerobics class. Across from them was a yoga group. Still further along, a young man and woman had gathered up most of the kids and were organizing games. Others had started kids’ relay races down the concourse, using empty toilet rolls as batons. It was really rather an incredible scene. And the best of it was, everyone was smiling and laughing and just generally enjoying the day.

Definitely a village.

When we crawled up off that cold hard floor the next morning, pretty hungry by now, the snow had lessened to flurries and the skies looked slightly less threatening. Surely today we would leave! But there was a mighty lot of snow on the ground, and the wind had whipped it into really high drifts. On the phone, miraculously still working, Betsy knew little more than I did. With widespread power outages it was hard for most people to find out anything. Her little Honda, she said, was completely buried, leaving not even a little hump in the snow to signify it’s existence.

But for the first time there was a great deal of activity outside. Snow plows resumed their valiant attempts to clear paths and trucks loaded with mounds of sticky wet snow disappeared from view. We sat watching every move from the huge windows. Surely we would leave today!

The day wore on. Our village returned to much the same activities as the previous day, but with a slight edge of grim determination and a little less real enjoyment. This was getting old. By afternoon a few planes were taking off, but ours was not among them. There was great excitement when word reached us that the Red Cross had arrived in the terminal, followed by some disappointment when all they had to eat was food bars; two each. But as the power was now back on, they did have urns of good hot coffee, and all 4000 people lined up for their drink and snack in surprisingly good-humored and orderly fashion.

Back to our village and one more night in my little nest behind the service desk, but, joy of joys, the sun shone from a clear blue sky in the morning and Betsy informed me in our morning phone call that the airport was officially open. Soon, clean unsmelly unwrinkled people began to arrive, trampling our village. Our tribe dispersed to various just-opened restaurants. Eventually our plane took off, right on time if three days late.

As the wheels lifted off the runway a great cheer arose from us all. We really were, finally, leaving.

© November 2016

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 been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

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To Be Held, by Betsy

When I was an infant, the scientists–physicians and psychologists–who knew everything there was to know about mothering, all proclaimed that holding your baby too much was not a good thing. The consequences of this seemingly natural human behavior was, in fact, risky. Babies could grow up expecting to be held all the time. They would become dependent on being held, they would become “spoiled.” Also at the time cow’s milk or cow-milk-based formula created by humans and promoted by the forces of capitalism, was better for a human baby than human milk which was, after all, only poor mother nature’s formula for what is best for a newborn.

Years later when I became a mother the same thinking was prevalent–except for the milk ideas. There had sprung up in recent years a group of rebel mothers called Le Leche League. The group promoted breast feeding among new moms. They had a book which described the benefits of not only the milk, but also the process of delivering the milk, not the least of which was to hold your baby close while feeding him. They held the notion that there is a reason the female human body is configured as it is. That properly and naturally feeding your baby required holding him close.

I actually heard many mothers at the time say “The problem is that if you breast feed your baby, you will become completely tied down to him/her.” When I told my doctor husband this, he had the perfect answer. “Well, a mother SHOULD be tied down to her baby. That is how a baby survives and thrives.”

My oldest child did not have the benefits of breast milk for very long. The pediatrician instructed me, a very insecure novice mom, to begin supplementing the breast milk with formula after two months or so. Why? Well, baby needs more milk and it was believed baby could not get enough milk from its mother alone. I soon learned that once you start the process of bottle feeding, baby learns really fast. It’s much easier for her to suck milk from a bottle than from a breast. It flows much, much faster out of a bottle and, well, they don’t have to work so hard to get it. Then, of course, they don’t want the breast milk, demand for the rich liquid plummets, and the milk-making machine quickly becomes non-productive.

I later learned that breast milk is the best, there is plenty of it as supply usually meets with demand, and it works perfectly for about one year, longer if one wishes, and if the feeding is supplemented with a source of iron.

Actually, in a society driven by corporate profits the truth is the main problem with breast feeding is that the milk is free, so long as the mother is properly nourished and hydrated. No one is buying anything. No one benefits monetarily from that method of feeding, no one except baby and mother. No corporate profit is to be made. Baby and mother alone benefit.

It seems that to be held IS important–not just for babies but for children and adults as well. Being held promotes healing, comfort, security, well being of all kinds. It is hard to imagine how it ever came to be regarded as detrimental. Yet the notion continues in some minds.

One of the first complete sentences my oldest child ever uttered was, “I want to behold.”

Of course when we first heard this we asked, “Behold–behold what? A star in the East?

“What do you mean, ‘I want to behold?’ Oohh! You need comforting and reassurance. You want to be held,” we said realizing that our brilliant three year old was not familiar with the passive form of the verb to hold.

