Author: jnelson

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Siblings, by Ricky

Before I was born, “It was a very good year. It was a very good year for small town girls [mother] and soft summer nights” [dad got her pregnant in October]. Mom and Dad hid the pregnancy from everyone by getting married in November, 1947, before it became obvious she was with child [a big scandal back then]. Immediately after, they moved from Minnesota to Lawndale, California.
After 8 months of pregnant pauses, I was born on the 9th of June 1948, another very good year for small little boys just entering the world. My mother’s sister told me about 40 years later, that I was supposed to be half of a set of twins, but sometime during the 8 months prior to my birth, the other half was spontaneously aborted. No one knew why, but I do. The first reason was two in the womb is very crowded and there was no privacy. That fact combined with the second reason (“The Other” was a straight homophobic bully) was justification for me to kick him out of my wombicile. Some may call this fratricide but I call it interior remodeling. Thus, I was born an only child. So like Harry Potter, I was the boy who lived.
The next seven years passed quickly. Mother reported all my shenanigans to my dad who was the disciplinarian in their relationship. I got lots of spankings as I was rather headstrong. So, after stresses became too much for them to handle, my parents decided to divorce in 1955 without telling me or me being aware of the impending disaster to be fall me. At the beginning of the summer of 1956 just before my 8th birthday, I was sent to live with my mother’s parents on their farm in central Minnesota. In the summer of 1957 I turned 9 and my mother came to Minnesota to attend the wedding of her sister. I thought she would take me back home to California but she would not/could not. In December at Christmas vacation from school, at age 9 ½ my father came to Minnesota for one week during Christmas and New Year’s Day. The night before he left, without me, he told me of the divorce, that mom had remarried, was pregnant with twins due to be born any day now, and I had a step-brother age 14 ½. In May, 1958, Mom and my step-father brought the twins to Minnesota to show off to my grandparents and to finally bring me back to California in a new home and family situation.
My step-brother, Gene, and I got along really well considering the difference in ages. We could talk and play together well enough. We never argued or fought. We took turns caring for the twin babies as they grew until he had to go into the Navy. He was on the USS Ticonderoga, the aircraft carrier involved in the Gulf of Tonkin incident which propelled President Johnson into escalating the Vietnam (undeclared) War.
Gene survived the Navy experience and led a normal life. He married and fathered a daughter. He worked hard, unlike me, and passed away about 5-years ago.
The twins also grew and we talked, played, and had fun together. I loved them a lot. They both grew and prospered in the normal ways. Dale also went into the Navy and survived and eventually married a woman who had four nearly grown teen and a preteen girls. He never had children of his own. He passed away four years ago. Gale is still alive and living in her home in South Lake Tahoe. She had two children who spawned several kids of their own and she now has about 10 grandchildren. All of my siblings and I went to school at South Lake Tahoe. (Gene for 4-years of high school, me from 5th grade to first year of college, Dale and Gale from K-12th grades.)
Of course my children and grandchildren are all siblings to each other respectively. One daughter is currently working for McDonald’s at their headquarters in central Chicago in the Computer Security Department for a 6-figure salary. The next daughter is working for a law firm in the Denver Tech Center area. My son is married and working somewhere in New York but lives in New Jersey. He has two children, a boy and a girl. My youngest daughter is in the Air Force in Tucson, Arizona. She also is married and has four children, three girls and one boy. All of my children are very close and are frequently communicating with each other. Family life doesn’t get much better than that.
© 10 December 2018 
 About the Author 

I was
born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in
Redondo Beach.  Just prior to turning 8 years
old in 1956, I was sent to live with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County,
Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.
When united with my mother
and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at
South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in
the summer of 2010.   I find writing
these memories to be therapeutic.
My story blog is: TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com
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Coping with Loved Ones, by Ricky

          Children do not “cope” with loved ones – they “survive” loved ones.  Babies survive being accidentally dropped when they are covered in soapy bath water or are squirming at the wrong time when a parent’s attention is distracted or any number of similar circumstances.  Most parents love (and would never deliberately hurt) their children, but legitimate mishaps do occur.
