Month: July 2017

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GLBT Hopes, by Ray S

Hope springs eternal, at least I hope so. When I take stock of my many hopes, some almost transcendental and spiritual, others seemingly hopeless. Often, hopes for a loved one, here now or passed on, high hopes for desire ringing from hearing a favorite music composition, eating a gourmet meal, visiting an art gallery, or enjoying the excitement of a sporting event. And of course, the finale and climax of a lover’s encounter with Eros, the god of love.

Somewhere amongst all this our tribe has and will continue to be confronted by our hopes and actions to further equal rights for not only GLBTs but for everyone. There are as many but of different complexities as we have faced in the past.

Support the Cause, hope positively, and fight like hell! Onward and upward to Stonewall Number Two!

© 9 January 2017

About the Author

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Anxious Moments, by Phillip Hoyle

When I heard the sound of the rattle I froze. Here alone with no one knowing I had even gone anywhere. My day off. No one at home. No cell phones. Late March afternoon on the West Mesa across the river from Albuquerque. I’d come here alone to look at the petroglyphs so I could look and look without anyone becoming bored or impatient. I’d started up a trail I’d never walked following its diagonal slope across the steep south exposure when I realized I really wanted to be off the path searching out there where no one was likely to have looked. And now I heard this surprising sound. It was too cold to worry over snakes, yet the distinctive, bone-chilling sound was from a rattlesnake. Where was it? I searched the large rock I was standing on. I studied the sage brush, rubber rabbit bushes, snake weed, and yuccas in every direction. I saw nothing, but recalled all too clearly my Scout training that had taught me these places make snakes hard to see. I wondered just how close the snake might be hoping it had moved away. I moved slightly. No sound. I waved my arms. The rattle resumed, and then stopped when I stopped. I moved my arms periodically hoping to discover just where the rattler had coiled. No such luck. I supposed my shadow had tipped off the snake in the first place. Recalling what I’d learned about snakes I realized it probably didn’t know where I was, just aware that I’d caused a shadow. Even though I couldn’t see a snake I knew not to step forward.

I’d go back the way I had come, but since I had been climbing slightly upward I’d have to go down, not a good thing in this rugged terrain. I knew a man who once stepped over a rock right onto a rattler. He got bit. Not me. I figured if I walked up hill to rejoin the well-travelled trail, (you know zag after my zig) I could then continue. I would walk uphill toward my shadow hoping not to see a snake, yet hoping to see one before it saw me. Did I want to be that close? No. Gingerly—no word for an outdoors adventurer but acutely accurate for this city slicker’s picking his way through the wilderness—I made my way ridiculously waving my arms like a windmill. Within a few yards I was startled to see the tail of a snake disappear into what I surmised was its den in the hillside. The snake had apparently been sunning on his front porch before being rudely interrupted by this quaking interloper. I was then super alert to my surroundings, and on my way up to the safety of the trail, I spotted two more disappearing snake tails. I must have been in a suburban Rattlesnake village.

Back on the trodden path I continued to the top of the mesa still alert to everything I could see to be afraid of. At the top there was mostly shade on the ground, no rattlesnake chaise lounges that I could see. I continued to a wide gully on the north side and reasoned I could safely descend where there had been no sunshine for quite a long time and probably no front porches at all. With relief but still quite a bit of anxiety running through my body, I picked a place to descend and had walked about two thirds of the way to the bottom when a loud crackling sent me almost into a panic. I saw with relief that I had frightened a rabbit. Still, several lower-body organs seemed caught in my throat. I laughed at myself the rest of the way down the hill where I was pleased to view some petroglyphs along the base of the escarpment even ones that had been viewed by thousands of other people. I really just needed to look at them, not discover new ones. Several were beautiful, and I was pleased none of them pictured rattlesnakes.

© 12 June 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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Where I Was when Kennedy Was Shot, by Louis Brown

Wikipedia: On November 22, 1963, John F. Kennedy, the 35th President of the United States, was fatally shot in Dallas, Texas while riding in a motorcade in Dallas’ Dealey Plaza, at 12:30 p.m. Central Standard Time.[1]

On that date I was a sophomore at Queens College, located in Flushing, Queens, NY. I was on my way to a swimming class in a gym building that looked like and still looks like an airplane hangar. As I was approaching the front door of the building another student told me what happened and we both walked over to a car parked in the parking lot in front of the gym-swimming pool building, and the owner of the car put his car radio on leaving the front door open; and we all listened. It was horrifying and frightening, of course.

