Month: November 2017

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Dancing with the Stars, by Gillian

I won’t be. Dancing with the stars, that is. No matter how they beg, I will not be on that show. Not, I must confess, that I have ever watched it; but I get the concept. Star-worship is just not something that has ever been in me. Living through the height of the fan-club phase, I never even thought of joining one. There are very few famous people I would cross the street to meet. It’s not that I have anything against the rich and famous and fabulously good-looking. It’s simply that they hold no fascination for me just because they are household names. Every one of us in this room has a life story that is every bit as fascinating, in it’s own way, as theirs.

Perhaps my attitude originated in my essentially TV- and movie-free childhood. I had little temptation to idolize. Or maybe it stems from my parents’ attitude towards the stars of the day: royalty, bigwigs in the Church of England hierarchy, the local landed gentry. They must always be spoken to politely, and that was where it ended. They would be respected when they earned respect. We were every bit as good as they were and there would be no figurative bowing and doffing of caps. This was a burgeoning feeling in England in the 1940’s and ’50’s when the winds of equality were blowing strong. So, when I was about twelve and Princess Margaret was to visit our school, I was a little apprehensive over my mother’s reaction to the fact that we were all taught, in some detail, the correct way to bow and curtsey, and were expected to do so. But, somewhat to my surprise, Mum was fine with it. Apparently there were certain protocols she was willing to go along with. What mattered, she explained, was not so much external expressions of deference as internal knowledge of equality. A wise woman in many ways, my mother.

What I do value is dancing with the real stars; those of the firmament, sparkling and dancing above our heads. In the days of our youth, the world was not subjected to the vast explosions of artificial light which afflict it today. In my youth we had no electricity where we lived, and no form of outdoor lighting for many miles. On a rare clear English night, often also a cold one, Mom and I would lie on our backs on the lawn, usually huddled under a blanket, and she would point out constellations to me and relate their mythical stories. She only knew a few of the commonly-familiar ones, so the rest she made up and created stories to fit the shapes she saw. Half the time I couldn’t see what she saw, it was harder than one of her other favorite pastimes of agreeing on what clouds looked like, but I went along with her imagination to hear her inventive stories. My mother was just fine as long as she remained far from any form of reality.

In college in the north of England, long before the cities overgrew the hills as they have now, a group of us sometimes went up on the dark moorlands to stargaze. We always spent a couple of hours in the pub on the way, so our imaginings were rarely inhibited.

I have stared in wonder at the starry sky above Australia, South America, and South Africa. There is something very special about the night skies of the Southern Hemisphere. The stars somehow seem so much more numerous, and so much closer than we are used to. They take my breath away.

During the twenty-five years that Betsy and I camped all over this country in out VW van, we frequently danced with the stars. Many camping spots, especially National Forest Campgrounds, are about as far as you can get from city lights these days, and perfect for communing with the heavens. For some strange reason which we never did figure out, nine times out of ten, wherever we camped, The Big Dipper appeared at night to be clearly seen from our back window. Rarely the front, hardly ever the side windows, but almost inevitably if we woke in the middle of the night there was the Dipper, above us as we lay with our heads right below the back window.

We liked to settle in well before dark, so had no idea where the Dipper would be when we chose the site and decided exactly how to park for the night. We actually never thought about it. Yet there it would be, in the night, almost as regular as clockwork.

At Randy Wren’s funeral last week, his Rector said,

“Randy lived large.”

He did. If you have any belief in an afterlife in any form, you have to think that Randy is dancing with the stars; whatever that means to you. If anyone can do it, Randy can.

Once upon a time, Frank Sinatra crooned a popular song about the stars.

Fly me to the moon
And let me play among the stars….

It went on a couple of lines later,

In other words hold my hand,
In other words, Darling kiss me …..

As long as I have My Beautiful Betsy to hold my hand and kiss me, I shall forever dance with the stars.

© July 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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Three Little Words, by Ricky

Tag, you’re it! — In modern adult parlance that would be a text or voice mail message expressing mild annoyance over a non-entertaining game of phone-tag; frustration building along with unrequited curiosity. How long has it been since you have played a real game of tag? Who was it with? How old were you? Do you remember any of the other player’s names and descriptions? Were they friends, relatives, or only acquaintances? Where was the game played; in the forest, your yard, their yard, or on a school playground? Can you recall the type of weather, clouds in the sky, smell of the grass, sounds of laughter or ridicule? If you have children, did you play tag with them? If so, were they too fast for you? Did you like the game or hate it? Why?