          Young children cope by using survival instincts, like staying out of sight of a raging parent, if they can.  Some hide under the bed; some escape to a friend’s house or apartment.  Some assume an adult role and make coffee for their hung-over parent.  Others care for younger siblings to the exclusion of their own social needs.  Some turn to illegal drugs and alcohol, while others just run away from home.  Unfortunately, some must do all of the above to one degree or another.
          Once a child’s brain develops increased capacity for reason, logic, and problem-solving, survival skills can grow into rudimentary coping skills.  Skills like thinking ahead to possible consequences for one’s actions (for example, do not do anything that might make mom or dad angry).  Trying to become the perfect child is another example.  Another skill is to keep secrets by not telling your parents anything that would upset them even if you only think some information might upset them and make them angry.  Closely associated with keeping secrets are the twin skills of avoiding telling the whole truth or outright lying.  These two skills can lead to major consequences when discovered by parents.
          One type of survival-mechanism children use is totally involuntary and effective but can leave permanent damage to a child’s physical or emotional development.  I am referring to the case where the situation a child is in, is so terrible that the child’s subconscious intervenes, and mentally the child “goes” somewhere else in their head.  Other situations may not be so terrible, but still cause a child mental, emotional, and physical pain.
          At the age of 9 ½, when I was told about my parent’s divorce, my mother’s remarriage, pregnancy, and my new stepfather and stepbrother, I developed the classic symptoms of shock along with depression.  Then my father, who was the one who told me about the divorce, left the next morning.  After spending the weekend moping, crying, scared, and confused, my subconscious “turned off” my emotions dealing with loss.  I became emotionally incomplete, which has a major impact on my life even to this day.  Perhaps not feeling negative emotions actually helped me survive the confusion over my orientation, having to babysit my siblings instead of attending after-school activities, and so forth during my high school years.
          Survival and coping skills learned in childhood and adolescence, can serve an adult well, if developed properly.  Are there any straight or GLBT parents who have not experienced challenges when raising children through their various stages of development?  Things like: potty training; the terrible two’s; the 2AM “Daddy. I want a glass of water.”; the midnight through 6AM feedings every two-hours; “All the girls wear makeup.  Why can’t I?”; diaper changing ad nauseum; underachieving at school; overachieving at mischievousness; various childhood illnesses; dental and doctor appointments; conflicting school and family activities; “I hate that food item!”; “Can I have a $20 advance on my allowance?”; “Sir, this is officer Bob.  Could you please come to the police station and pick up your son?  He’s had a bit too much to drink for a 13-year old.”; “Mom, now that I am 12, can I have a 16-year old boyfriend?”; “Mom.  I’m bleeding between my legs.”; “Son, do that in private or at least lock the bathroom door.”; “No you can’t watch a PG-13 movie until you are 13 and no R-rated movies until you are 30.”; “Mom, Dad – I’m gay/lesbian.”; and a host of other such issues too numerous to list.
          How does an adult cope with those challenges?  You do the best that you can with the knowledge and skills you learned as a child in how your parents manipulated you.
          But there are some of life’s challenges that no one can really prepare for.  Divorce is hard enough on the adult but especially devastating for a child or even adolescents.  Some adults and children have friends to be a social support during the stressful times.  Others turn to their religious faith for comfort.  Some just get depressed and withdraw and many children take their own life.
          My most stressful time was when I was temporarily caring for my wife’s mother, an Alzheimer patient.  Her regular caregiver (and partner) needed to take a month-long vacation.  My children and I split up the time with me taking two-weeks and the others taking one-week each.  The first night I stayed with my mother-in-law, she decided that she was in my apartment and spent much of the time between 1AM and 6AM (while I was asleep), packing her things and loading her car so she could drive to her house (the one she sold several years previous).  For the rest of the two-weeks I was there, I was in survival mode and not much good for anything. 
          I left my car there for my children to use while there, and I took the train back to Denver.  The train took 3-days to go from Jacksonville to Denver by way of Washington DC and Chicago.  I needed every one of those days to decompress and relax.
          Even knowing what to expect from an Alzheimer patient, who can really prepare for the reality.  I truly understand how loving children can place their Alzheimer parents into a nursing type facility, as the stress is tremendous.  What I do not understand is how the staff of those facilities can provide the care they do without shutting off their emotions.