Politically, I would say that, in the USA, it has been downhill ever since. And with the exception of Jimmy Carter, we really have not had any president with as much potential and enlightened attitude, as shown by John Kennedy, since. At least Jimmy Carter had morals. Barack Obama was good for the first 6 years then he conked out when he got enthused about TPP.

The whole nation was dazzled when John F. Kennedy was elected. One reason for Kennedy’s power was his granting a seat to the AFL-CIO at the table of power-making decisions. And the AFL-CIO delivered in those days. Working people had protections, status and reason to believe in a better future. About two years ago I called the AFL-CIO of Colorado, and they said they are not on speaking terms with the Democratic Party. To state the obvious, when the Democratic Party decided to stop advocating for working people, they got massacred by the wealthier, very nasty Republican Party. If the Democratic Party does return to advocating for working people and really listens to the AFL-CIO, they will become the majority party again. Otherwise they will shrink even further.

John Kennedy valued working people, granted appropriate power to the AFL-CIO, he valued college graduates. He believed our educational system should be well-financed and respected. Back in the early 1960’s the American educational system was number one in the world. Today it is about number 38 and declining.

Mrs. John F. Kennedy, Jacqueline née Bouvier (later Onassis) was not only beautiful but knew how to decorate mansion interiors and so decorated the White House with a French accent. The Kennedy’s were fabulously popular in Europe and Latin America. Americans were proud of their political leaders, of course, now we are ashamed and embarrassed, really ashamed.

Although I am a Bernie Sanders/Jill Stein fan, I think we should continue along the path of enlightened capitalism, as advocated by John F. Kennedy. Although I don’t have a phobia of socialism that the establishment constantly promotes, John F. Kennedy’s economic philosophy actually worked for the vast majority of Americans.

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3-17-13 Thinking of the Kennedy’s on St. Patrick’s Day

It must have been in the late 1990’s, when I was working as a caseworker for the NYC Human Resources Administration, I was sent to Headquarters at 330 Church Street in way downtown New York, that is to say Manhattan. Back then I could easily see the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. I had a Citibank checking account, and there was an ATM about 2 blocks around the corner from where I would go about 3 times a week to get lunch money. One afternoon I went, and I noticed an extremely handsome Irish-looking fellow. It took a few seconds, but I realized that the other young man was John F. Kennedy, Jr. Like any “peasant”, JFK Jr. went to the ATM and did his routine to withdraw what I presume was a small sum of money to get through his day.

Occasionally, he was accompanied by a tall pretty woman who dressed like a hippy. Back then all I had to do was watch the news and I learned that she was Carolyn née Bessette Kennedy. As the months passed, I saw both of them frequently. I learned why they were using that particular ATM. It was located in SoHo which at that time was undergoing gentrification, and John and Carolyn had purchased an expensive condo in one of the tall apartment buildings nearby. The two of them were actually my “neighbors” for the duration of my assignment downtown. I never got up the nerve to say “hello” or “hi there”, but occasionally I would roll my eyes at another person waiting to use the ATM to indicate there was someone famous in front of us.

Eventually, my assignment ended, and I no longer got to ogle the handsome Kennedy couple. Then about a year later I heard he and Carolyn had died in an airplane crash, actually, July 16, 1999, Atlantic Ocean, off the coast of Martha’s Vineyard. The news of this accident really saddened me.

Some speak of the “curse of the Kennedy’s”. It could be a curse, I guess, or is something going on behind the scenes that the public is not aware of?

© 2 April 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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Back Seat of the Car, by Gillian

Back in the days when I was young and foolish enough to indulge in gropings in the back seats of cars, I was still young and foolish enough to be doing it with boys. By the time I was old and wise enough to figure out who I really wanted to be groping, I was old and wise enough to have a lovely bedroom available for such purposes, as did most of the gropees, so the back seat of the car held no appeal.

