Month: June 2017

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Poetry, by Lewis Thompson

When
Death Comes
–by Mary
Oliver (Oct 03, 2006)

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn; 


when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse to
buy me, and snaps the purse shut; 

when death comes
like the measle-pox

when
death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I
want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And
therefore, I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,


and
I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and
each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and
each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When
it’s over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When
it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I
don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I
don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

–Mary
Oliver
© 30 Jun 2014 
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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Muleshoes, by Jude Gassaway

Interesting
spell check fact:  the correct spellings
are horseshoe and mule shoe; I am talking about shoes for a mule, not pumps for
a drag queen.
MULESHOES
Knowing
the difference between horseshoes and muleshoes might be esoteric knowledge,
yet it might occasionally come in handy. 
A horse’s hoof is circular in shape and a mule’s hoof is a long
oval.  A blacksmith-forged, custom-made
iron shoe reflects the shape of each hoof.
In
June 1974, as a newly minted field geologist, I got a summer job in Death
Valley. The Tenneco Company had recently purchased borax mining and mineral
interests from the Kern County Land and Cattle Company. This included an
operating borate mine in Death Valley National Monument, a borate processing
plant in nearby Nevada, and numerous mining claims and prospects in the
region.  We were hired to relocate and
reassess the mineral properties, and to search for new mineral prospects.  Field geologists are always looking for
things, and some discoveries are real surprises.
The
dozen summer hires found lodging in the Amargosa Hotel, Death Valley Junction,
at a cooler elevation than the valley floor. The hotel was a formerly exclusive
establishment.
I
have never seen a bathroom with such elegant tile work.  We had full access to the unused hotel
kitchen, especially the refrigerators. 
Outdoors, the tiled swimming pool was filled to the brim with wind-blown
sand.
The
hotel’s phone number was Death Valley #3. 
Another unexpected find, this was the last twelve party telephone system
in the USA.  To use the phone, you held
the receiver to your ear and wound the crank. 
When the Operator answered, you told her the phone number you wished to
be connected to.  As you continued your
call, you’d occasionally turn the crank in order to keep the central battery
charged.  Also, you got used to hearing
clicks on the line as the other party-line members listened in.
There
was no radio or TV reception in the area, and the party-line was a way for
far-flung neighbors to keep in touch and to be entertained.  And we, the summer geologists, were the
newest game in town.  We learned to use
the more private dial-up phone at the Tenneco plant in Nevada, some nine miles
away.
Another
discovery was Stateline, the bar en route to the plant.  It was run by Sandy, formerly the head hooker
at Ash Meadows Brothel, now closed.  The
menu was cocktails, beer, coffee, top ramen, and hard-boiled eggs.  The naked lady painting behind the bar,
rescued from the whorehouse, had been painted by Marta Becket, the ballerina at
the Amargosa Opera House.  But that’s
another story.
Tenneco
sent me and another geologist on reconnaissance to the southern Mojave Desert
for July and August.  At 2000 feet,
Barstow was much cooler than Death Valley Junction.  At night, it cooled off to below 100
degrees.   I had to borrow a sleeping
bag!
In
the Calico Mountains, we followed Mule Canyon Road to the abandoned town of
Borate (1894-1907).  Mule Canyon is a
narrow canyon in soft shale, cut by iron-shod mules pulling iron-clad wheeled
freight wagons.  Borate’s open pit borax
mine yielded 900 thousand tons of ore. 
One principle use for borates then, as now, is for laundry and cleaning
products (Boraxo).
The
site of the town dump, now piles of rusty cans and wire, is called “Tin Can
Alley”.  All that was left of the town
were several dirt streets and a few pieces of concrete foundation. There were
many broken bottles and bits of iron, suggesting that bottle hunters had
already explored the site. I found many waist-high cone-shaped piles of loose
dirt with bits of broken glass scattered about the townsite.  The whole danged town had been sifted by the
bottle hunters.  Sifted!  Dang!
We
moved on to look for rock outcrops with promise of borax. That’s why we were
there.  A short incline led to a flat
railroad bed.  Rails and ties had been
removed many years ago.  The narrow bench
was all that was left of the Borate & Daggett Railroad.  Soon we found a pile of rusty artifacts: the
dump for the blacksmith’s shop.  Lying in
the twisted metal scrap were a dozen used muleshoes. Wow! TWENTY MULE TEAM
muleshoes.
Relics
that had been missed by the relic hunters. 
A bonanza!
© May 2017
About
the Author 
Retired USGS Field Geologist.
Founding member, Denver Womens Chorus 