Alas, I don’t remember clearly any games of tag; only that I did play it at various times in my youth. I also know that my speed and agility did not keep me safe from becoming “it” just as often as everyone else. It is a real shame that people tend to forget most of their childhood fun and game activities in detail. Details that would come in handy during later years when “happy thoughts” can raise us to a better mood or even take us on an adventure in Neverland, if we could find a fairy, full of dust who doesn’t mind being shaken (not stirred).

Let’s Play Chicken — That was another game from my early sexual awakening. I only got to play it once but it ended up being highly satisfying. Without going into much detail and leaving most to your imagination; I will say this much. The game is played by repeatedly taking turns touching someone in different places until one of the players says, “stop”. That player is then named “chicken”. When I played, neither the other boy nor I said “stop” so we both won and then moved on to other games.

Old Mother Hubbard — That nursery rhyme seems to mimic my financial life at this time. When I go to the cupboard to get my cats or bird some food, there it is, but when I go to the refrigerator or cupboards to get me some food, there is nothing to eat. Well, actually there is food available but it all looks foreign and I just can’t bring myself to eat fish heads and tiny dried octopi or most Russian food. One major exception is borscht, which I love. I used to tell my wife that if she ever died before me, I’d have to get married within a week or starve to death. Well, she did and I didn’t, but I’ve not eaten well at home ever since.

Disney’s Wonderful World – I’ve always loved any movie made by Walt Disney. I’ve even enjoyed some of their “Touchstone” productions, but my primary love is with Disney’s animated productions from 1949 forward. Yes, there were a few years where they experimented with weird forms of animation but they quickly abandoned it. I especially liked their blending of live actors and animation as in “Song of the South”, “Mary Poppins”, “Pete’s Dragon”, “Bedknobs & Broomsticks”, and “Tron”.

I should mention again that I also enjoy any non-animated Disney movie and will choose to watch them on TV over the more violent-laden non-Disney, non-family oriented films.

On this day before Saint Valentine’s Day in 2012, I’ll give a “shout out” to my favorite three little words, I LOVE DISNEY (always have and always will).

© 13 February 2012

About the Author

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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I Still Get a Thrill, by Ray S

As usual my mind drew a blank when the idea of a thrill was confronted.

It occurs to me that the word thrill, like many other descriptive terms, is a matter of relativity. I suppose it depends on how easily one is excited and that of course depends on one’s frame of mind at a given time.

How thrilling was a sunset? How thrilling was last night’s romance? Or how did that hot shower feel this morning? How much of a satisfying semi-thrill was it to find you hadn’t run out of dry cereal or toothpaste and hadn’t forgotten to feed the canary?

I would have preferred to “thrill” this assemblage with some sensational revelation about whatever would prove thrilling to you—this if you were even the least bit interested, much less thrilled.

But in retrospect I do need to acknowledge to you that I am just a wee bit thrilled to be here with all of you today and have you share my pretty un-thrilling trivia.

P.S. just remembered how thrilled I was with the chocolate cup cakes I made and how they tasted. It is another semi-thrill, give or take.

© 25 September 2017

About the Author

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Revenge, by Phillip Hoyle

Sages of the East and West, North and South have advised against revenge. I’m sure we can add SAGES of the Rockies to the list of wise ones. Revenge will never satisfy. It begins a feud that will never end. It will define a life, not improve it. I’m old but have no experience of revenge and thus no story to tell.

But I have noticed something I want to tell you about. You’d never believe how much sex takes place in our backyard and the alley beyond. It’s a wonder we haven’t been pushed out of the neighborhood so seedy is that space in a rather quiet district of Denver where more and more children are being born and reared. I won’t try to justify what takes place in our backyard but simply describe it. Frankly, I have been surprised although I’m not sure why. Perhaps I am just a tiny bit jealous? Probably I should consider it an inspiration. I do want to mention before I continue this story that in it I’m simply a voyeur.

