I Met a Fairy, by Ricky

I MET A FAIRY TODAY THAT SAID SHE WOULD GRANT ME ONE WISH.

“I want to live forever,” I said.

“Sorry,” said the fairy, “I’m not allowed to grant eternal life.”

“Fine,” I said, “Then, I want to die after Congress gets its head out of its ass!”

“You crafty bastard,” said the fairy.

© 8 Apr 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

Anxious Moments, by Ray S

Will I be the first of us to say, “My whole life has been one blinking anxious moment for as long as I can remember”?

Instead of my 2nd birthday party, it was the awakening to someone standing over my baby bed or crib and gently, I imagine, fondling the unknowing occupant. Some moment, and I too young to be anxious. The matter of anxiety about this moment didn’t materialize for some fifteen years later.

Meantime some other more routine moments developed and were overcome, such as fainting while the children’s choir I was a member of angelically sang the “Hallelujah Chorus” for some high holiday at an Episcopal Church that my 8th grade music teacher had recruited me for. Needless to say, I resigned choir and since our family didn’t frequent Sunday services, the Episcopalians lost a dubious potential convert. But I’m sure I looked cute in that choir uniform.

Many anxious moments transpired due to becoming a high school freshman and adjusting to the surprise divorce of my parents. So much for the nuclear family.

Age 17 and the Army and my discovery of boys and men instead of the fairer sex. College days, I was too unconscious to worry about studies, I just did what I was told to do and managed a mortar board and piece of sheepskin. But, the really anxious moments came when I was desperate to be accepted by a Greek club I needed, needed, needed. And then found out myself over my head when my then lady friend announced it was time for some sort of commitment about our, or her, intentions.

You’ve heard this one before, but this was my very own “A” moment, March 31st 1951, our wedding day and all I recall is my stomach kept telling me, “Do you really think you want to do this?”

For the following years there were many more anxious times: finding a career, raising two wonderful kids, trying to make love, trying to keep the closet door closed, etc., etc., etc.

Now, the family’s grown and gone, my good and I think suspecting wife passed on, and my awakening to how very many of my new gay friends shared similar stories. Were all of our anxious moments so bad or good? Who says you can’t have your cake and eat it too?

© 12 June 2017

About the Author

Workout, by Phillip Hoyle

I suppose we weren’t quite prepared for the mess although two summers ago Jim and I noticed the Honey Locust tree in the backyard was producing seedpods, a few of them. Last summer there were quite a few more. This summer the tree went crazy with its genetic demand to replicate and has produced hundreds of pods. They are not small, some measuring more than a foot in length and they hang in clusters of two to six. I thought them rather decorative like holiday ornaments. Our neighborhood squirrels showed up for the seasonal party and since the last week of August have gleefully begun their harvest.

If you know squirrels you realize they are as messy as teenagers, never cleaning up after themselves like the adolescent son in the comic strip Zits. I know about that because my daughter was one messy kid. Still is and so are her children. Luckily I don’t live nearby so I’m rarely irked by them. But the squirrels live here. They’re as cute as my grandkids and, like them, never give a thought about the consequences of their messes. The tree rats focus only on their preparation for the oncoming winter with its cold temperatures, snows, and otherwise harsh conditions that challenge rodent survival. I don’t blame them, but I do have to contend with what they leave behind. The squirrels live here and interest me. I watch and then grab the broom; my partner just gets mad.

A week ago Saturday I observed one of the three or four varmints who show up every day. She or he sat on a small branch harvesting. For twenty minutes the critter ate never having to prepare or even reach very far for its meal. She picked a pod, methodically removed the seeds, and dispensed with the rest. A pod landing on the clear plastic awning sounds like a low caliber rifle shot. The first hit was why I knew the squirrel was up there. I leaned back to watch. She chose a pod, worked it like I might an ear of corn except that she’d spit out the pod bites and keep only the seeds. When done in a few minutes or when she loses her grip, the pod falls. Bam. Then she may bite the stem of one of the compound leaves for a taste of something (perhaps flavoring) or strips off a bit of bark (her favorite) and then reaches for another pod. Perhaps due to my attention she soon jumped from that branch to another and disappeared from sight.