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Choices, by Gillian

Choices
are what we all make, constantly, throughout our lives. Most of the obviously
huge ones we all recognize as such: marriage, divorce, babies, changing jobs or
homes, coming out, retirement, suicide. Meanwhile the innumerable tiny choices
we make go almost unnoticed; tea or coffee? Should I watch ‘Gone with the Wind’
yet again or the Bronco game? Or is now a good time for a nap?
Sometimes
we will say, ‘I had no choice’, ‘I’ve run out of options’, which of course is
never true. Except for a few who are tragically unable to make choices, or
incapable of following up on them, we always have options. What we really mean
is, there are no good options to choose from. Our transgendered friend
Margaret, who came to this group for a while, says she reached a point in her
life when she had to change this ‘wrong body’ she inhabited or kill herself.
Period. No other options were available. But still, she had a choice; just not
a good one. I guess that’s how it is with all suicides; heartbreakingly, it’s
their last best choice.
When
I talk of my own coming-out process I sometimes say it never felt like I chose
to come out. It was something that happened to me. I was swept up on this
runaway train, going wherever it cared to take me. But I know that’s not
strictly true. I had a choice. I could have thrown myself, at great risk of
serious psychological injury, off that train. I simply chose not to.
But
choices are not always what they seem. Apparently small ones can turn out to be
huge; literally a matter of life and death.
A
month ago, over three hundred people chose the same course of action.
Hey, lets go to Pulse
tonight. It’s Latin Night y’know?
Yeah, we’re planning on
it.
It was great last
year. 
I know Tony and Luis are
going.
Non
of them knew they were choosing a night of terror. Fifty of them did not know
they were choosing to die.
I
am invaded by sadness for the terrible losses of that Orlando night. I am sad,
of course, for all who died, and for the many who were seriously injured. I am
sad for those who loved them. I am sad for all who survived, though physically
unscathed, to live with what must be terrible psychological traumas. I am sad
for the entire LGBT and Latino communities, whose tribes have been attacked. I
am sad for the crazed shooter, so lost and astray that he felt compelled do
such a terrible thing. It was a choice, of course. He could have chosen one of
oh so many other ways to go. But most of all, I think, I am sad for the parents
who found out, in one nightmare moment, 
that their son was dead and that he was gay. (I say ‘son’ because the
majority of those killed were men, though lesbians died also.) I can imagine
little worse. I learn in the same instant that my son is dead and that I never
really knew him. And now I never will. What choices of word and deed did I
make, that my son was a stranger to me and I didn’t even know it?
But,
whatever right or wrong choices we might make, our ability to chose is of great
importance to us. Our free will gives us at least some slight feeling of power;
of control over our lives. And for others, power is found in the act of taking
away our ability to chose. The classic example of that battle would be the
abortion issue, which seems as if it will go on forever.
At
this very moment, combining thoughts of choices with my sadness engendered by
the Orlando tragedy, I finally get the connection. My very sadness is a choice.
A terrible thing happened. I can close my mind to it: forget it, shove it down
deep and not think about it. Not good. I can be very very angry. But I’m doing
my best to give up anger. But sadness is OK; not fun, but it seems like a
reasonable reaction. So I chose it. But it came over me in too dark a cloud;
with too much weight. I have felt overwhelmed by it. And now, just knowing it
was a choice has mitigated it’s hold on me. Even as I type, I feel it lifting,
becoming a much lighter, less overpowering, form of itself.
Once
again, writing things out has helped me deal with, lessen, change, and
understand, emotions. But it’s not just the writing. So again I thank you all
for this wonderful group – for your caring and sharing and support. That’s
where the real magic lies.
© Jul 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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Setting Up House, by Gail Klock