I can only think of one car back seat that I remember with any affection. Betsy and I were in our early days together, so it must have been in 1987 or ’88. Two younger women friends, temporarily a couple, decided to go to Santa Fe for a romantic weekend and invited us to go along. They had a lot of money, or at least spent as if they did, and at the time had a brand new Mercedes. Friday night after work they picked us up at Betsy’s house and installed us in the back of the car. It smelled deliciously of brand new upholstery; leather, of course. Who has ever caught a wonderful whiff of vinyl? The back set creaked and sighed elegantly as we settled ourselves. Surround sound speakers spilled gentle music. Ah, luxury! Speeding south on I25 heading out of Denver, a subtly disguised side panel slide open, to display an expansive cooler; electronically cooled, of course, in which nestled bottles of expensive champagne and two perfectly cooled glasses.

‘Help yourselves,’ called Jan, the driver.

‘Will either of us be driving at all?’ Betsy asked, cautiously.

‘Nope!’ came the chorus from the front.

‘We’re doing the driving. You two just have fun.’

No need to tell us twice. We sipped and snacked. The cooler also contained a selection of very expensive cheeses, and crackers. A softly-sighing little spring door opened to offered entertainment in the form of playing cards and puzzle books, this being before the days of those dreadful little overhead car TV’s, but we declined, simply sitting back to watch the night lights go by and sing along with the music. Try a night like that now, and we’d both be rolling around on that spacious back seat fast asleep. But that night we stayed well awake the entire six hours. Of course we did not realize just how drunk we were until we attempted to get out of the car upon arrival at a very swanky adobe dwelling where we crashed for a sadly short time before that blazing New Mexico sun came streaming in the window to wake us up.

Now, our old VW camper, Brunhilda, was not exactly the lap of luxury – except when compared to sleeping on the cold hard ground. The transformation of the back seat tot combine with the cargo floor into a double bed often required much tussling with stubborn metal catches that refused to release and hinges that declined to bend until the necessary level of grunting had been reached or the magic bad words yelled. But after a little blood and sweat – we were never quite driven to tears – we always succeeded, to snuggle down together for the night at least partly on the back seat. So in a sense I guess we could say we spent literally hundreds of nights on the back seat of the car; and loved every single one of them!

© March 2017

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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Where I Was when Kennedy Was Shot, by Betsy

November 22, 1963—I had to look up the exact date—I don’t remember where I was, but I can go backwards and figure it out. We came to Denver in 1970. Before that we lived in Leiden, The Netherlands. We went to the Netherlands in 1966 from Scottsville, New York. My youngest child was born in 1964. My second child was born in 1962, so the time we are trying to pinpoint was between the births of my 2nd and 3rd child. In fact I would have been pregnant with my 3rd child at the time. I can visualize our home in Scottsville. I must have been at home. Yes! I would have been at home; I had two babies to take care of.

I do remember now watching the news on TV as the tragic event was unfolding. At the time I tuned in Kennedy was in the hospital still alive. I do remember the announcement shortly after, that he had expired, that doctors could do nothing to save him.

Then there was the swearing in of Lyndon Johnson on Air Force One.

What is more memorable to me is watching the heartbreaking funeral procession down Pennsylvania Avenue— the riderless horse, the casket, Jackie Kennedy and John Jr. and the famous salute the young child gave to honor his father. These are all images that have been etched into the memories of most Americans—and there were very few who were not paying attention at the time.

Trying to remember that day I find to be an interesting exercise. I am asking why do I not remember how I felt about our president being assassinated. Thinking back, my emotions seemed flat when viewed from the perspective of 2017. Not only can I not remember feeling what would seem to be the appropriate emotion, but also I cannot come up with the physical place where I was at the time of the incident without calculating where I must have been.

In retrospect that disconnect with my past seems odd to me. I have not often thought about being unable to be in closer touch with the Betsy of November 22, 1963 until considering the topic for today.