I began sweeping the patio a few days ago. Each day I pick up two or three hundred chewed-on pods and dump them by shovel fulls into the compost container. I tend to sweep when the sun gets low and the air begins to cool. The next morning reveals quite a few more pods on the patio, in flowering plants, sticker bushes, fountains, and on the awning. I hope this workout will be done before too many more days although I do get a bit of aerobic exercise and have improved my technique with the broom. But mostly I get a kick out of spotting our furry friends still at work high over head.

© 11 September 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

Evil, by Pat Gourley

So just to be safe I might advise everyone sitting near me around the table to move to a safer space just in case. The reason for this is that I am beginning this piece on EVIL with a biblical quote and I would not want anyone to be smote by a lightning bolt on account of my atheist ass.

“Anyone, then, who knows the good he ought to do and doesn’t do it, sins.”  James 4:17

Particularly in grades one through eight when I was most intensely in the clutches of the Catholic Church 24/7 it seemed I was steeped in the seemingly endless ways I could sin or do evil. There were two broad categories of sin as I recall, those of “commission” and then those of “omission”. Being a good little Catholic boy I went to confession usually twice a month with the focus of my confessing being almost entirely on my seemingly endless sins of commission. In hindsight it seems that the Church overly focused on actual transgressions rather than on the “omissions”. Or maybe this was a refection of my own internal turmoil generated by the difficulty and shame of confessing to cussing, fighting with siblings or disobeying my parents as opposed to confessing a lack of efforts to help the overseas Catholic Missions save heathen souls with my meager monetary allowance.

To be fair the Church did say that faith alone was not adequate, you need some good works to go along with it. To not perform these acts of goodwill I suppose could be construed as sins of omission. Though I do not remember the emphasis on omissions being nearly as strong as the admonition to keep my hands off of my dick and the resulting emissions.

And of course when I had reached my early adolescent years the thought of confessing to anyone that I was masturbating daily was simply out of the question. That I was thinking about men much older than I when I was engaged in this ‘transgressive commission” was truly beyond the pale, and so began a slow decline into being an agnostic and then a full-blown atheist. I guess playing with oneself is the root of all evil.

To once again quote Ken Wilber’s truthful bromide “no one is wrong 100% of the time” this seems the case for the Catholic Church’s teaching around sins of omission. As I age I realize that I actually commit very few sins but the issue of omission becomes much more relevant and something I am frequently guilty of.

Over the decades I have been attracted to Buddhism primarily the Zen variety. I find their views on good and evil to be a bit more dare I say sophisticated and in line with the complexity that is human behavior. I recently stumbled on a piece written on Good and Evil and posted on the Soka Gakkai International site: http://www.sgi.org/about-us/buddhism-in-daily-life/good-and-evil.html

A short quote from that piece I think has a rather uncomfortable truth to it:

“Every single human being is capable of acts of the most noble good and the basest evil”.

I am also reminded of Thich NhatHanh wonderful poem, Please Call Me By My True Names, and the amazing stanza:

“ I am the twelve year old girl,
refugee on a small boat
who throws herself into the ocean
after being raped by a sea pirate.
And I am the pirate
My heart not yet capable
Of seeing and loving.”

So for me these days I think I am guilty of sins of omission when I am not actively engaging in resistance hopefully through acts of compassion. This does not necessarily only involve political actions, which can have merit but also present traps of their own. Acting compassionately and politically at the same time is often a challenge.

For me it is a sin of omission to not be out marching and demonstrating and certainly not voting. The sins of omission I currently am guilty of though most often involve rather mundane day-to-day activities.

I need to engage more with some of the homeless I encounter daily maybe give them a few bucks, or call a friend for lunch or reach out to an old buddy trying to contact me on Facebook. Perhaps help an older friend get moved out of his apartment or get off my ass and write something and then just show up at Story Telling to listen to what everyone has to share.

© June 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.