This is my third and final attempt at writing this piece on
“Setting up House.” I struggled with it twice yesterday, both attempts were
wiped out with the delete key. I woke up this morning asking myself why it was
so hard, what was the struggle all about. As all of you in this room know
getting words down on paper requires an act of God, well not quite, but it does
kind of require a coming to terms with yourself. My first two attempts
sufficiently covered the superficial aspects of setting up house, all the
details were there, but none of the heart. I am attempting to reach into my
soul and rectify it with my brain to get to the emotions of this piece.
“Setting up house” represents to me the essence of life, the
determining of how I am going to live my life. Am I going to set up house by
myself and find contentment in the doing or am I going to attempt to set up
house with another, and perhaps realize my hopes and dreams. When I’m honest
with myself I know I desire the latter as I am a social person and I really
enjoy being in a loving relationship. I had a couple of dreams lately which
relate to this topic. In the first one I was trying to get out of Golden on a
highway, but I didn’t know which road to take. The one I was on led to a
flyover which was very high and narrow with an arc so great at the top I
couldn’t see where it was leading. I wasn’t sure if it was the right road to be
on, but I knew if I could focus on the road and not on the frightening aspects
of the path itself I would be okay. I awoke at this point and began to analyze
this dream before the details of it escaped me. I knew why I was leaving
Golden, it was where my former partner and I had lived with our family, and our
family as we knew it then no longer exists. Much of the setting up house which
we had done so well unraveled. We, my partner and I, had not paid enough
attention to the infrastructure of our dwellings. The road being high and
narrow spoke to two of my fears, height and confinement. The “focus on the road”
aspect of the dream is literally focusing on knowing that “I am”. I lost sight
of my existence when my little brother Karl died, when our family crumbled
under the grief. I thought I could regain my mother’s love and attention by
giving her back her happiness. In the process, I gave up myself as I tried to
anticipate what her needs were, if I was only good enough I would make her
happy and she could return to the loving mother she had been before she lost
her baby. I tried to “set up house” at the age of four, almost five. The
materials I used worked for the time being, they were at that time the best
available. But it was a bit like using asbestos, the long-term damage was
potentially greater than the original benefits gained. I’m using better
building materials now which are being supplied by more informed builders, not
a four-year-old, but sessions with a very skilled psychologist, Vivian
Schaefer; readings by authors such as Brene Brown and Eckhart Tolle, which are
supplemented greatly by the thoughtful discussions Betsy and Gillian and I have
concerning the meaning of these writings, particularly Tolle’s; and by the
relationship Trish and I are forming. Without Trish, very little of the
progress I am making would be taking place. It is not possible to develop
relationship skills without relationship and both Trish and I are bringing the
integrity needed which allows us to grow.  Through these efforts I am regaining my awareness
of myself and my emotions and the infrastructure of my life is being rebuilt.
My other two dreams involved the living spaces I was
occupying. The first one was rather shabby and run down with locks on the
exterior doors which a man was trying to break into. In the next segment of the
dream I was living in a new apartment which had very secure locks, but was
incredibly small; as I looked around the rooms I realized there was space for
cooking, but no space for a bed. Upon awakening and further analyzation of
these dreams I recognized the locks I have use in life are perhaps not as sturdy
as I expected them to be, but rather false providers of security. I tried for
too many years to protect myself and my emotions by locking them up, which in
reality created a less safe environment. The small safe living quarters allowed
me access to provide sustenance for myself, but it did not allow for a bed,
which was the metaphor for an intimate relationship.
From these dreams, I would conclude that “setting up house”
requires unlocking the emotions within. In order to be safe in a relationship I
must be aware of my own needs, wants, and desires. I must also allow my
vulnerabilities to be known, because they are the infrastructure which left
unacknowledged will destroy the housekeeping. It is unreasonable and unfair to
think another person should be able to intuit my areas of insecurities and thus
respond in the understanding, loving manner I am hoping for.
When Lynn and I set up house there
were never any conflicts over where we lived, the décor, who would do what
chores, landscaping, the amount of money each of us was contributing, or any
other domestic decisions. We were building our lives together, knowing each
person was making a fair contribution and accepting and respecting the fact
that together we would be happier and have more. We lived in rental properties
for the first eight years and finally acquired the finances we needed to afford
our own home. The first house we lived in was designed by my brother Eric, as
he said, to compensate for how horribly he had treated me when we were kids- I kiddingly
told him it was partial payment. Lynn and I did a great deal of the work on the
house ourselves in order to make it affordable, we insulated the house, worked
with the electrician as a gofer, stained all the wood in the interior, painted
and wallpapered all the walls, and did all the landscaping. It was a lot of
hard work, yet exciting at the same time. We did a good job with the
housekeeping aspect of “setting up house”. We had a lot of love and respect for
one another, but we didn’t have enough internal integrity to support the
housekeeping for the duration of our lives. We didn’t know how to be vulnerable
with one another, we used strong locks which provided false security.
I want to combine the aspects of my
relationship with Lynn which contributed to our long-term relationship and our two
wonderful daughters, with my internal integrity which allows for the “I am”.
This combination will provide the most beautiful house I have ever set up. It
is the house I have been seeking for the past 65 years. I have no doubt I will
find it as long as I stay focused on the road which will lead me there and not
allow my fears to distract me. Slowly, I am unlocking the rusty locks which I
put in place many years ago and I am finding the unshackling to be rather freeing.
I’m still a fledgling beginning to test my wings, but I trust the inner
strength which I know is within me, that which will allow me to soar like a
hawk.
© 12 Sep 2016 
About the Author 
I grew up in
Pueblo, CO with my two brothers and parents. Upon completion of high school, I
attended Colorado State University majoring in Physical Education. My first
teaching job was at a high school in Madison, Wisconsin. After three years of
teaching I moved to North Carolina to attend graduate school at UNC-Greensboro.
After obtaining my MSPE I coached basketball, volleyball, and softball at the
college level starting with Wake Forest University and moving on to Springfield
College, Brown University, and Colorado School of Mines.
While
coaching at Mines my long-term partner and I had two daughters through
artificial insemination. Due to the time away from home required by coaching, I
resigned from this position and got my elementary education certification. I
taught in the gifted/talented program in Jefferson County Schools for ten
years. As a retiree, I enjoy helping take care of my granddaughter, playing
senior basketball, writing/listening to stories in the storytelling group,
gardening, reading, and attending OLOC and other GLBT organizations.
As a retiree,
I enjoy helping take care of my granddaughter, playing senior basketball,
writing/listening to stories in the storytelling group, gardening, reading, and
attending OLOC and other GLBT organizations.