Sometimes out there couplings occur; occasionally a ménage a trios. I’ve seen necking that surpasses anything I ever saw or did on the top of Bluemont, that Kansas State University make out spot for undergraduates and who knows who else. I sometimes hear screams and can never determine if they are from pain or pleasure or simply the intensity of the moment. A rhythmic chant sometimes seem to say, “Won’t you come and put it to me?” Sometimes it is repeated over and over until, for me at least, it loses its allure. But the beat goes on. I’ve seen dances, flurries of activity, showing off, flirting, teasing, urging, and suggesting. I’ve seen mountings and heard noise making I don’t know how to describe. I’ve seen dirty dancing that more than rivals what I saw for years on Saturday nights at The Denver Compound and Basix dance floor. I’ve seen things done out in the open that would get a Republican to warm up.

Well, I can tell it’s time to end this tale of what my prim sister would call lewd conduct, but it seems unadvisable to criticize Mother Nature right out there in the open. The sparrows started it all years ago. Then the flickers got deep into the necking dance. You’d never imagine how noisy that gets or how enticing. Now robins come around and just yesterday some very excited chickadees—a ménage a quatre—put on the most spectacular and noisy demonstration I’ve ever seen. It’s wild out there in the backyard. What’s it like in your neighborhood? Inspiring? Invite me over.

© 14 August 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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I Don’t Know, by Pat Gourley

“It’s much more interesting to live not knowing than have answers which might be wrong.”

Richard Feynman, Physicist

Replying with “I don’t know” has become much easier for me than in years past. Particularly in my 20’s and 30’s I seemed to always be able to spout an answer or proffer an often-unsolicited opinion to any question. Rather than give the honest answer that I did not know I would come up with some sort of bullshit. Perhaps this is because I have simply become less enamored with the sound of my own voice but I would like to think it rather represents a more mature and honest way of replying, that is to often say nothing. There are so many things I really don’t know.

Part of the reason I am able to better accept the reality of not knowing, rather than offering-up the first thing that pops into my head, I attribute to my Zen practice with the Kwan Um School, from 1994-2009 approximately. This is a Korean sect and the teachings of Zen Masters Seung Sahn and Soeng Hyang (aka Bobby Rhodes) definitely laid the groundwork for my understanding of the “don’t know mind”. Much work on my part remains but I take the advice of Seung Sahn to heart: “try, try, try… for 10,000 years nonstop”. This quote is obviously a metaphor for perseverance on my part since I am not a big believer in reincarnation. What we are “trying” for here is encapsulated in this short quote by Richard Shrobe from his book Don’t Know Mind-Korean Zen: “Don’t know mind is our enlightened mind before ideas, opinions, or concepts arise to create suffering”.

If someone with absolutely nothing better to do was to look at my writings closely they could surmise that the more quotes I use is indicative of how at a loss for my own words I was on a particular topic, thank you Gillian. Today would be no exception so here goes with another one and you will need to stretch a bit to connect this to today’s topic but it is great quote nonetheless. This one from Stephen Hawking:

“ I have noticed that even those who assert everything is predestined and that we can change nothing about it still look both ways before crossing the street.”

One more tangential quote I happened on while prowling the Internet looking for guidance on something to write about today is from Mrs. Betty Bower. She is a humorist/satirist who bills herself as a Republican and America’s Best Christian. I highly recommend you follow her on Facebook. Her satire often comes with a hilarious dose of snark. A recent post:

“Dear fellow Republicans: It is so important to take every opportunity to remind other Americans that you are Christian. Otherwise how would they ever guess?”

I retired from full time nursing in 2010 but since then have had extended periods of part-time work often exceeding 20 hours per week. I have though for the past year and a half been able to stay fully retired. Probably the most irritating question I get these days is ‘well what are you doing?’ I often assume, rightly or wrongly, that the implication is that I am doing not much that is worthwhile. My gut, but rarely vocalized, answer is well “fuck you, I don’t know.” Admittedly this is a bit defensive and probably requires some more self-examination on my part as to how I do spend my days. My usual response though almost always does start with “I don’t know … but the days do fly by” or some such crap.