Plumage, by Nicholas

          I like scarves. I like to wear them and I like seeing them worn by other people. Scarves are both fashionable and practical. They can provide warmth and protection against the elements on a cold, blustery day. They can also provide an elegant touch of color, a bit of flair with a swath of fabric flung around your neck and over a shoulder. And they can make statements about who you are and even what side you take.

          I’m always surprised how much warmth a scarf can provide when wrapped around my neck on a winter’s day. It’s an extra layer of protection against the wind. It feels cozy and snuggly and shelters some exposed skin. The winter scarves I have are light wool and are burgundy and purple. They’re long enough to completely wrap them around me. I have another yellow scarf that my mother knitted for me years ago but I rarely wear it because I keep it more as a memento of her.
          Scarves can also make statements—fashion statements and political statements. Scarves can be gay when a man wears one that is colorful and elegant. It can bring a feminine touch to your wardrobe. I wear a blue and gold silk scarf sometimes and I have a fuchsia and black scarf that I wear just for decoration. The secret to always being fashionable, they say, is to accessorize. Scarves can be so gay.
          Political statements are also made through scarves. Certain scarves in certain colors on certain days often convey symbolic political sentiments. I own a scarf that is checkered red and black which might be taken for a Middle Eastern keffiyeh, the checkered headdress worn by many Palestinians and adopted by some non-Palestinians as a gesture of solidarity. I didn’t buy it for that. In fact, the resemblance didn’t occur to me until much later when I realized there could be political overtones to my new fashion accessory. But then I doubt a Palestinian warrior would wear my pinkish-red scarf anywhere. It’s not their style.
          My favorite scarves are not actually scarves at all but can be worn as such. They are these bright pieces of plumage from Renaissance Italy. These are actually flags or banners representing the different neighborhoods of Siena. Each banner—with different colors, animals (both mythical and real), wild patterns of stripes and daggers of color, and patron saints displayed—symbolically represents one of the 17 districts of the old medieval city.
These banners are used by neighborhood teams competing in the annual horse race, called the Palio, held since the 15th century (and still held) each summer in the huge piazza in the center of town. Of course, the three-day event is more than one horse race. Much pageantry and pomp goes along with it, including parades with these banners carried by people in equally flamboyant Renaissance costumes of tight leotards, puffy sleeves and very bright colors.
So, wearing a scarf can be more than putting on an accessory to highlight a color, more than showing your support for a sports team, and more than just bundling up against the cold. Scarves have become yet another way humans have concocted to say something in a world that might not be paying much attention anyway. A scarf is a flag to wave.
©  March 2015 
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.

Hooves by Louis Brown

(1) The Mongol hordes: their great skill with horses made them successful conquerors.

(2) The four horsemen of the Apocalypse: death, famine, war and conquest. (Emily Dickinson: “Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me.) in a horse-drawn carriage.

Because I could not stop for Death —
He kindly stopped for me —
The Carriage held but just Ourselves —
And Immortality.

We slowly drove — He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility —

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess — in the Ring —
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain —
We passed the Setting Sun —

Or rather — He passed Us —
The Dews drew quivering and Chill —
For only Gossamer, my Gown —
My Tippet — only Tulle —

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground —
The Roof was scarcely visible —
The Cornice — in the Ground —

Since then — ’tis Centuries — and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity — 

Theme: Do not be afraid of death. (“A Narrow Fellow in the Grass”)

(3) The age of chivalry in medieval Europe: Lancelot, King Arthur, Perceval, Sir Galahad and Ivanhoe, all rode horses to their glory.

(4) My Presbyterian friend has a daughter who raises horses in Kentucky.

(5) Pegasus and the Roman Centaurs.

(6) Mr. Ed (talking horse on TV).

(7) The Denver Broncos.

(8) Mustang is the name of gay porno company. Don’t know if it is still in business.

[For Halloween]

A narrow Fellow in the Grass Occasionally rides – You may have met Him? Did you not His notice instant is- The Grass divides as with a Comb – A spotted shaft is seen, And then it closes at your Feet And opens further on – He likes a Boggy Acre – A Floor too cool for Corn – But when a Boy and Barefoot I more than once at Noon Have passed I thought a Whip Lash Unbraiding in the Sun When stooping to secure it It wrinkled And was gone – Several of Nature’s People

I know, and they know me I feel for them a transport Of cordiality But never met this Fellow, Attended or alone Without a tighter Breathing And Zero at the Bone.