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The Knitters’ Dilemma, by Cecil Bethea

The scene is a comfortable living room – like its owner a bit
worn and dowdy who is sitting on a sofa with two wing back chairs at either
end.  A plastic grocery bag lies beside
him.
Bert  (Looking directly at the audience)
Good afternoon!  My name is Bert
Wilson.  Because I’m a junior and Dad was
called “Al”, I got the rear end, which is pretty much the story of my life.
Well, you all are
probably wondering why we’re here.  There
is a story.  I’m a member of a men’s club
called the Prime Timers.  If you’re nice,
you’d call us a group of mature gentlemen involved in various social
activities.  If you’re not nice but are
bitchy –like so many people-, you could call us a gaggle of gay geezers doing
only God knows what.
Anyway a
few of us are working on a project to raise money for the club.  While we don’t advertise the fact, we all
like to knit, it’s a bit like masturbation –enjoyable but not discussed. Anyway, we’re doing a project to raise money. 
We are making what might be called, shall I call them, stocking
stuffers, actually they are called cock socks. 
Hate that term.  Sounds like
something you’d buy in a really depressing discount store.
(The door chimes “There’s
Gonna Be a Hot Time in This Old Town Tonight”) Come on in whoever you are; the lock is off.
Ben   Some day you’re going to say that to the wrong man.
Bert  Is
there such a creature as a “wrong man”?
Ben   Just think how
often we’ve fallen in love before the third drink with some guy in a bar.
Bert  There
you go again dragging up the past.
Ben   We all know you think that truth is a greatly overrated
virtue.  Listen, I went by Playtime Toys and talked to
Mike, the manager; he’d like to get a dozen of the cock socks, but on
consignment.
Bert  Consignment?  What’s that?
Ben
We let him
have them.  For each one he sells we get $7.50.  Any he doesn’t sell we get back.
Bert  Is he honest?
Ben   He’ll sign a contract.
Bert  Exactly what sort of place is this Playtime Toys.
Ben   You know.  He sells
sex toys.
Bert  No, I don’t know! 
I get along very well without gadgets. 
Besides what were you doing in Playtime Toys?
Ben   He also sells porn.
Bert  Now that’s understandable.  Wonder where the magazines get all those good
looking young men who are willing, no, anxious, to take off their clothes to be
photographed.  I never see any such
creatures while strolling in the malls, at Safeway, or on 16th
Street.
Ben   You should sport a $100 bill or maybe even a $50
on your lapel.  Sometimes, I hear, a hot
meal and a warm bed will do the trick.
Bert  Really?
Ben   At least, that’s
what I hear.  Is Adam coming?
Bert  Yes.  He has a ride with Ned, that new member who was
at the luncheon Wednesday, so he might be on time, 
Ben   Unlikely.  Adam will be too late for his own funeral.  (The chimes peal) I might be wrong.
Bert  Come on in.
Adam   I do believe I’m on time.
Ben   Probably nobody else will believe in that miracle.
Adam   There you go again being cynical and telling the world.
Ben   Not so much cynical as realistic.
Adam   No matter.  This is
Ned.  Remember him from the luncheon
Wednesday.  He sat by me.  Somehow during the conversation, it came out
that he knits, so naturally I invited him to join us.
Bert  Ned, who taught you how?
Ned  My grandmother.  She babysat me.  To keep me still she taught me how to crochet
pot holders.  Everybody, no matter who,
got a pot holder for Christmas. 
Eventually I graduated to afghans. 
Pot holders became dull so she taught me how to knit.  As they say, the rest is history.
Bert  My story exactly except it was Aunt Amanda.  She was a fine seamstress.  Women came all the way from Laurel to have
her make them dresses.
Ned  Laurel?  Maryland?
Ben   Lord, no.  He’s
from the metropolis of Hot Coffee, Mississippi. 
Bert is the only man I know who can turn ‘shit’ into a five-syllable
word.
Ned  Five?
Ben   He sort of skids on that ‘i’.
Bert You all quit talking about me.  I’m thinking we should get a name other than “cock
sox”.  That sounds so common.
Ned  Hardly common.  I’d say downright rare.  For example, is one of us wearing a cock sock
now?
Adam   It’s not that cold outside.
Ben   I’d never thought of using one like long johns.
Bert  You all know what I mean – a classy name with just a hint
of naughtiness.
Ned  What about ‘Gilding for the Lily’?
Ben   Maybe ‘Gift Wrap’.
Adam   ‘Camouflage’.
Ben   ‘Almost There’
Ned  ‘High Hopes’
Adam   ‘Manhandler’,
Bert  Remember; we’re not trying to name a new perfume.
Ned  I once heard them called penis
cozies.
Ben   How many guys
have ever seen a tea cozy much less know what a cozy is?
Bert  I prefer penis cozy to cock sock because it sounds so warm
and snugly.
Ned  Well, now that problem is solved;
we can get to work.
Adam   I’m more than half way through one.  And Reggie, that guy from Calgary, gave me a
custom order for a gift.  Wrote the
colors and the size on his business card. 
(He pulls the card from his wallet, reads, and then exclaims)  My God!
Bert  What’s the matter?
Adam   He wants a cock sock in Kelly-green with amethyst blue
trim and 20 by 6!
Ben   That’s positively equine.
Ned  Sounds more like elephantine.
Bert  Those colors are garish. 
Wait just one minute! Did you say twenty by six?  No one has ever seen one that size; has
anyone ever heard of one? 
Ned  That would be a treasure in a
museum.  
Ben   Or in a porno film.
Adam   The very wonder!
Ned  I think you should verify
those dimensions.
Ben   On the other hand if they are wrong, he could use the
thing for a tote bag.
Bert  That would be an awful lot of Kelly-green and amethyst
blue.  I think you should call to check.
Ben   Try to get the other guy’s number.
Adam    (Dialing) Hello, Reggie. 
Adam Swithin.  I’m just checking
to see if I got you order right.  My eyes
aren’t what they were.
Never did meet a Dorian Grey either.  Now, you have down here on your card Kelly
green…
Oh!  He is.
That’s not too common.
All over!
I’m sure he is. 
And you want amethyst blue for the trim?
They are? 
That must be nice.
Now about the size, I read it as twenty by six
(Disappointed) So that’s it ,
I didn’t know that. 
Well, I just wanted to be sure  
See you at the luncheon Wednesday.  Good bye.
Well, that man is besotted or crazy or vice
versa.
Ned  Go ahead and give us the details
Adam   Firstly, Reggie, like I said, is madly in love with an Irishman.  That’s why he wants the Kelly green.
Ben   Never heard of showing your patriotism by wearing a Kelly-green
cock sock.
Ned  You’ve never been in the baths
after a St. Patrick’s Day Parade.  I did
decades ago in New York.  Still suffer
from post-traumatic stress syndrome.
Bert  What about the amethyst blue?
Adam   That’s the color of Shawn’s beautiful eyes.  His hair is red, everywhere.
Ned  When the lights are out you can’t
see, so the colors don’t matter, but you can feel a lot.
Ben   Tell us.  We are
waiting with bated breath.  Whatever that
means
Adam   Like I said, Reggie is from Calgary.  Up in Canada, they use the metric
system.  So, it is in centimeters not
inches.  Respectable but not marvelous.
Bert  But what does all this mean?  Centimeters? I don’t understand.
Ben   It means that Shawn’s prick is about 7 ½ inches by 2 ¾.
Bert  That’ s nice but certainly not 20 X 6.
Ned  Oh! How the glory has departed.
Ben   Miracles do not happen in the modern world.
Adam   But I can still daydream.
Bert  Seeing one that
big would be like that old saying “See Paris and die.”
© 17 Oct 2010 
About the Author 
 Although
I have done other things, my fame now rests upon the durability of my
partnership with Carl Shepherd; we have been together for forty-two years and
nine months as of today, August 18th, 2012.
Although
I was born in Macon, Georgia in 1928, I was raised in Birmingham during the
Great Depression.  No doubt I still carry
invisible scars caused by that era.  No
matter we survived.  I am talking about
my sister, brother, and I.  There are two
things that set me apart from people. 
From about the third-grade I was a voracious reader of books on almost
any subject.  Had I concentrated, I would
have been an authority by now; but I didn’t with no regrets.
After
the University of Alabama and the Air Force, I came to Denver.  Here I met Carl, who picked me up in Mary’s
Bar.  Through our early life, we traveled
extensively in the mountain West.  Carl
is from Helena, Montana, and is a Blackfoot Indian.  Our being from nearly opposite ends of the
country made “going to see the folks” a broadening experience.  We went so many times that we finally had
“must see” places on each route like the Quilt Museum in Paducah, Kentucky and
the polo games in Sheridan, Wyoming.  Now
those happy travels are only memories.
I was
amongst the first members of the memory writing class.  While it doesn’t offer criticism, it does
offer feedback.  Also, just trying to
improve your writing helps no end.
Carl
is now in a nursing home; I don’t drive any more.  We totter on.
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Bicycle Memories, by Betsy