I could I suppose make up stuff like I am working tirelessly in various soup kitchens or I reading to the blind or doing volunteer hospice work with barely anytime to relax or sleep. Or I could be much more honest and say I am spending a lot of time watching Internet porn and perusing Facebook for funny quotes to fill up space in my SAGE writings.

Really I am not a total reprobate but I do not feel the need to offer up the really worthwhile things I am doing often helping those close to me. Perhaps the most honest answer to the question would be “I don’t know … perhaps I could do more. Do you have any suggestions?”

© July 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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Thanksgiving Dinner at the Brown House, by Louie Brown

(published in this blog previously on June 20, 2014)

When I was around 11 or 12 years old, I remember having Thanksgiving dinner with my parents and brothers in College Point. It was the mid-1950’s. Dwight Eisenhower was the President. I was a child happy with life, but my parents were very poor. I was too young to understand the inconveniences of poverty. We lived in a two-family house, and the upstairs tenant was a mother and daughter, Edna. They were poorer than we were. Edna got herself invited to our Thanksgiving and enjoyed setting up for the feast.

My parents and especially my mother and grandmother wanted us to remember that once upon a time the Brown family and my maternal grandmother’s family, the Wilcoxes, in the 19th century were enormous affluent, influential families. On the wall were a picture of Abraham Lincoln in an oak oval frame and another of my great grandfather Captain Francis Leicester Brown of the Union Army in an oak oval frame. There was a petty point sampler that read “God bless the family in this household,” completed by me on my 15th birthday, May 10, 1819, Hannah Hopkins Hodge.

In the 17th and 18th centuries my ancestors were prominent Puritan ministers. Even back then there were seemingly endless irreconcilable theological battles going on. On the other hand, my mother warned us that, though we should remember our ancestors, we should not be like her great aunt and become ancestor worshipers. It wasn’t wholesome either.

The meal consisted of turkey, creamed onions, turnips, yams, rather traditional. What made it memorable was the chinaware: Limoges and Haviland plates and platters, a Wedgewood chocolate pitcher, Limoges demitasse espresso coffee cups that were works of art. Crystal goblets for the cider, a magnificent Damask table cloth and napkins. Ornate sterling silverware, Victorian style. Our attic was full of these remnants and memorabilia of an affluent comfortable 19th century past. Corny but beautiful oil paintings, more petit point samplers, lavish gowns with the finest French laces. More Victorian extravagance. Edna from a Catholic family really enjoyed our Thanksgiving dinners. For a day we Browns were again important people though the reference point was to another earlier century. For a day we were ancestor worshipers.

Moral: How do poor people become whole happy well-adjusted people in a hostile social environment? I think poor people learning survival skills is probably more important than measuring one’s personal worth by the balance in our checking accounts and the influence we have in our communities.

Catholic Edna for example is happy. She started out poor. She is still poor, but she has a good understanding of why certain politicians say what they say. She has a spiritual dimension to her belief system. She survives, she is well-adjusted. She also proves that Puritans and Catholics can get along just fine, thank you.

Personally, I am still a “mal-content”. I am dissatisfied with church-sponsored homophobia, and the establishment’s irrational hostility to poor people, but I am on the mend.

Our best teachers in the current environment are Occupy Wall Street and the Radical Faeries. I heard clearly what they have to say. They are convincing. We Americans should object to Wall Street giving orders to our elected leaders about how they should victimize the public for the sake of increasing profits for billionaires. The Radical Faeries in their presentations at the Lesbian and Gay Center in New York City pointed out the need for Lesgay people to develop a spiritual side to their personalities, to revere their sexual orientation rather than skulking around hating ourselves for the convenience of homophobes. We are an international “tribe”. Guess what, there are gay people in Morocco and Australia.

In her personal search to find meaning in life outside of material success, Edna feels that she should boast about her family, her two children. In general, since Lesgay people are banished from traditional families, we have to devise another system that suits our communal interests.

What do we tell Lesbian and gay homeless teenagers who have been tossed out of their fundamentalist parents’ homes because of their sexual orientation? In other words, empower the out-groups. Amen.

© 31 March 2014  




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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How I Learned Some Turkey Anatomy, by Nicholas

It was our first Thanksgiving together so we invited a bunch of friends over to share a dinner. Jamie and I were to cook the turkey and other people were assigned other courses for a sumptuous meal.