In recent years I have come to the realization that in my day-to-day life before I came to terms with my sexuality I was not fully “present.” I was partially “shut down.” Not depressed, not withdrawn, not unhappy—just not fully present. As if some of my nerve endings were absent or deadened. I did not drink too much, I did not do drugs. Yet looking back from today’s vantage point it feels as if at that earlier time I was not an integrated person. I was, in fact, some other person especially in one very important basic aspect.

So it has been very useful for me to write on today’s topic. It has given me some added insight into that part of my life—a time before I understood my true nature. And writing even these few words helps bring a measure of clarity.

Another less personal thought generated by the topic for today comes to mind. That is this: After the Kennedy assassination many assumed that presidents no longer would expose themselves to any possibility that a lone gunman could snuff out his/her life by simply squeezing a trigger from a distant, unsuspected, isolated location .

Anyone who is president has enemies. And enemies who are dedicated to ridding the world of the hated powerful person. It only takes one to pull that trigger. Literally millions of dollars are spent to protect the president and his family. More in the current administration that ever. So I suppose it would be more difficult today than in 1963 to pull off an assassination.

The gun issue at this point rears its ugly head. I haven’t heard it suggested by the NRA that the president himself be armed at all times, as is suggested for the rest of us—the school teachers, shop keepers, mothers, fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers, people living alone, people living with others, single people, married people, sick people, healthy people, virtually everyone should carry a gun, says the NRA.

In spite of his support of the NRA, I doubt our current president carries a gun. And since Kennedy’s assassination, presidents have not been hiding from public exposure. Since then our presidents have chosen to walk or ride out in the open, wave to the crowds, and make themselves visible. And I don’t blame them one bit for doing so. I understand the feeling. They want to be totally visible just as I myself was driven to be.

I have often made the statement to family and friends, “I refuse to live in fear.” Applying common sense is a good thing, but living in an emotional state of fear, unable to live life to the fullest because of what COULD happen or because of what happened to someone else is handing victory over to the enemy and capitulating to an unknown entity which wants to exercise its power at your expense.

Kind of reminds me of the same pep talk I gave myself at different stages of coming out. But then it’s not my life that was at steak, just my quality of life or perhaps a temporary emotional set-back. But the principle is the same. Living in fear is no way to live.

© 3 April 2017

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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Connections, by Ricky

The Earth is a spider-web of connections: gravitational, magnetic, electrical, chemical, mechanical, physical, and metaphysical. We, as Earthlings, maneuver ourselves and navigate these webs without much conscious thought, except for safety (not counting those under the age of 25).
Everyone surely realizes that all of us are connected to something, if only to our electronic devices, or perhaps to our bank accounts, or vehicles, or pets, or relatives if they are lucky and one gets careless. These tend to be emotional connections rather than those I previously listed. One could also make a case that, besides being mostly a bag of water, Earthlings are just a collection of living connections in the manner of the hip bone is connected to the thigh bone, etc.
Everyone has connections. I have connections and not just with my God Father. (Or is that Father God? At my age, I have seen too many movies to keep it straight.) I am connected to my electronic devices and my friends and relatives, living and departed. Through a hobby of genealogy, I stay connected to my forebears and the proverbial three bears. I am even connected to Dr. Seuss’s Tweetle Beetles.
“Let’s have a little talk about tweetle beetles.
When tweetle beetles fight,
it’s called a tweetle beetle battle.
And when they battle in a puddle,
it’s a tweetle beetle puddle battle.
AND when tweetle beetles battle with paddles in a puddle,
they call it a tweetle beetle puddle paddle battle.
AND…
When beetles battle beetles in a puddle paddle battle
and the beetle battle puddle is a puddle in a bottle…
…they call this a tweetle beetle bottle puddle paddle battle muddle.
AND…
When beetles fight these battles in a bottle with their paddles
and the bottle’s on a poodle and the poodle’s eating noodles…
…they call this a muddle puddle tweetle poodle beetle noodle
bottle paddle battle.” From Fox in Sox © by Dr. Seuss
Mayhap my 12-year old persona is connected to Dr. Seuss but it is also connected to Peter Pan. In fact, both of my personas are intimately connected. I know Peter’s favorite place to eat — Wendy’s. Does anyone know Peter better than I? Can you tell me why Peter flies? I know. He flies because he Neverlands.
I feel connected to each of you in our story telling group. Although, some of those connections may have been weakened or broken entirely by the previous trio of juvenile revelry.
I am connected: to the historical past, to those who die tragically in accidents or acts of Satan or acts of man. In other words, I am emotionally connected to everyone to some degree or another. That is why I often cry.
Perhaps the poet John Donne expressed it best (400 years ago) in his poem No Man is an Island.
No man is an island, entire of itself;
every man is a piece of the continent,
a part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less,
as well as if a promontory were,
as well as if a manor of thy friend’s
or of thine own were.
Any man’s death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind;
and therefore never send to know
for whom the bell tolls;
it tolls for thee.
The end of the poem tells us that when we hear the bells ringing that someone has died, we don’t need to ask who it is. It is as if a part of us died as well because we are all connected to each other. Although it seems like a sad poem when one first reads it, understanding the idea of it – that we are all connected and important – can help one be more concerned about other people. When something happens on the other side of the world, it still affects everyone. If one feels sad or happy about something that seems unrelated to you, this poem explains why that is okay. It’s okay to be interested in people one doesn’t know. It’s okay to be concerned about people one has never met. Because, everyone is a part of mankind — including me and my Rickyisms.