          People do not really cope with situations.  They maneuver about mentally and physically until the “crisis” passes and they become survivors.
         
© 14 October 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 was sent to live with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001 terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.
My story blog is: TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com 
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Fitness, by Ray S

To hear today’s Story Telling challenge word, “Fitness”, is the main reason I have come here today. That, and of course the opportunity to be with my friends, and as always to learn how they might deal with the weekly word-subject.
But first, I must acknowledge the previous week’s referral to the usage of the adjunct “ness,” by a highly revered member of this group. I wonder how the term “gayness” is so cliché and the other word encumbered with that addition. And then to find today’s subject standing proudly with its “ness” hanging out for everyone to address. However, did this come to pass?
Personally, after reading the current title, besides being quite uninspired (as is evidenced herewith) the best I can offer is—“I was fit to be tied.” Is that cheating? Or perhaps, it was neither fit for man or beast.” Note the absence of “ness.”
With due respect for my compatriots’ sincere efforts, I look forward to how you have fittingly risen to this occasion.
Meanwhile, I will obediently find a dark hiding place to fit my “ness’s.”
© 31 July 2017 
About the Author 
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Hope, by Phillip Hoyle

I moved to Denver determined to live my life as an openly gay man. There is a fifty-year long story behind that statement. I won’t go into it here, but my mind was made up. I knew I needed come out publically. I certainly wanted whatever kind of gay life I could construct in an urban context. Of course, I also had other needs: a job, a place to live, some friends, a connection with a church as a participant (not as staff), and a change of scene to mention only a few of them. I wanted and assumed I would be able to see these needs met to my satisfaction. In less than three months I had enrolled in massage school to learn a trade that would sustain me, rented an apartment, moved in, and started meeting people: students in school, members in the church I had settled on, and eventually in my neighborhood. I did more things such as joined as a member at the Denver Art Museum, got a library card at Denver Public Library, started writing another book for the publishing company I worked for part-time and set up my art studio and massage space in my tiny apartment. I was on my way.
I was having a wonderful time in my new gay world, exhilarated by a sense of freedom I had never before experienced, looking at my day-to-day life with a sense of awe. What would happen next, I wondered. My art matured, my small book went off to the editor, my education changed my perception of the human body, and the city kept opening me to the potential of new wants. I was not greedy, but I did keep myself busy.
Toward the end of my fourth year here, after schooling was completed, my massage practice was proving rewarding, and I was enjoying a number of friendships, I met a man one day at a bus stop, a man who moved me deeply. I wanted to get to know him. I saw him three times on the bus and knew I wanted his friendship. But then he disappeared. For weeks I kept my eyes opened. The season moved from early to late spring. Then I saw him again. I gave him my phone number and encouraged him to call me so we could meet for breakfast or lunch. I really wanted his friendship whether he was also gay or not. I wanted him in my life.
Two months later I heard his voice on my phone. He asked me to call. I did. We began to talk. My want changed. Here’s what I wrote in my Morning Pages the morning after his phone call: “I am pleased, maybe even thrilled. Rafael left me a message. Then I left him a message. Then we talked. [Among other things] he said he wanted us to be friends.
That’s when my feelings changed from want to hope. I wrote: “I want him to touch me. I want to share some kind of love with him. I hope it will work out to be something fine.”
In my usage hope seeks so much more than does want, more in terms of deepest desires, persistent needs, and long-term effects on one’s life. It wasn’t that I quit wanting, but I then began living with an expectation of so much more than any other man had provided me or been able to receive from me. My feelings opened up into a romance the likes of which I had never before entertained. I’d always assumed romance to be a rather hokey and fairy-tale cultural construct but was suddenly living into a dream I had never expected. I had never been so moved and never had received nor given what this new friendship, partnership, love life, and cohabitational thrill that my too-brief time with Rafael Martínez provided. Even though our romance lasted just over four months, its affects and effects linger in my memory, in my body. My mourning his death is balanced with memories of our weeks together.
© 4 December 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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Rolling Thunder, by Pat Gourley

“If the thunder doesn’t get you the lightning will.”