Holding in a loving way and being held is loving behavior. What adult does not want to hold a kitten or puppy immediately when he or she see it. I think holding each other as an expression of love is something we learn or at least become comfortable with early in life. I think we could use more of it in this troubled world of ours. I’m all for it.

© 8 October 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), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading, writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Ice, by Ricky

When I was 8 and 9-years old, I was living on my maternal grandparents’ farm in central Minnesota. During both winters, my uncle, Dixon, would take me out on the small farm lakes which were more like large ponds, to go ice fishing. We didn’t have one of those fancy ice-fishing sheds to keep us warm while fishing. We just bundled up with winter clothes and warm coats.

I never did care much for ice-fishing. It was always cold and I was anxious when walking on the ice, regardless of how thick it was. At ages 8 and 9, I didn’t weigh very much so the ice was not concerned about a little boy walking on it. I’m sure it was more upset by our chopping a hole so we could get to the fish.

Another reason I did not like ice-fishing was due to all the effort it takes before you can put a line in the water. Chopping a 10-inch hole in 12-inches of solid ice takes a lot of muscle power. I did not possess much power in my small muscles. My uncle, who was 12 and 13 during those winters, had bigger muscles, but it was still a chore to chip-out the hole – and then it had the audacity to keep freezing up while we fished.

Over the years, I have repeatedly been reminded just how slippery ice can be. One winter, I swore that I would not go outside without a pillow tied on my butt to cut down on the ice inspired bruises.

My first experience with “black ice” happened one January while I was driving from Rapid City to Pierre, SD at 2AM one Monday morning. I was driving a little Geo down the east-bound side of Interstate 90 moving at 60mph. The road consisted of long straightaways with occasional gentle curves. The roadway appeared to be completely dry. I needed to stop and relieve myself so I applied the brakes gently. The speedometer instantly went to zero as all four wheels quit turning. The Geo was still traveling straight down the highway at 60mph. After experimenting with the phenomena 3 or 4 times, I just let the car coast and guided it over to the shoulder. When it finally came to a stop, I opened the door and started to get out. Wham! I was on my butt again. My feet were out the door and my butt was sitting on the car’s rocker panel. Do you have any idea just how hard it is to get up from that position when your feet keep sliding away from you on the ice? After that experience, I still had to slide my way around the car to rough ground so I could relieve myself.

After careful and thoughtful consideration, I have concluded that the only good ice are the cubes one puts in a glass of water on a hot summer day.

© 5 Dec 2016

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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Self Acceptance, by Ray S

The beauty of our Story Time to me is that it makes me face up to a reality-need weekly. The older one gets, the greater life’s little challenges become.

The Monday challenge is usually confronted the day before or early Monday morning.

This Sunday I wandered around the place in my robe, downing several cups of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal. Seemed like it was decision time to live or die. No not really bad, maybe to just go back to bed and tease my muse for tomorrow’s creative writing.

It was an easy choice—go back to bed. On my way to bed I picked up a book I’d recently been reading. There it laid, speaking to me from its bright yellow and black cover whispering, “Take me to bed with you.” Then my muse and the book’s author started contending for my attention and Story Time’s.

Realizing how much easier it would be to open the book and review the last chapter, I followed the path of least resistance. It was like meeting an old friend at the coffee shop and agreeing about the story and the author’s writing skills.

Muse empathetically nudged me back to tomorrow’s work to be done saying, “Remember Self Acceptance?”

I was reminded of my one time fifty five minute weekly with my Father-Confessor-Buddy, Dr. Ed. Ed’s job was to listen to me babble on for a given time about my self-love/hate relationship, that time period discovering what homosexuality meant and how I fit into that denomination, basic insecurity which used to be known as “inferiority complex” before the new age set in, envy and not measuring up in every way, etc., etc., etc.—

Did Ed accomplish any emotional miracles with his patient? Guardedly I can answer, “Yes.” Somewhat. Or perhaps I grew so weary of all that baggage I dumped it—another word for acceptance.

So now I’ve set my Self Acceptance goals on moving into 28 Barberry Lane with Ms. Anna Madrigal’s other tenants and living happily ever after.

© 12 December 2016

About the Author
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Connections, by Phillip Hoyle

On the holiday the Clan, my partner’s family, gathered for one of their periodic get-togethers. As usual the food was good, the conversations lively, the four generations in constant communication over what is occurring in their lives. This time the gathering was at our house where matriarch Ruth, Jim, and I live. Jim had prepared a special feature: videos of past events, ones recorded by a late partner, DB, who had related to the family more years than I have. (I’m up to 14 years.) DB died a few months ago and the showing provided family members a reminder of his contributions to their life. I enjoyed hearing them laugh at how they looked back then. I listened to their conversations about what they were seeing and realized how we newer members had missed a lot.