© 24 April 2017

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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Ghosts, by Ray S

One day I read a book quite by a happy coincidence. A very wise literary mentor directed my attention to an author’s works that I would find not only well written but outstanding gay fiction and with wonderful character development.

As a child I was a slow reader as they called us in grade school. Reading was rarely fun and generally regarded a tedious chore. I wonder now that I ever got through sixteen years of reading assignments.

Update to that encounter in the library. My quest for a good erotic read had been answered. There were five or six volumes by the recommended author. Not being too adventurous I selected a slim book as an introduction to the make believe world of escapism.

My recent departure from sixty years of closeted double life required a great deal of catching up. There’s no time to waste; it’s not like you were sixteen and too dumb to know who you might be. Now that you’re at the threshold of full-blown “geom.”, it seems there is too little time and too many friends to meet.

The small book was more than a “good read” and having returned it, I went back to the well for a greater challenge. Bravely I picked up a 600 page book entitled How Long Has this Been Going On? by Ethan Mordden. For someone who was scared of any book longer than my third-grade Peter and Peggy, this choice was probably foolhardy.

Suffice it to say that my initial exposure to my author’s writing spurred me on to unknown stories and pleasures. Turns out that this volume was divided into related but not continuous stories. No chapters. Eventually I was tempted to make a family tree of the many characters just to keep up with each other’s life stories. As the saying goes, I couldn’t put the book down; my reading Renaissance had begun.

One day I finished How Long… and set it aside to return it to the library. Procrastination set in and the book kept company with some others—mostly unfinished.

The longer it stayed here at my reading chair, the longer I kept seeing all of those wonderful heroes and heroines in my quiet moments or my dreams. Something was unfinished. I can’t say they were all ghosts; ghosts are usually in another world, maybe even what we call dead.

I loved those beautiful men and women. They are alive to me and like Alice I just needed to step through the looking glass to be with all of them.

I’ve lived through the late 40s and 50s, the war protests, the fight for equal rights, AIDs, Stonewall, Harvey Milk, the wars, and up to Gay Pride March in NYC 1991.

These were stories of real people you could vicariously become and share their experiences, devoted friendships, passionate homoerotic encounters and love that we all have somewhere down deep for each other.

This is a ghost story, if you will, that I need to share with you, as you do each week with me. And I am in the process of re-reading How Long Has this Been Going On? It is more rewarding the second time, like coming home again or being there with my un-ghostly companions.

© 24 April 2017

About the Author

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Figures, by Phillip Hoyle

Following a fifth grade public humiliation in art class, I decided I could not draw figures. I was slightly interested but never liked what I drew after that. In seventh grade I signed up for wood shop to be in class with my best friend Keith. The only thing I actually liked in that class, besides cleaning varnish brushes (I liked the way twirling bristles full of soap felt on the palms of my hands), was drawing and wood burning a design onto the bookends I made. I should have signed up for art but I just knew I wasn’t an artist.