Garcia/Hunter
Several thoughts came to mind with the topic of Rolling Thunder. I opened this piece with a short line from the Grateful Dead song called The Wheel.  One of my all-time favorite Dead tunes and its reference to thunder. Thunder, when associated with a rainstorm, is often rolling in nature and often accompanied by lightning and then a real downpour. Lightning is, of course, the cause of the thunder despite the fact that you might hear thunder and then see lightning. Things are not always what they seem.
I got to experience a rare thunder and lightning storm on my last trip to San Francisco this September. It was so spectacular and unusual for that city that it had people out in the streets trying to photograph the lightning with their phones. Coming from an area where such storms are common and a state with a high per capita number of lightning deaths I opted to stay inside.
I could use “Rolling Thunder” I suppose to characterize my longstanding and truly at times epic flatulence. Certainly, for the past several years, I have made a conscious effort to increase my fiber intake. My daily fiber goal is at least 40 grams with 25-30 often recommended but the average American gets only 15 grams. This can at times result in farts that seem to go on in a truly rolling fashion particularly at night in bed though I can produce any time of the day. Exercise seems to stimulate often-inopportune gas production, so I find myself these days seeking out little-used exercise machines off in an isolated corner of the gym or turning on one of the large fans if available. Then being able to fart to my heart’s content. The use of the fan makes it difficult for other gym goers to pin down the culprit.
Unwanted farts also seem to roll out when meditating and sitting on my Zafu. This is not an issue when home alone. However, when joining the evening Zazen at the Zen Center recently in San Francisco I would find myself discreetly farting into my cushion hoping for a silent escape of air and with the expulsion being into four inches of cushion an unnoticed event. As a matter of course though I believe if the setting is appropriate that farts should be released with gusto and this seems to enhance the volume. I suppose Roaring Thunder might be more appropriate for such occasions rather than Rolling Thunder.
So, before people start moving away from me here in group I’ll change the topic and share a couple of other “Rolling Thunder” references that came to mind for me in addressing this topic. The first being the Rolling Thunder Revue which was the name of a rock and roll tour in the mid-1970’s featuring Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, and many others.  Several theories existed as to why Dylan chose that name. Some thought perhaps he was referring to the Native America Shaman named Rolling Thunder. With the Vietnam War still raw and fresh in the American Psyche maybe he was referring to the code name for the disastrous and genocidal aerial bombardment by the United States of Vietnam that took place from March of 1965 through October of 1968. When asked about the urban mythology that had sprung up around the name Dylan had a much more mundane explanation. He had been sitting on his porch one day before the tour and a storm was approaching ushering in a rolling burst of thunder that seemed to stretch across the sky: this being another small blow to those who would make Bob Dylan America’s conscience.
I have included a link here to a short piece on lightning safety from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA)
Lightning Safety – NOAA
Lightning strikes resulting in death are rare and one erroneous assumption many people have is that they disproportionately happen to golfers, perhaps wishful thinking on the part of some people upset with our country’s current leadership (POTUS). This is however incorrect with three times as many strikes happening to fisherman in boats than golfers. Overall only 10% of lightning strikes result in death per data from NOAA.
Besides the potentially negative karmic repercussions of hoping POTUS will give up golf and take up fishing it would be much more productive to continue to pursue peaceful resistance. Never being one to shy away from a cheesy metaphor I would like to think that the progressive sweep in the recent elections was a real Rolling Thunder and harbinger of great change to come.
© 12 Nov 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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Deep Blue Sea – Plot Summary, by Louis Brown

Deep Blue Sea is a 1999 science fiction horror film, starring Saffron Burrows, Thomas Jane, LL Cool J, Jacqueline McKenzie, Michael Rapaport, Stellan Skarsgård and Samuel L. Jackson. The film was directed by Renny Harlin and was released in the United States on July 28, 1999.
Cast
Saffron Burrows as Dr. Susan McAlester
Thomas Jane as Carter Blake
Michael Rapaport as Tom Scoggins
Stellan Skarsgård as Jim Whitlock
LL Cool J as Sherman
“Preacher” Dudley
Samuel L. Jackson as Russell Franklin
Synopsis
At Aquatica, a remote former submarine refueling facility converted into a laboratory, a team of scientists searches for a cure for Alzheimer’s disease. Fluids [hormones] from the brain tissue of three Mako sharks are harvested. Unknown to the other scientists, Dr. Susan McAlester and her partner Jim Whitlock have violated the code of ethics by genetically engineering the sharks to increase their brain size, they have attempted to achieve their objective, but at the expense of making the sharks smarter, stronger, able to swim backwards and more dangerous.