I now know I had a trike. I have a photo of it.  But I don’t recall it. The first bicycle I
can remember that was mine was a blue probably Schwinn with big old fat
tires.  When I grew to be old enough to
ride out of my neighborhood, I went everywhere on that vehicle: to school, to
the store, on “bike hikes” on the weekends with my friends.  One day I was riding down a small hill on
Morris Avenue.  I got going very fast—too
fast really— the handlebar began to shake back and forth Before I knew it I was
out of control.  At the bottom of the
hill was a roundabout—right in front of my dentist’s office. I hit the curb of
the roundabout and flew into the shrubbery in the middle. Next thing I knew I
was in my mother’s car on the way to the surgeon’s office. My dentist, Dr.
Bienville, had seen the accident from his window and went running to save me.
He carried me into his office and called my mother who took me to the doctor. I
suppose he checked my teeth first. I only suffered a nasty cut on my face which
the surgeon did a great job of stitching up. I still have a scar which is
barely discernible now 70 years later.  I
sure loved that blue bike, but it was never again ridable.
When my children were 2,4, and 6, we went to the Netherlands
to live for 2 1/2 years. As  is the case
for the Dutch people, bicycles were our main mode of transportation in the
crowded streets of that country. In the 1960’s I had never seen child carriers
for bicycles in the United States. But they were as prevalent as tulips in
Holland. All kinds. Between the two of us my husband and I could easily carry
our 3 children about on bikes with no problem. 
Safety was not so much of a consideration back then. No one wore a
helmet, not even did we put them on our children’s heads. I suppose some heads
had to be sacrificed before anyone thought of using helmets. One of our
favorite weekend activities was riding our bicycles on the ever present paved
paths through the Dutch sand dunes, one of the few undeveloped natural places
in the Netherlands.
Back in the U.S. in the 70’s and in Denver, I didn’t own a
bicycle. But we were able to remain a one car family for many years because
Bill, my husband, used his bicycle to commute the two or so miles to work every
day rain or shine. 
It was not until the late 1980’s that I started cycling
again—riding to work and around town on errands.
In 1986, I took my first long distance bicycle trip with my
daughter and her boyfriend both in college at the time. Still no helmets to be
seen. There were bicycle shops but they only housed bicycles and parts—no
paraphernalia of any kind—no spandex cycling shorts with padded crotch, no
handlebar mounted computers to tell you how fast you were going, how far you
had gone, all meteorological info you could possibly need, what day and time it
was, and your location coordinates—none of the accessories we see in the shops
today.
But that cycling trip around western New York state, and the
Allegheny Mountains in Pennsylvania was a wonderful and memorable adventure for
me.  I think that’s when I became hooked
on cycling.
In the 1990’s now an out and proud lesbian, I bought a blue
Fuji and rode the MS 150, a 150-mile ride from Denver to Pueblo and back to
raise funds for the MS Foundation.  This
ride is not a race, but many riders joined teams for the purpose of training,
socializing, and supporting each other on the ride. Early on I found myself
joining the “Motley Spokes team.”  The
competition was about raising money, not riding fast. 
During these years I pedaled several charitable rides in
various parts of the country and met many wonderful people. I have been very
lucky as well as I have many times been able to bring my own personal sag
support with me.  Gill has always been
willing— actually she has mostly wanted to come along (not on a bicycle) to
satisfy her wanderlust.  Unfortunately,
sometimes she becomes engrossed in her own bird watching, wildlife viewing,
picture taking activities and is distracted from her duties as a sag support.
She tends to turn her phone off so as not to disturb the wildlife—not helpful
to a stranded cyclist. Once riding in North Dakota in a vast open area with no
one in sight, the sky turned black and looked ominous.  “I wonder where Gill is, I said to myself.
”This looks like tornado weather.”  Two
hours later I arrived at the town that was our destination for the day, but I
was a bit scared, I must admit. And there she was. No bad weather where she had
been. Just tons of birds.
My best cycling experience and most memorable was across the
southern tier of the United States from Pacific to Atlantic. This was a two
month, 3800 mile fully supported tour with a company called Womantours. That
was in 2005. This trip has provided me with endless material for story
time.  Most of you have heard some of my
ramblings about this particular adventure. And I suppose I will continue to
refer to it as long as I am telling stories.
I have loved my bicycling experiences and the memories they
have provided.  I guess that’s why I love
a bicycle trip. It’s always an adventure. And I love adventure. 
© 30 May 2016 
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.
Posted on