© 9 October 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.

What Makes Homophobes Tick? by Lewis Thompson

The easy answer to this query would be that “homophobe” means “a person with an irrational or obsessive fear of homosexuals”, according to Wikipedia. But it would be important to dig a little beneath the surface to examine not only where the “irrational or obsessive fear” arises from but also why it seems to persist over many years.

Any American born in the last century almost certainly spent their formative years being inculcated with certain “inalienable truths”. Among these were–

* To be white is better than to be a person of color;

* To be male is better than to be female;

* To be a female is better than to be a male who wants to become a female (if a female wants to become a male, well, who can blame them?);

* To be rich is better than to be poor;

* To be rich and a crook is also better than being poor;

* To be a Christian is better than to be a non-Christian;

* To be a non-Christian is better than to be an atheist;

* To be an atheist is better than being a homosexual because, at least usually, you’re not an embarrassment to your relatives;

* To be conservative is better than being liberal (because all of the Founding Fathers were conservative, otherwise, they would never have written the Second Amendment);

* To be black, female, liberal, a non-believer, and gay is the worst thing that can possibly happen to a person and they surely should be imprisoned at birth and executed as soon as their politics, non-believer status, and sexual orientation become manifest.

So, we can readily comprehend that homophobia is the natural outgrowth of a society based upon gender, race, religious and countless other biases. It is endemic, almost akin to fluoridated water, which, as we all know, was responsible for the rise of the John Birch Society.

© January 12, 2015

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. 

The Eyes of Love, by Gillian

The only living creature who actually looks upon a human through the eyes of love surely has to be the dog. The first time I was married we had a dog who gazed at me with what I saw, anyway, as pure adoration. His eyes glowed, his mouth smiled and his long wet tongue lolled down below his chin.

‘How come you never look at me like that?’ I asked my husband one day.

From that day on I would occasionally glance towards him only to find him staring at me in a weird glassy- and bug-eyed way, his head on one side and his mouth half open and his tongue hanging out but far from reaching his chin. He did it from hands and knees on the floor to rolling around on the lawn. ‘A’ for effort but it was no good. It fell way short of canine idolatry. I have never asked Betsy to give it a try.

Of course, the expressions we see in animals’ faces are purely our interpretations. Maybe that doggie worship that we see simply means something like, where the hell’s my dinner? Maybe when the cat who owns you reduces your ego to the size of a pea with that look of pure disdain, she is really thinking how very wonderful you are; but I seriously doubt it!

In many parts of the world we humans put great stock in eye contact. How good we are at interpreting what we see in another’s eyes, though, is questionable. On occasion I really am seeing my Beautiful Betsy through the eyes of love, simply enjoying watching her every move as she plants the petunias, and she will suddenly say, very suspiciously,

‘What? Why are you staring at me like that? Did you want me to plant these somewhere else?’

Not long ago I read a story about a young man who, I was convinced, kept looking at me with the eyes of love – well, maybe not quite, perhaps infatuation or at least lust – until he confessed that my fascination for him was simply that I reminded him so much of his mother!

But seriously, being regarded through the eyes of love is a truly beautiful thing; one of the greatest gifts in life. A longtime friend of mine, a woman without a partner in life and no children or siblings, said, when her mother died not long after her father,

‘Now there’s no-one left to look at me with love.’

I thought it one of the saddest things I have ever heard. We all need to be looked upon through the eyes of love. I was going to continue, in fact we all, down to the meanest of us, deserve it.

Perhaps Eva Braun even looked at Hitler that way. But visions of the Orange Ogre leapt into my head and no, I’m sorry, everyone does not deserve it.