The youngest child, Ruth’s great-granddaughter, a precocious and rather insistent five-year-old with long blond hair tied back with a bow that matched her beautiful spring dress, kept coming indoors where the videos were running to see if her mother was on the screen. To me the mother and daughter appear to be twins separated by many years—insistent, mouthy, strong. The little one enjoyed playing with me—high fives, snatches of conversation, laughs, and flirtations. She seemed to want my attention. Jim told me she had asked him toward the end of the afternoon, “Where’s Uncle Jim?” He said, “I’m Uncle Jim.” She said, “No, not you.” He said, “Oh, you mean Uncle Phil.” “Yes.” So I made a new connection to the family through its youngest member.

© 10 April 2017

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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The Drain, by Louis Brown

The Drain and Psycho film of Alfred Hitchcock

(1) Brain Drain

(2) Donald Trump said he is going to drain the swamp in Washington D. C., meaning he intends to curtail the all-pervasive power of the lobbyists. Unfortunately I think that means he is going to give them even more power, and the voice of the advocates for working people and the American public will grow even weaker.

(3) People in the government or commentators who still can be believed:
     (a) Van Jones
     (b) Elizabeth Warren
     (c) Bernie Sanders
     (d) Tulsi Gabbard of Hawaii
     (e) Nina Turner

(4) 11-22-2012 Psycho (1960 film), 

     produced by Alfred Hitchcock (who died in 1980)

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia This article is about the 1960 film. For the sequels, see Psycho (franchise). For the 1998 remake, see Psycho (1998 film). Psycho is a 1960 American psychological horror film directed and produced by Alfred Hitchcock, and written by Joseph Stefano, starring Anthony Perkins, Janet Leigh, John Gavin, Vera Miles and Martin Balsam, and was based on the 1959 novel of the same name by Robert Bloch. The film centers on the encounter between a secretary, Marion Crane (Leigh), who ends up at a secluded motel after stealing money from her employer, and the motel’s disturbed owner-manager, Norman Bates (Perkins), and its aftermath.[4]

… slasher film genre.

Plot During a lunchtime tryst in Phoenix, Arizona, a real estate secretary named Marion Crane discusses with her boyfriend, Sam Loomis, how they cannot afford to get married because of Sam’s debts. After lunch, Marion returns to work, where a client drops off a $40,000 cash payment on a property. Her boss asks her to deposit the money in the bank, and she asks if she can take the rest of the afternoon off. Returning home, she begins to pack for an unplanned trip, deciding to steal the money and give it to Sam in Fairvale, California. Driving on, Marion encounters a sudden rainstorm and decides to stop for the night at the Bates Motel; the proprietor, Norman Bates, invites her to a light dinner after she checks in. She accepts, but then hears an argument between Norman and his mother about bringing a woman into her house. They eat in the motel parlor, where he tells her about his hobby of taxidermy and his life with his mother, who is mentally ill and forbids him to have a life outside of her. Returning to her room, Marion decides to go back to Phoenix to return the stolen money. She prepares to take a shower, unaware that Norman is spying on her. * [The Prompt] As she [Janet Leigh as Marion Crane] is showering, a shadowy female figure suddenly comes in and stabs her to death with a chef’s knife. [the viewer looks at her blood flow down the shower drain.] Norman discovers the murder and meticulously cleans up the crime scene, putting Marion’s corpse and her possessions—including the embezzled money—into the trunk of her car and sinking it in the swamps near the motel. A week later, Marion’s sister Lila arrives in Fairvale and confronts Sam about the whereabouts of her sister. A private investigator named Arbogast approaches them and confirms that Marion is wanted for stealing the $40,000 from her employer. He eventually comes across the Bates Motel, where Norman’s behavior arouses his suspicions. After hearing that Marion had met with Norman’s mother, he asks to speak with her, but Norman refuses. Arbogast calls Lila and Sam, informing them of what he has discovered and saying he intends to speak with Norman’s mother. He goes to the Bates’ home in search of her; as he reaches the top of the stairs, Mrs. Bates suddenly appears from the bedroom and murders him. When Lila and Sam do not hear from Arbogast, they go to the local sheriff, who informs them that Mrs. Bates has been dead for ten years; she had killed herself and her lover. Concerned, Lila and Sam make their way to the motel. Norman takes his unwilling mother from her room, telling her he needs to hide her for a while in the fruit cellar.

At the motel, Lila and Sam meet Norman. Sam distracts him by striking up a conversation while Lila sneaks up to the house. When Norman eventually realizes what they want, he knocks Sam out and rushes to the house. Lila sees Norman approaching and attempts to hide by going down steps that lead to a cellar. There she finds Mrs. Bates sitting in a chair. Lila turns her around and discovers that she is in fact a mummified corpse. Lila screams as a figure comes running into the cellar: Norman, holding a chef’s knife and wearing his mother’s clothes and a wig. Before Norman can attack Lila, Sam, having regained consciousness, subdues him.