Leaving, by Ricky

 Last week as I was
leaving my bathroom after leaving a small deposit, I thought it would be a good
idea to begin writing my story for the topic “Leaving”.  So, leaving the upstairs behind me and then
leaving the main floor, I headed to my computer in the basement.

Of course, the first
episode of leaving to which I was a party, was my birth.  I was seen leaving the birth canal by total
strangers.  It wasn’t like I wanted to be
leaving that warm and cozy small space, but my mother kept pressuring me to
leave—as in “Damn it! Get out of there and be quick about it.”  At least, that is what the screaming sounded
like to me.
Then there was the time
when I was about 4 or 5-years old, when my parents and I were to be leaving to
go somewhere.  Mom had finished leaving clean
clothes for me on my bed and told me to get changed.  Leaving the living room for my bedroom, I
arrived and began leaving the clothes I was wearing on the floor until I was
naked.  I then went to my bed to get
dressed and noticed that my dick was hard and demanded attention.  My mom saw me not getting dressed and not
leaving my dick alone so she told my dad. 
Dad spanked me for not leaving my dick alone.  Now
really!  He’s a man who at one time
was a boy.  He should have remembered his
discovery of his dick and known
better than to spank me for not leaving my dick alone.  Once a boy discovers the pleasures of not
leaving his dick alone, he will never be leaving it alone for very long for the
rest of his life.  After all, I doubt that Dad was leaving his
alone—my being alive is proof of that.
I’ll be leaving this
story for now because it is 3:00 AM and I am sleepy.  I may write more someday about all those
other leavings in my life.  (i.e.:
Leaving home for that first day of school. 
Leaving home for my first overnight campout. Leaving home for
college.  Leaving home for the
military.  Leaving the military for
home.  Leaving for the church to get
married.  Leaving the apartment for the
delivery room—4 times.)  Perhaps, I’ll
just be leaving this story unfinished.
© 7 Nov 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 was sent to live with my grandparents on their
farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents
divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.