After one of the sharks escapes and attacks a boat full of teenagers (but fails when shark wrangler Carter stops it), Aquatica’s financial backers send corporate executive Russell Franklin to investigate the facility. To prove that the research is working, the team removes fluid from the brain tissue of the largest shark. While examining it, Jim is attacked by the shark and his arm is bitten off. Brenda Kerns, the tower’s operator, calls a helicopter to evacuate Jim, but as he is being lifted the cable jams and Jim falls into the shark pen. The shark grabs the gurney and pulls the chopper into the tower, killing Brenda Kerns and the pilots. As the others try to figure out what made the explosion, one of the sharks uses Jim’s body as a battering ram to smash an underwater window, flooding the facility and freeing the other sharks. Jim is killed by asphyxiation. Susan confesses to the others that she and Jim genetically altered the sharks.
Susan, Russell, Carter Blake, Janice Higgins and Tom Scoggins make their way to the top of the center. The sharks use this as an opportunity to whittle down their numbers. While delivering a dramatic speech emphasizing the need for group unity, Russell is dragged into the water by the largest shark and killed. While climbing up the industrial elevator, a ladder falls and gets wedged between the walls of the shaft, leaving them dangling over the water and the second shark. Aquatica research assistant, Janice,  loses her grip and falls; despite Carter’s attempts to save her, the shark kills her. The cook, Sherman “Preacher” Dudley, is attacked by the first shark but kills it by throwing a lighter into the kitchen’s oven that had been turned on. He then encounters Carter, Tom, and Susan.
Traumatized by Janice and Russell’s deaths, Tom goes with Carter to the flooded lab to activate controls to open a door to the surface. The largest shark attacks them, killing Tom. Meanwhile, Susan heads into her room to collect her research material, but while there, she is ambushed by the second shark. She narrowly escapes by climbing onto a table and disconnects a nearby power cable, taking off her clothes, and electrocuting the shark in her underwear, destroying her research in the process. Carter, Susan, and Preacher go to the top of the research center through a decompression chamber and swim to the surface. Preacher is caught by the third shark and dragged through the water, but swims to safety after stabbing the shark in the eye with his crucifix, causing it to release him.
Carter realizes that the third shark is trying to escape to the open sea, and that the sharks made them flood the facility so they could escape through the weaker mesh fences at the surface. In an effort to distract the final shark, Susan cuts herself and dives into the water. When she attempts to climb out, the ladder breaks and she is killed by the shark. Carter dives in to try to save her but is too late.
Grabbing hold of the shark’s fin, he is pulled through the water. Preacher grabs hold of the harpoon and shoots the shark through its dorsal fin, but the spear also goes through Carter’s thigh. As the shark breaks through the fence, Carter is attached to the shark by the harpoon. He tells Preacher to connect the trailing wire to a car battery, sending an electric current through the wire and to an explosive charge in the harpoon, killing the shark. Carter managed to free himself in time, and he swims to the wreckage of the facility, joining Preacher in time to see the workers’ boat en-route on the horizon.
© 21 Nov 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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Resist, by Gillian

As we get older we tend to deal less well with change. We don’t like it. Unfortunately, at this stage of life, changes are all too frequently thrust upon us by forces we are unable to resist.
But I tend to see myself as someone who has never liked change – very much a status quo kind of person, even when I was younger. Thinking about this topic for today, I am forced to wonder why I see myself that way. I left home and went away to college, I emigrated to another country, I got married and then divorced. Finally, I completely changed my vision of myself by accepting and then embracing my lesbianism, embarking upon a lifetime commitment, and eventually marriage, to another woman. I have had something like twenty different addresses throughout my life. This does not really sound like someone who resists change.