The best of all, though, is looking out through your own eyes with love. I cannot, or I choose not to, imagine a world in which I have no-one and nothing on whom or which to gaze with love. And you know the best thing about that? It is one of very few things that are completely within my own control. No-one can take it from me. I cannot force anyone to look upon me through the eyes of love, but how I look out through my own eyes is completely up to me. Should I ever be left alone, bereft of anyone I perceive as loving me, as my friend felt herself to be, I hope I can continue to see many of those around me through my own eyes of love. And failing that, surely I can still fall back upon the love for all things, both animate and inanimate, that I so valuably learned from my family as a child. There is always a flower, a rock, raindrops and snowflakes. When I can no longer look through the eyes of love, I guess it will be time to go.

© June 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.

Bicycle Memories, by Betys

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 week ends 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 two and a half 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 boy friend 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.

Elder Words, by Ricky

I believe that everyone would agree what the word “Words” means. I don’t guess that there is another meaning. But the word “Elder” has several possible meanings depending upon spelling and the context in which it is used. So, that being said, lets explore this topic of “Elder Words”.

In general, “elder” implies age, but in the Mormon church capital “E” Elder denotes a male 19 years of age or above who holds the Melchizedek Priesthood. So, their words could convey mundane meanings or specific religious messages as in, “I baptize you in the name of . . .,” etc. The title is used in other religions as well for similar or the same purpose.

So, perhaps it boils down to the degree of “age” in which the term “elder” is appropriate within different cultures. For example, in the book Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, the word is used to designate the most senior (as in most powerful) magic wand, the Elder Wand. The word “senior” is a synonym for “elder” which category would include: old, ancient, adult, and grownup. Another thing about this word is that it can also be used as a proper noun as a “stand alone” name or even part of a name; as in the John Wayne movie, “The Sons of Katy Elder” and “Elderberry” as in bushes and wine.

As we are not met this day to discuss the merits of movies or to relax with a glass of Elderberry wine or listen to sermons by Elder Berry, I will present for your enjoyment, boredom, or discomfort my take on the topic of Elder Words. Be forewarned, this topic is sometimes rather depressing so I will pause briefly so anyone can take an anti-depressant or you can tough it out without one. I guarantee there will be a happy ending, however sad the journey to get there.

As one moves through life from younger to not so younger and thereby gain a life time collection of experiences speaking with those persons who either preceded or are following down the path of destiny, we have the opportunity to reflect on, ponder, skim through, or try to remember those conversations and what they may have meant or done to us.

As a potential elder everyone has one or more embarrassing words moments that parents like to recall at family gatherings. Words like, “Mom, my urine is runny.” Embarrassing words may not become embarrassing words until after the fact, as in, “I don’t want to go get it because I might break it.”, then after 4-minutes a loud crash is heard in the school hallway.

And then there are words spoken by children before they become self-sufficient: “I want. . .”; “Can I have. . .”; “Will you buy this for me?”. Sadly, sometimes these words are re-spoken by those same children after they become senior citizens. At that time, the now elder is often told by his now grownup children: “You can’t watch TV until you eat all your dinner.”; “No, it’s too dangerous for someone your age.”; “It costs too much.”; “You don’t need that.”; “You can’t have ice cream. Have some yogurt instead.”; “It’s your bedtime.”; “I don’t have time to drive you everywhere you want to go.”; “I’m not made of money you know.”; “You want to have a party while we’re gone for the weekend! Do you think we’re crazy?” Those are the moments that make an elder think weird thoughts of the type, “Oh crap! My children have become me! Now I’m in real trouble.”

Sometimes parents deliberately create “embarrassing words” moments for their children, as in these words said over an external CB loud speaker while stopped at a large intersection in Salt Lake City; “Don’t touch me there Ricky, until we get home.”

Potential elders also get elder words of advice as they grow: “Don’t eat that from the floor.”; “Just say ‘NO’!”; “Do yourself a favor and . . .”; “You get what you pay for.”; “When you go to the chicken coop, just kick the rooster away like I do.”; “Please do me a favor, when you visit grand-elder, don’t be noisy or demanding because grand-elder tires easily.”; and the ever popular, “Don’t lie to me again.”