My story blog is: TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

Posted on

Fond Memories, by Ray S

Memories
are the past,
A
path up to a musty attic,
That’s
life stacked up there.
Piles
of shoe boxes filled,
Yellowed
envelops,
A
tower of ancient vinyl,
Weathered
albums, ancient year books.
1964
baby girl arrives joining
A
two-year-old brother;
The
new beginning, four lives into fifty plus years.
Faint
shadows cross a darkening window.
New
lives carry on;
Old
ones and memories slip away.
It’s
time to finish stories and chapters
The
book gets heavier and heavier to hold
Heavier
to open and close
Hard
to discern a fond memory
From
the dross of a long life lived.
It
is time to go down those stairs.
© 10 October 2016 
About the Author 

Posted on

All that Jazz, by Phillip Hoyle

Jazz goes
way back in my family. Dad played piano in a dance band in the 1930s and 40s. He
played a lot of jazz and he sang. Sitting at the piano in those pre-microphone
days he’d keep the rhythm going in his left hand and sing to the dancers
through a megaphone he held in his right hand. I’m sure he never lost a beat, missed
a note, or mis-sang a word.
He played
at church where the Sunday morning service was rather formal featuring hymns
like “Holy, Holy, Holy” or “Faith of Our Fathers” or even “Faith of Our
Mothers” (yes, a special version probably for Mothers Day), but the evening
service was much less staid. Preludes then featured improvised versions of simpler
gospel hymns played by Dad and my eldest sister Lynn. They would decide who
would play organ and who piano. Each hymn was played twice, first with one
person being in charge of the melody while the other was free to improvise. On
the repeat they’d change it around. Dad always played the key changes so they
had a seamless delivery. They’d begin at, say, Number 252 and keep going until
the preacher showed up to pray and preach. They’d continue their duet
accompaniments during the congregational singing. Jazz rhythms mixed with
holiness. Mom said that sometimes in those evening gatherings the back of
Brother Lown’s neck would grow red when Dad jazzed up some particularly
vivacious song. When Dad played the church’s Hammond organ, he didn’t use the
vibrato and jazz-sounding combinations, but his improvisations were as much
influenced by Jelly Roll Morton or Fats Waller as by J. S. Bach or Franz
Schubert.
There was a
lot more jazz. There were jazz 78 rpm records ones my father had collected. We
played them over and over. Then there were LPs. As a junior high kid my
favorite album among my oldest sister’s Columbia Record Club selections was
“Ella in Berlin.” My favorite moment in the recording was when scat singing a
rather fast song Ella laughingly sang, “Oh, I almost bit my tongue that time.”
And there was more performance. My sister Lynn played piano in the school jazz
band. Eventually, when churches let in more styles, she would occasionally do
jazz stylizations on hymns and gospel songs—even Christmas hymns—and yes, in
the morning service.
My next
older sister Holly and I both sang some jazz standards. Dad taught some of them
to us. One Saturday evening we got to go with him to a dinner club to hear a
live performance. Afterwards Dad made sure we understood that although he liked
our interest in jazz we should never try to make a living in jazz. “It will
never be enough for your life,” he explained. He knew too many musicians who
had music only (well that and booze and drugs and sex), and said that wasn’t
enough.
Dad and I
would sometimes stop by the Donovan Sundries Store on a Sunday afternoon. Paul
Donovan had an organ there and occasionally played jazz for us. Being
self-taught, Paul played mostly black notes; that would be like in the key of C
Sharp or F Sharp. They fit his hand Dad explained. Sometimes Dad would play a
piece or two while Mr. Donovan filled his order for a box of condoms. (It’s
interesting what a junior high boy knows about his parents. They already had
five kids; didn’t need any more!)
In high school,
I got to sing a medley of Cole Porter songs with the school jazz band and later
with the city band. That’s how I came to know “It’s All Right with Me,” and
“You Do Something to Me.” The director liked that I sang loudly. But it was
many years later when those songs really meant something romantic for me. That
occurred when I fell in love with another man.
My son
Michael from early on had a good jazz ear and played his renditions on the
guitar. His son Evan followed suit by playing his own kind of jazz on the
piano. Then his son Kalo got the jazz fever and today plays the bass in jazz
bands, folk bands, rock bands and symphony orchestras. He is also a composer
of, among other music, jazz songs. I suppose at least one of my great grandkids
will also start jazzing it up someday. Frankly I’m looking forward to it.