Due to my responsibilities in religious education I organized art programs for children. One teacher taught figure drawing. She made sure it included things like crosses and globes so the parents would understand why. Mostly I was interested that children grow artistically (music, drama, and visual arts) seeing them as religious expression, skills they would never forget from their childhood years in church.

Eventually I knew I needed to draw, so I bought a book on how to draw in a natural way, a large drawing tablet, and a set of art pencils. I worked at it and learned much more that I could incorporate into art projects I planned for others. Still I wasn’t a strong drawer. When I later signed up for a drawing workshop the thing didn’t get enough enrollees. I kept at my own figure drawing, even used my slight skills in my work.

Figures of speech were much more familiar to me. I had learned speech and some rhetoric in college and graduate school, wrote many papers to satisfy my professors, used the assigned topics in my own way in order to do research related to what intrigued me in the classes, preached a bit and eventually wrote professionally (probably a figure of speech itself although I did get paid for my work). I wasn’t a strong speaker, but I did enjoy turning ideas into written pieces.

Important figures in my life, you know those special people known or read about, include: my parents and grandparents, Lakota leader Sitting Bull, local minister W. F. Lown, a family friend who took me to powwows, The Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., Professor James Van Buren, several other profs, two music performance teachers, late-in-life art teachers, Myrna Hoyle my long-time wife and mother of our children, a few other partners in my gay life, many authors, some editors, the late Winston Weathers, and now some creative writing teachers.

I figure it has taken a village of thinkers, writers, musicians, and artists to make me into what I have become these days. I celebrate them and the many, many people who have put up with me in the home, work, friendships, general community, and of course, in the SAGE Telling Your Story group at the GLBT Center of Colorado. And I add; these last tributes are not just figures of speech, but rather, real live influences and personal realities that I appreciate and revere.

© 5 June 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 Recliner, by Pat Gourley

Sometime round 1993 my partner who was then suffering significant side effects from advanced HIV disease and near incapacitating peripheral neuropathy purchased two blue recliners. We had them located in our basement right in front of the TV. They brought great comfort and the ability for a modicum of relaxation to him in his final years.

I therefore highly recommend recliners for the terminally ill. If, however, you are not looking imminent death in the face I absolutely do not recommend recliners. If you occasionally feel the need to recline there are sofas, beds or in a pinch even the floor for that and for god-sakes don’t add a nearby TV or computer screen to the mix.

One of my greatest personal fears with advancing age is the possibility of debilitating dementia. Being the vain, drama queen I am a loss of cognitive function leads my hit parade of bad things that could go wrong. Living alone and with that reality unlikely to change, the thought of winding up in a near vegetative state in a nursing home really lacks appeal. The reality of course is that HIV will probably do me in first. Or perhaps some nasty side-effect from the meds I take to keep “full-blown” AIDS at bay will be my cause of death long before I have the chance to develop dementia. HIV meds are a strong driver for metabolic syndrome and its possible ramifications like diabetes, heart disease or stroke. Living to a ripe old age does present us with an ever-increasing menu of options for returning to the stardust we all are.

But the at times all consuming drive to postpone the inevitable tends to occupy an inordinate number of my waking hours. I was therefore very interested in a recently published study out of Canada dealing with exercise as a viable intervention for postponing or possibly preventing the development of vascular dementia, Parkinson’s disease or Alzheimer’s disease. Lets face it in this era of Trump all things Canadian have particular appeal.

There is a known genetic mutation that increases the chances of getting dementia. This gene is called the apolipoprotein E (APOE). What this study strongly implied was that even if you didn’t have this APOE that might pre-dispose you to dementia by not exercising you blew the benefit of not having the bad gene. It is an important caveat though to know this study showed association only and not causation. In other words the study did not prove that lack of exercise causes dementia.

People with this APOE gene are believed to have three to four times the risk of developing dementia. However people without the gene who did not exercise had the same risk for dementia as those with it. The amount of exercise needed to decrease risk was modest – brisk walking three times a week.

Remember regular aerobic exercise seems to lower the risk of dementia, Parkinsons and Alzheimers – gene or no gene. The bottom line here is get your ass out of the recliner.