Then there are elder work-related words. Some of which we never wanted to hear: “You’re fired!”; “Get me your supervisor.”; “All you public servants are ass holes!”; “Touch your finger tips to your nose.”; “Assume the position.”; “You have the right to remain silent and I suggest you use it. You long-hair hippie freak.”

Of course there are also hateful elder words like: “I’ll make a man out of you.”; “It’s my way or the highway.”; “You’re no son of mine.”; and “I want no homos in my house. Get out and don’t come back!”

Now let us consider the words of the Eldest of all. His guidance to us is to “Honor thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.” Over time this Elder’s advice is often quoted as, “Honor your father and mother” but the reason is seldom given. Now in our time it has been shortened again to the simple but less powerful, “respect your elders” or “respect your parents.” These smacks of a dictatorial demand of parents but again lacking any explanation as to why that should be done. It often boils down to those famous but unsatisfying elder words, “Because I told you so.”

Now as most parents and other observant elders know by either personal or sad experience, requests, demands, or procedures that don’t have logical, reasonable, or plausible explanations as to the “why” something is a procedure, request, or demand will cause different levels of irritation in children. Irritation leads to frustration. Frustration leads to resentment. Resentment leads to suppressed anger. Suppressed anger leads to a rebellious attitude. A rebellious attitude leads to a conflict of words (if you are lucky and violence if you are not). A conflict of words results in elder words like: “Are you stupid or something?”; “Don’t sass me.”; “Don’t talk back to me.”; “If you say that word again I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”; (Mother to son, “Don’t talk to me like that. You just wait ’til you father comes home.”); (Father to son—after coming home, “Never talk to your mother like that again.”); (Father to son—double standard, “Don’t talk to me like that you little shit. Go get my belt!”)

There are elder words that are not generally spoken out loud but, nonetheless, pass through the consciousness of elder and younger minds. “Can I afford it?” “I can’t afford it, but I’m buying it anyway.” “Does he/she like/love me?” “How will I survive on only social security.” “Oh crap, I don’t remember his/her name.” “I think I’m losing my mind.” “Am I bi or gay?” Etc.

Taken as a whole, all these elder words paint a rather dismal portrait of the language of elders. I believe that over our life-time we elders have learned too many of the wrong words and not enough of the right words and how to use them.

In my experience, all grandparents have a special brand of English elder words for their grandchildren. I’ve even used this language myself recently and will again this week. I will now show you how I use it to communicate with my grandchild. “Schmooch, Schmooch, do you have a kiss for grandpa?” (With finger rubbing closed lips) “Blubb, blubb, blubb.” “Open wide. Yum, yum.” “Yea! (clap, clap, clap).” “Pppppst on the tummy.” “Psssst with tongue.” “Putt, putt, putt” with lips. “(blow a kiss).” “No, you can’t eat my cell phone.” And, “Don’t eat that from the floor.” That one seems to be universally contained within all cultures.

When the time comes I’ll add these elder words also: “Hi. Grandpa is here. I brought you a present.”; “Here is a cookie, but don’t let your mom see it or tell her I gave it to you.”; “Your bedtime is 9:00 but I’ll let you stay up until 10:00 as long as you don’t tell anyone.”; and “Let’s sneak out and go get ice cream.”

Elder words that are relatively rarely spoken: “Let me show you a better way to do this.”; “Wow. You did that really well.”; “Am I doing it right?”; “How can I do it better?”; “Let’s go play catch.”; “Why don’t you invite 2 or 3 friends and we’ll go to a movie.”; “Yes, I’m busy but I will always make time for you.”; “Do you want to talk about it?”; “Hey, I’ve got this extra $5 bill you can have with your allowance this week.”; “Where do you want to go on vacation this summer?”; “Yes dear. I’d love for your mother to come visit.”; “Yes, you can invite your friends over for a party. What do you want for snacks?”; “How do you feel about . . .?”; “You’re so smart.”; “You’re so bright, I’m gonna change your name to Sunny.”; “Can I help you with your chores?”; and, “No dear. Nothing you wear makes you look fat.”

The topic of elder words would not be complete without the words that are never ever said enough to anyone, “I love you.”

© 2015

About the Author

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com