At the local courthouse, a psychiatrist explains that Norman had murdered Mrs. Bates and her lover 10 years prior out of jealousy. Before, they had been living a solitary life together after his father’s death, until she met this new man. Unable to bear the guilt, he exhumed her corpse and began to treat it as if she were still alive. In order to preserve that illusion, he recreated his mother in his own mind as an alternate personality, often dressing in her clothes and talking to himself in her voice. The “Mother” personality is as jealous and possessive as the real Mrs. Bates had been: Whenever Norman feels attracted to another woman, “Mother” flies into a rage and kills her. As “Mother”, Norman had killed two missing girls prior to Marion, as well as Arbogast. The psychiatrist then says the “Mother” personality has taken permanent hold of Norman’s mind. While Norman sits in a holding cell, Mrs. Bates’ voice is heard protesting that the murders were Norman’s doing and that she “wouldn’t even harm a fly.” Meanwhile, Marion’s car is pulled out of the swamp.

Cast * Anthony Perkins as Norman Bates * Janet Leigh as Marion Crane * Vera Miles as Lila Crane * John Gavin as Sam Loomis * Martin Balsam as Detective Milton Arbogast * John McIntire as Al Chambers * Simon Oakland as Dr. Fred Richmond * Frank Albertson as Tom Cassidy * Pat Hitchcock as Caroline * Vaughn Taylor as George Lowery * Lurene Tuttle as Mrs. Chambers * John Anderson as California Charlie (used car salesman) * Mort Mills as Highway Patrol Officer * Virginia Gregg, Jeanette Nolan, and Paul Jasmin as voice of Norma Bates

Janet Leigh
Leigh in The Naked Spur (1953)
Born Jeanette Helen Morrison July 6, 1927 Merced, California, U.S.
Died October 3, 2004 (aged 77) Los Angeles, California, U.S.
Cause of death Heart attack
Resting place Westwood Village Memorial Park Cemetery
Occupation Actress
Years active 1947–2004

Spouse(s) John Carlisle (1942; annulled) Stanley Reames (1945–1949; divorced) Tony Curtis (1951–1962; divorced) Robert Brandt (1962-2004; her death)
Children Kelly Curtis Jamie Lee
Janet Leigh (born Jeanette Helen Morrison; July 6, 1927 – October 3, 2004) was an American actress and author. She is best remembered for her performance in Psycho, for which she was awarded the Golden Globe Award for Best Supporting Actress and received an Academy Award nomination. She was the first wife of actor Tony Curtis and the mother of Kelly Curtis and Jamie Lee .

Anthony Perkins
Anthony Perkins in 1975, by Allan Warren
Born April 4, 1932
New York, New York, U.S.
Died September 12, 1992 (aged 60) Los Angeles, California, U.S.
Cause of death AIDS-related pneumonia
Nationality American
Occupation Actor, musician
Years active 1953–1992
Spouse(s) Berry Berenson (1973–1992, his death)
Children Oz Perkins Elvis Perkins
Parent(s) Osgood Perkins Janet Esselstyn Rane
Anthony Perkins (April 4, 1932 – September 12, 1992) was an American actor and singer. He was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor for his second film, Friendly Persuasion but is best known for playing Norman Bates in Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho and its three sequels. His other films include The Trial, Phaedra, Fear Strikes Out, Tall Story, The Matchmaker, Pretty Poison, North Sea Hijack, Five Miles to Midnight, The Black Hole, Murder on the Orient Express, Mahogany, and Crimes of Passion.
Early Life Perkins was born in New York City, son of stage and film actor Osgood Perkins and his wife, Janet Esselstyn (née Rane). His paternal great-grandfather was wood engraver Andrew Varick Stout Anthony.[1] He was five when his father died.[2] Perkins was a descendant of a Mayflower passenger, John Howland. He attended Brooks School, Browne & Nichols School, Columbia University and Rollins College, having moved to Boston in 1942.[3]

Jamie Lee Curtis (born November 22, 1958) is an American actress and author. She made her film debut in 1978 by starring as Laurie Strode in John Carpenter’s Halloween (1978). A big hit, the film established her as a notable actress in horror, and she subsequently starred in Halloween II (1981), The Fog (1980), Prom Night (1980), Terror Train (1980), and Roadgames (1981), gaining the status of “scream queen” to mainstream audiences. Curtis has since compiled a body of work that spans many genres, including the cult comedy films Trading Places (1983), for which she won a BAFTA Award for Best Actress in a Supporting Role, A Fish Called Wanda (1988), and True Lies (1994), for which she won a Golden Globe for Best Actress in Musical or Comedy.

I occasionally saw Anthony Perkins walking around Greenwich Village

© 22 November 2016

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.