We got the bird which was frozen but no problem, we knew enough to leave it in the frig for a few days to thaw out. It seemed to be doing so nicely and on Thanksgiving morning as I prepared the stuffing and prepped the turkey, things were moving along smoothly.Turkey in the oven, we were on our way to a feast.

The first sign of trouble came innocently enough when Jamie was talking to his mother about our celebration. I should point out that this Thanksgiving was a kind of late rebellion on his part. We had decided not to go to his parents for dinner, even though they were nearby, so we could have our own gathering with friends. But mothers have that knack for asking questions that can throw your plans right into the rubbish.

Bragging about our turkey in the oven, mom posed the question, “Did you get the giblets and stuff out of both ends of the turkey?”

What “both ends,” I demanded. Of course we’d pried out a bag of turkey parts from its hollow innards. But was there more in some other secret cavity? Was there something stuffed up its ass, too?

So, we hauled the bird out of the oven and poked around its backside to find out that not only was there another pouch of miscellaneous bits but that our future dinner was still, actually, frozen. Well, it did seem a little stiff when we stuffed it but now we realized we had a still frozen 12-15 pound animal and all bets were off as just when dinner would be served.

We threw the thing back into the oven and cranked up the temperature. Nothing much happened. We turned the oven up higher. Still, not much changed. It was turkey’s revenge—it would cook in its own time and never mind our plans for dinner.

Our guests started arriving and our main course was just thawing out. We had appetizers and wine and conversation while the bird began to show some sign of cooking. We reversed the order of the meal and served other courses like salad, potatoes and vegetable and more wine until at long last we pulled from the oven what we hoped was a cooked turkey. I can’t even remember what it tasted like. I guess it was good or we were all too hungry to care. Everybody ate it, nobody got sick. It was a fun time, even though a disaster.

My first venture into real cooking did not augur well for pursuing culinary delights. But, as it happens, one gets hungry and has to repeatedly do something about it. Peanut butter sandwiches as a diet are not that appealing. So, despite being shamed by a turkey, the lowest form of conscious life on this planet, I did go back into that kitchen with the intention of turning food into meals.

I am happy to report that success followed my persistence. Hunger is a good teacher and I have come since to associate the kitchen with many satisfactions and pleasures.

I love to indulge myself and what higher form of indulgence is there than food. And food grows ever more satisfying with age. Taste grows more complex and nuanced with age and taste buds, unlike other body parts, actually work better as you grow older. Kids can be finicky eaters, it has been said, because their underdeveloped taste buds aren’t working to their full capacity with just sweet and bitter dominating their little palates.

I like food. I like everything to do with food—shopping for it, growing it, picking it in the garden, preparing it, cooking it, eating and sharing it with others. I like reading about food and cooking; I like planning big meals. My favorite store in the whole world is the Savory Spice Shop down on Platte Street. Walking in their door is entering a different world full of wonderful aromas that hint of countless flavors from the dozens of herbs, spices and exotic salts on the shelves. The variations and sensations are near endless in my imagination.

Cooking is now part of my identity. I love to cook. Well, I just love food. Cooking is now a creative endeavor as I tend to use recipes not as instructions but for inspiration and as suggestions as to what goes well together and in what measure. Many times I simply dispense with recipes and make it up on the basis of what’s in the frig and hunches. The hunches—like adding paprika and dry mustard to a stew—usually pay off, i.e., are edible, but sometimes they do not turn out so well. Those I won’t go into.

Food has its rituals that can be likened to religious liturgies culminating with the sharing of sacrament. Food is work and joy, is nourishment and pleasure and connotes special relationships to those you share it with and to the earth it comes from.

So, let me officially launch this great season of holiday feasting—my favorite time of the year—with the words: Ladies and gentlemen, start your ovens. Let the eating begin!

[Editor’s note: This piece was first published in this blog in 2012.]


© November 2012

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

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Pets, by Lewis


After initially thinking I would describe a litany of the pets I have owned over my lifetime–from a dog to a hog-nosed snake to a squirrel to a parakeet–I soon became aware that I had tapped into a very deep well of sadness. More than a moment of grief, it felt as if I had broken the seal on a bottle of “despair Drambuie” that had been corked for sixty years.