I have included a link to a review article for this study: http://www.cbsnews.com/news/lack-of-exercise-might-invite-dementia/

© February 2017

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.

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Ghosts: Aaron Burr, Patrick Swayze, etc. by Louis Brown

Aaron Burr’s mother was Esther Edwards (my great, great XXXX Aunt)

Aaron Burr Jr. (February 6, 1756 – September 14, 1836) was an American politician. He was the third vice president of the United States (1801–1805), serving during President Thomas Jefferson’s first term. Burr served as a Continental Army officer in the Revolutionary War, after which he became a successful lawyer and politician. He was elected twice to the New York State Assembly (1784–1785, 1798–1799),[1] was appointed New York state attorney general (1789–1791), was chosen as a United States senator (1791–1797) from the state of New York, and reached the apex of his career as vice president.

Born Gore Vidal = Eugene Louis Vidal October 3, 1925 West Point, New York, U.S.
Died July 31, 2012 (aged 86) Hollywood Hills, California, U.S. Nationality American
Other names Eugene Luther Vidal, Jr.
Education Phillips Exeter Academy
Occupation Writer, novelist, essayist, playwright, screenwriter, actor
Known for The City and the Pillar (1948) Julian (1964) Myra Breckinridge (1968) Burr (1973) Lincoln (1984)
Political party Democratic

Movement Postmodernism Ghost is a 1990 American romantic fantasy thriller film starring Patrick Swayze, Demi Moore, Whoopi Goldberg, Tony Goldwyn, and Rick Aviles. It was written by Bruce Joel Rubin and directed by Jerry Zucker.[3] Of course, poor Patrick Swayze is dead.
Born Patrick Wayne Swayze August 18, 1952 Houston, Texas, U.S.
Died September 14, 2009 (aged 57) Los Angeles, California, U.S.
Cause of death Pancreatic cancer
Resting place Ashes scattered in New Mexico ranch
Nationality American
Alma mater Coastal Carolina University
Occupation * Actor * dancer * singer-songwriter
Years active 1979–2009
Spouse(s) Lisa Niemi (m. 1975; his death 2009)

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I, Louis L. Brown, qualify as being a ghost since, in a bicycle accident 3 years ago, after I was taken via ambulance to the ICU at Denver Health Center, technically I died, according to the woman doctor, Dr. Johnson, who described what happened to me since personally I do not recall any of the trauma I suffered. I was bicycling in Wheat Ridge, near 52nd Avenue and Chase Street, and to judge by the bending and denting of my bicycle chain guard, I must have been hit by a car or truck or some vehicle.

Dr. Johnson said she did not personally save me, it was a medical technician. While in the ICU, I did not have the energy to ask to meet and thank the medical technician. I was there 3 weeks then I was transferred to Presbyterian Medical

Center in Denver, and, from there, I was transferred to Briarwood Rehab Center for another three weeks. The second half of my stay at Briarwood was quite pleasant and the food was very good. During the first half of my stay there I was fed through a stomach tube. I did not really adjust to that, so I barfed a a lot. Boo!

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Another interesting “ghost” for me is my deceased brother Thomas D. Brown who, for 2 years while he was attending Queens College (in New York City), reacted to the War in Vietnam by applying for status as conscientious objector. At the end of the 2 years, the military denied his claim to be a conscientious objector but gave him a I-Y status (like I have). If necessary, I would have applied for status as a conscientious objector, but things did not go that way in my case. A lot of draft eligible men resettled in Canada. Eventually Thomas D. Brown died of lung cancer. He smoked too many cigarettes.

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Another interesting ghost for me is my other younger brother, Charles F. Brown who worked as a manager in the 42nd Street Library in Manhattan. Like both of my parents, he was also against the War in Vietnam. He had an exceptionally beautiful Italian boyfriend, Pat Marra; they lived in the Bronx. Pat looked like a DaVinci painting. His hands were a work of art. Charlie died from drinking too many whiskey sours and Manhattans and Martini’s, etc. Pat Marra died from an overdose of cocaine.

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My parents, DeWitt Brown and Elinor Brown were also interesting characters who are no longer alive, but I will save them for another prompt in the future.

© 24 April 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.