Perhaps in fact what I did was fail to resist change. I didn’t initiate it. I didn’t own it. I simply went with the flow, falling in with the plans of others. It was not until I came out. morphing into the real me, that I truly began to take responsibility for my own life. Coming out in itself was, of course, my first and greatest resistance. There can be little more challenging than pushing back against your very self, or at least the self you always thought you were.
Ever after that sea change in my mid-forties, I have been much more cognizant of, and proactive about, change. Not all change is good, not all change is bad. Sometimes we resist change, sometimes we resist remaining the same. And, inevitably, we can never all agree on which is which. Change can also be very deceptive. The voters who gave the world both Trump and Brexit, insisted they were voting for change. In fact, they were for the most part resisting change, or perhaps hoping for things to start moving back in time, to return to a former world, which is change of a sort I suppose. Trump supporters want to return to a time of high-wage car factories; a land where coal is king. Brexit supporters hunger for the days when the British invaded other countries, rather than the people of those countries surging into Britain. Britain first. America first. In both countries, there are large segments of the population resisting any kind of positive, forward-moving change.
But it all depends, of course, on what your own vision is of positive change. I feel like I have been resisting, pushing back, against changes I thought to be negative all my life. Though, as I said before, in my earlier life I fear I did very little thinking, and more especially feeling, for myself. At least I can say, in my own defense, that I chose those I followed along with, very wisely. All the protests I took part in then are the same ones I would choose now, now I am the real me. I resisted nuclear missiles both in the UK and later in the US. I protested against the Vietnam war for what feels like forever. I marched for support of AIDS victims for another forever.
Now I am resisting as I have never resisted before. And now it is I who resist change. I resist Trump’s evil changes not only in protest marches but with daily actions; phone calls and e-mails dispatched at a rate I never before dreamed of. Since election day 2016 I feel that I am living some awful nightmare from which, every day, I am ready to wake up. I just hope this particular resistance is not yet another of those forevers.
© 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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Marriage, by Ricky

I was married once.  It lasted for 27-years and 9-months until she passed away from complications of breast cancer on 15 September 2001.  During the years we had together, we found peace, joy, love, companionship, comforting, support, advice, acceptance, hope, security, solutions, and problems to overcome.  In other words, we were best friends.
We had four children, three girls, and one boy all of whom turned out to be decent people.  During their growing up years, our family did many things together.  My military work schedule did not always make it easy to plan for family outings, but we made it work.  We took weekday or weekend trips to nearby tourist sites wherever we lived.  Included in the activities were trips to children themed museums, movie theaters, parks, bowling alleys, camping, and ShowBiz Pizza.  When I had my annual 30-day leave, we would go to “exotic” places like Disney World, Mt. Rushmore, Crazy Horse, Lettuce Lake, Lake Tahoe, Tucson, Gulf Coast Beaches, the Redwood Forest along US Highway 1, The Donut Store, Fjords Ice Cream Store, Storybook Island, and Waterton National Park in Canada.
Deborah and I always supported the children in whatever appropriate activities they wanted to try.  Before we even had our first child, we decided that our home would always be open to their friends and available for use for parties and other activities.  (That way we would always know where they were and what they were up to.)
Deborah and I came from family situations that were not optimal and dysfunctional to one degree or another.  Thus, we were committed to having a home where life was supportive of children through all ages of growth so our kids would not have our issues.  It worked out well.  They all have their own issues not even remotely similar to ours but perhaps still, a result of our efforts not to make the same mistakes our parents made.
Sadly, due to my early childhood and adolescent traumas, I cannot say that I was “happy” in the marriage.  I have experienced joy when each of my children were born, but “happiness,” I’m not sure I’ve ever truly experienced it from age 8 onward.  Beginning about a year before Deborah’s death, I even began to question myself as to whether I had even really loved her.  Her death provided me with the answer, “Yes.  I loved her then and still do.”  However, true happiness still eludes me I think.  On the bright side, I am over the 10-years of major depression that followed her death.
Nonetheless, I believe that my married life was good for her and me, my sexual identity notwithstanding.  Raising four children from infancy to adulthood is an experience every decent person should experience for there are many opportunities for happiness (or very pleasant feelings at least).  Certainly, there are too many emotionally damaged people, for which parenthood would result in disaster for the children.