Of all my pets, my most dear was the only dog I have ever owned, a mixed fox terrier puppy named Skippy. He was a gift from my maternal grandfather–the only grandparent I have ever known–on a day in May of 1955 that was totally unremarkable. There was no “occasion”. I simply arrived home from another day in the 3rd grade at Morgan Elementary to find a puppy running around the kitchen. I was told by my mother that the puppy was a gift from Granddad Homer, who was living with us but at the time nowhere to be seen.

This was not unusual for my grandfather. Although extremely generous with his money, he was a five-star miser when it came to communication. I do not remember a time when we shared a conversation, laugh, or tender touch. When he gave gifts, he always did it through a surrogate– our first TV magically appeared in our living room, my first bike was delivered by a Sears van as I sat on the front lawn, my first gun–a .410 gauge shotgun–was handed down from him through the hands of my father. When he died, approximately six months after bringing Skippy into my life, I was not allowed to attend his funeral. Since when does a 9-year-old need closure?

At first, I resented the duties that came with owning a dog. When still a puppy, I attached a leash to his halter and swung him around in the back yard as if he were on a merry-go-round. But soon, Skippy became my trusted and loyal buddy.

On Columbus Day, 1961, I was sitting at my desk doing homework after school in my bedroom. I was 15 and a high school sophomore. Mom was the TV Editor for the Hutchinson [KS] News and hadn’t yet come home. I heard Dad come in the front door and could tell something was wrong. Dad had found Skippy lying in the street dead, apparently hit by a car. His body was unmarked except for a tiny tear in his skin.

I could tell Dad was sorry for my pain. I asked him what we should do. He said we should find a spot to bury Skippy in the back yard.

Dad grabbed a shovel and I carried my dog as gently as my shaking arms would allow. We looked around for an appropriate place of internment. Somewhat baffled, Dad–who could have been the prototype for Jimmy Olsen of Superman fame–said, “Where can we bury that damn dog, anyway?” I had already steeled myself against showing one whit of emotion and his comment only steadied my resolve. We did agree on a final resting place and I placed Skippy into it, along with a piece of my heart.

I never owned another dog as long as I have lived. The pets I have had have not been of the type that one would describe as “cuddly”. They were either reptiles or amphibians, except for one brief turn with a wounded baby squirrel.

Lately, as I have been giving more thought to the notion of once again being “in relationship”, I ask myself, “What kind of person would I be happiest with?” It seems to me that the process is a lot more like selecting a breed of dog to purchase as a pet that some people might think. Am I looking for a guard dog, a lap dog, or a dog to play “fetch” with? Why, I ask myself, are most of my friends women? Why do the men I know mostly seem to be narcissists who talk only about themselves and NEVER ask a question about my life?

At the suggestion of a newly-acquired male friend, I took the online Enneagram Personality Test. I found out that I am a Type 2–The Helper. I am told “people of this type essentially feel that they are worthy insofar as they are helpful to others. Love is their highest ideal. Selflessness is their duty. Giving to others is their reason for being. Involved, socially aware, usually extroverted, Twos are the type of people who…go the extra mile to help out a co-worker, spouse or friend in need.”

Not too bad an assessment, I would say. The description of a Type 2 goes on to say, “Two’s often develop a sense of entitlement when it comes to the people closest to them. Because they have extended themselves for others, they begin to feel that gratitude is owed to them. They can become intrusive and demanding if their often unacknowledged emotional needs go unmet.”

I recoiled from this accusation upon first reading. The idea that I could become “intrusive and demanding” seemed like a ridiculous fantasy. But upon further contemplation, I had to admit that I do have “unmet emotional needs which go largely unacknowledged”. The suddenness of this realization flooded over me like a loss every bit as painful as the death of a beloved pet.

Still, some men I know do engender a powerful resentment in me. These are the ones I labeled a bit ago as “narcissistic”. The conversation is all about them with never a thought about me. This trait among the men I know is so pervasive as to explain why it is that I much prefer the company of women. It’s not that I feel that “gratitude is owed to me” as much as I feel that I am an interesting person who deserves equal time. I don’t think that is too much to ask of a friendship. If all I cared about was caring for and pampering the other, I would go out and buy a cat. Alternatively, I’ll just have to learn how to extend myself less or be more open about verbalizing my own need for caring. Anybody know any Type 2’s out there?