I feel
lucky to live in jazzy Denver. The house sits just three blocks from live jazz
performances six nights a week. And Jim and I try never to miss hearing Larry
Wegner and CJ Nicolai when they perform at the club. I bought their CD and sent
it to my sister for her birthday. It features “I Can’t Get Started,” “Stars
Fell on Alabama,” “The Falling Leaves” (CJ sings that in French), “No Moon at
All,” “Smile,” and “The Nearness of You.” Lynn wrote back: “Dear Phillip, Thank
you for the jazz CD. The first time I played it, I was cleaning the hard[wood]
floors. After one or two songs, I was crying to the music. My Style of music! …
Now we play one song at night, to get relaxed. I think I’ll never get tired of
it.” 
© 2 January 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
Posted on

Birthdays, by Pat Gourley

My birthday is January 12th and I was born in 1949
in LaPorte Indiana. So for my first 67.5 years of life on earth I was (per
popular astrology) a Capricorn. I did have my astronomical chart drawn and
calculated for me once many years ago.  I
always responded when asked my sign that I was a Capricorn. Then those with
whom I had just shared this vital information would respond with a nod and
often saying with authority ‘of course you are’.  Strange how very rarely these days I am ever
asked my sign when it was often the next thing out your mouth after stating
one’s name in the 1970’s, at least in the circles I traveled in.
Needless to say, I was surprised, though not particularly
dismayed, to learn that I was no longer a Capricorn but thanks to the National
Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) I was now a Sagittarius. NASA went
an added a 13th zodiac sign to possibly be born under: Ophiuchus (I think
phonetically pronounced: ‘oh-fuck-us’)! I have linked below to a couple
articles that I used in researching this new and to many a very disturbing
development. That would be the crowd that has for years planned their day at
least in part after reading their horoscope in the daily paper or blaming all
sorts of bad stuff on Mercury in retrograde.
Maybe that’s why you hear less about people’s zodiac signs
since who reads the print media anymore. I am sure though that an app must
exist for those not willing to venture outside without first checking what’s up
for them that day per 3000 year old Babylonian mythology.
So what’s up with this additional zodiac sign? Well in a
rather snarky quote from Laurie Cantillo of the Planetary Exploration,
Heliophysics Department she explained why they added a 13th zodiac sign called
Ophiuchus: “We didn’t change any zodiac signs, we did the math. NASA reported
that because the Earth’s axis has changed, the constellations are no longer in
the same place they were thousands of years ago”. This shift in axis is due its
theorized to lost ice related to global warming causing the Earth to sort of
tip to one side. Oops! Try telling folks born under the new sign of Ophiuchus
that man-made climate change is a hoax.
Apparently, this update in the zodiac signs by NASA, perhaps the
first such adjustment since the Babylonians first go at it 3000 years ago, has
resulted in 86% of us now having a different sign. This of course radically
alters the daily advice we need to be following if we still use these bromides
to plan our life. Actually, if you are still relying on this advice I find that
more disturbing than whether or not you  are consulting the correct sign.
I am reminded of the apparently true stories of Nancy Reagan
frequently consulting her personal astrologer, the late Joan Quigley, for
advice during their years in the White House on how or when she and Ronnie
should proceed in conducting personal, national and world affairs. That
explains a few things doesn’t it! Reagan was born on February 6th,
which made him a Sagittarius in the old 12-sign model, but now we know he
should have been a Capricorn. We are left to ponder how different the world might
be today if Nancy’s astrologer had been feeding them the correct celestial
information!
One small caveat on how this change has been for me
personally sheds a bit of light on my sexual escapades of the past 50 years.
You can find all sorts of attributes attributable to your sign on-line though
many have not caught up with the addition of Ophiuchus. There is even sexual
stimulation advice available. For Capricorns, you can supposedly drive them to
a frenzy of sexual madness by tickling them behind the kneecaps. Since I am no
longer a Capricorn but was really a Sagittarius oh these many years that
explains why nobody ever got me off tickling me behind my knees! As a Sagittarius,
I can apparently be brought to the brink of orgasm by stroking my inner thighs.
Though I think this is getting closer to pay dirt, a stimulating move farther
north involving a sustained reach-around will still be required for a happy
ending.
Capricorn: Jan 20-Feb 16
Aquarius: Feb 16-March 11
Pisces: March 11-April 18
Aries: April 18-May 13
Taurus: May 13-June 21
Gemini: June 21-July 20
Cancer: July 20-Aug 10
Leo: Aug 10-Sept 16
Virgo: Sept 16-Oct 30
Libra: Oct 30-Nov 23
Scorpio: Nov 23-Nov 29
Ophiuchus: Nov 29-Dec 17
Sagittarius: Dec 17-Jan 20
https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/morning-mix/wp/2016/09/26/chaos-in-the-zodiac-some-virgos-are-leos-now-but-nasa-couldnt-care-less/
http://www.cosmopolitan.co.uk/entertainment/news/a45943/star-sign-horoscope-change-2016/
© 27 Nov
2016 
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.