© 18 August 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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I Don’t Know, by Gilllian

For much of my life those words represented a huge challenge; no, actually more of an obsession. If I didn’t know, I had to know. This, like so many things in so many lives, began in my teens. If teachers and parents and my high school library couldn’t tell me what I wanted to know, I would schlep into town on the bus and visit the big library, where I would struggle to find books with answers via the Dewey decimal system. Remember all those long narrow wooden drawers packed with cards? Off I’d scuttle eagerly to the stacks. 427.88 might have the answer.

This need to know stayed with me throughout my adult life, though tempered somewhat by so many other demands on my time.

Now, those library searches a thing of the long past, the answer to each and every I don’t know is, quite literally, at our finger tips. And that, in some strange way, has cured me of my obsession. Perhaps it’s just too easy; no longer the challenge it once was. Or perhaps it’s overload. In searching the web for the answer to one I don’t know, I inevitably find innumerable answers to more I don’t knows that I didn’t even know I had. (Sorry, I’m sounding a bit like Dubya!) My ignorance, I have discovered, is infinite. Or perhaps I have learned that knowledge is nothing without understanding. Every I don’t know may be answered, factually, but how much understanding of the subject has that conveyed to me?

In my old, and I would like to think at least a little wiser, age, I know that none of it matters. Yes, it’s good to know things. It’s even better to understand them. But the only really important knowledge and understanding is of myself and those I care for. And most of that will not come from Mr. Google, or even the library. It can only come from me.

Jerry Maguire, in the movie of that name, says,

“Hey, I don’t have all the answers. In life, to be honest, I’ve failed as much as I’ve succeeded. But I love my wife. I love my life. And I wish you, my kind of successes.”

And all I know for sure is my answer to those two most important questions – do you love your life, do you love your wife? – will never be, I don’t know.

© July 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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Journal, by Betsy

“With pen in hand I write of our arduous journey from Lancaster County, Pennsylvania to our new home in Niagara County, New York. A covered wagon is the conveyance for the family. The track is badly rutted. The journey will take a few weeks.”

These words are a facsimile of those written by my great, great, great, great grandmother Mary Hershe Long, who moved from Pennsylvania to Niagara County, New York in 1820. This is the oldest example of journaling in my family that I have in my possession. There are many, many other examples such as this and many, many stories that have been told over the years since this one.

Inasmuch as we have taken up this activity of story telling and particularly the topic of “journal” I have come to realize that the women in my family have been great journalists. I don’t mean we have professional journalists in my family. But we do have many women on my mother and my father’s side who have been inclined to write down things that were happening in their lives. Some only recorded the major events, others kept daily diaries of their comings and goings.

I am truly grateful to have the stories of my great grand father and his forebears who settled in the wilderness that was western New York state in the early years of the 19th century.

On the same side of the family, my mother’s, my grandmother did a lot of writing especially for a non-professional woman of her time. Her’s were not diaries per se, but rather narratives and poems describing mostly her grandchildren and other people she loved. For example, “Betsy’s Hanky:”

Bets has a little handkerchief
To wipe her little nose
And everywhere that Betsy runs
She’s sure the hanky goes.

She dusts the car—then wipes her face
She cleans her shoes with this wisp of lace
’Twill be the emblem of her place
And wipe away her woes.

I can learn some things about myself from these words as well as learning about my grandmother.

Another favorite is the story of the Drib Yoj bird and how she flew to the rescue of some very sad children and cheered them up. The Drib Yoj always flew forward, not backwards as her name might imply.

Some of these papers of my grandmother’s are elaborately illustrated. Her writings were all done by hand, of course, and never published. I am fortunate to be the owner of these manuscripts which I am carefully preserving in acid-free plastic protectors.

The same grandmother, Edith Rand, wrote a collection of poems which she had typed (on Rand Company type writers, I’m sure) and bound together into a booklet called “Selected Poems”. I knew my grandmother, but know her so much better having read her poetry. The woman clearly loved life and everything about it, she was full of love and gratitude for everything she had, although her life was not without tragedy.

On my father’s side my great grand mother Cecelia McConnell wrote volumes about her travels across the mid west in a covered wagon, a career teaching on Indian reservations, and her exploits as a political activist. I do not have any of her writings, but I do have numerous newspaper articles describing her experience returning to the east coast in 1938 via one of the first commercial passenger flights as she approached the age of 100 years.

Cecelia’s daughter-in-law, my grandmother, had a daily diary which I lent to my cousin about 25 years ago. In this journal she recorded her day to day activities. From it I learned that she was a very active woman, but the diary tells me very little of her feelings or outlook on life.

My oldest daughter is a prolific writer. As well as the books she has written about her field of study, she keeps a journal in which she records her deepest thoughts and feelings. She does not share her journal and I think regards the journaling as a very private activity strictly for her own benefit.

When I was in my teens I acquired, probably as a birthday gift, a book in which I could record my deepest thoughts and feelings—— or just my daily activities, or both. This diary has enough pages for five years of writing. It actually came with a key with which one could guarantee to keep it free of any prying eyes. I long ago lost the key but fortunately it was left unlocked so I could look and see what I was doing/ thinking/ feeling in my youth—not much, really: a typical entry

“Dear Diary,

School was okay today. After school I had my hair set for the Freshman Frolic…….

Audrey was not in school today. DARN!

“Dear Diary,

Today Mother and Marcy and I went to Morristown to get Easter stuff.”

Like I said—not much. Even if I did allow you, my friends, to look inside this journal, I guarantee you would not find one single word about my deepest, darkest secret. There are no words in here about my sexual orientation as the idea of confronting the subject had at the time not yet entered my consciousness.

On several occasions during my adult life I have attempted to record my deepest thoughts and feelings in a journal. I have actually 4 of these journals. In my later years right after I retired, I did write about some of my deepest thoughts and feelings—especially about coming out and being out. I have never managed to fill one of my journals, however, but it is interesting to take a look and be reminded of what I did and how I felt in past years.

I did a fair amount of writing in my job, so when I retired, writing of any kind did not have an immediate appeal.

As I later wrote in 2013 in a piece for this group called “One Monday Afternoon”

“The only writing I did (after retirement) was in our travel log as we journeyed here and there in our beloved VW camper van to many different parts of the U. S. “Mileage today was 350. Spent the night at Frigid Frosty Forest Service campground. Woke up to snow and froze our butts,” would be a typical entry into the journal.”

I have kept in storage all my diaries better known as appointment books since 1989, a habit I developed at work. If I need to know when something happened, I can look in there, but no deep thoughts or feelings can be found in my appointment books.

One day about twelve years into retirement Gill and I were presented with the opportunity to join a certain writing group at the LGBT Center.

“….a writing group? Creating a piece of writing EVERY week. Telling my story. That sounds like work to me. I’ll have to exercise my brain and delve into memories and emotional stuff of the past and present. Do I really want to do that? Writing. Much harder than talking or thinking or imagining. After all, I thought, writing my story I will have to finish my dangling thoughts as well as correcting my dangling participles. Do I really want to get into that?

That was six years ago. I had no idea I would get so much out of being a part of this group when I was considering whether or not to join.

…… there is tremendous value to me in documenting experiences I have had, feelings I now have or have had in the past, beliefs I hold dear; ie, documenting who I am. The process of telling one’s story is not always easy, but with practice it gets easier. How much value the stories have for anyone else I will never know. But I find it oddly comforting knowing that I am leaving them behind when I depart this life.

Finally I believe this activity of writing and telling our stories gives me a broader perspective of my own life–a perspective perhaps not otherwise attained and certainly a perspective not easily attained.

So my journal has become this collection of stories I have been sharing now weekly for six years. I feel quite satisfied that although it is not a journal in the traditional sense of the word, the pages do tell a story of who I am and what my life has meant to me and my loved ones. Maybe in their later years my great, great grand children, who will never live in my lifetime, or maybe even my grandchildren, who do know me even if only slightly, will want to read some of the stories to understand more about who their grandmother was just as I am fascinated to learn about those who came before me.

© 3 August 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.