Some gay men have never been inclined to marry a woman or to become fathers and are quite satisfied with their lack of offspring.  I respect everyone’s decision not to marry or procreate, just as I hope they respect mine.  I have heard that many gay men “look down upon” married or ex-married gay men for being “cowards” and living in the closet of a “straight” society and culture.  I have only two things to say to them.  First, I repeat that I enjoyed every minute of my marriage and children and I’m glad for the experience.  The second thing is, “Get over it.”  We are all free to pursue our own visions of “happiness” and one does not negate the other.
Genesis chapter 2, verse 24 describes God’s joining Adam and Eve in what is considered marriage.  Except, the way it is worded and punctuated it appears that it is Adam who is “speaking” the words not God.  And recall that the King James version, which I am referencing, was not written directly by God, but by a group of scholars who argued over the interpretations and the meaning of the words (from the original sources) that were being translated.  Consequently, opinions of people with egos, theories, religious training, and “agendas” may have distorted the facts recorded in the original documents and then placed in the Bible.  So, what is true?
I do know this; before Deborah and I could be married, we had to obtain permission from the State of Utah to be joined in matrimony by an authorized minister of a religion recognized by the State.  In other words, the marriage ceremony was religious in nature but authorized by a Civil Government—in effect, a civil union with a religious ceremony.
Our nation’s Declaration of Independence proclaims to the world the reasons we are no longer British citizens and our land is no longer British colonies.  It also proclaims that all “men” are created equal and have the inalienable right to pursue happiness.  Our Constitution prohibits discrimination and one of its purposes is to protect the minority from the tyranny of the majority.  Recently, the U.S. Court of Appeal affirmed a lower court’s ruling that the Defense of Marriage Act is unconstitutional because it denies rights to legally married same-sex couples that legally married opposite-sex couples have.  Of course, all of the gay and lesbian community and many in the heterosexual community already knew that, but the bigoted religious extremists continue to spew lies and hatred (anti-Christian behavior).  Isn’t that exactly what we should expect from religions whose preachers are paid by the congregations and who must, therefore, preach what the congregation wants to hear in order to keep their jobs.  After all, no one wants to pay a minister to tell them each week that they are vile sinners and religious bigots.  Jesus never taught a Gospel of hatred, so why do the (so called Christian) extremists?
Preaching a Gospel of hate is not a Christ-like behavior; and when taught to children, constitutes child abuse.  So, why isn’t the government prosecuting for a child abuse hate crime?  When preachers use the pulpit to teach hatred and tell lies about political candidates to influence the votes of their congregations (which is against the law), why isn’t the government revoking their tax-exempt status?  Persecution of gays and lesbians by religious extremists reminds me of the WW2 Nazis of Germany.  Is that where America is heading?  Are the Jews next?
Perhaps Stonewall should not remain just “history.”  Perhaps there should be protest marches on those congregations of “non-Christian” believers who profess Christian values, beliefs, and lifestyle but are, in reality, self-righteous bigots.  If they actually read and understood the Bible’s teachings, they should understand that it condemns their behavior and makes plain their “sins.”  The Book of Matthew, chapter 23, verses 27 & 28 describes and condemns them perfectly; Jesus says,  Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees [the religious bigots/extremists of their time], hypocrites!  For ye are like unto whited sepulchers, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men’s bones, and of all uncleanness.  Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, but within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity.”  I believe we can locate them mostly in the South or in the GOP, but march on them wherever they are found.
That fruitcake preacher who wants to put all gays and lesbians behind a 100-mile electric fence and feed us until we all die natural deaths has the right idea but the wrong target group.  All the preachers and teachers of hate and their supporters and followers should be behind that fence until they all die out.  The world has seen enough hate and it is time for all hate to cease to exist once and for all.  Then, as the song says, maybe everyone can “Sleep in Heavenly peace.”
© 3 June 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 was sent to live with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001 terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.
My story blog is: TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com
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Dancing with the Stars, by Ray S

Thursday morning, God or the Gods in the heavens had their priorities set for the occasion and the sun shone mightily.  
The “house” was packed, it was SRO. The devout, the devoted, those titillated by remembered “tittle-tattle”, all gathered for the celebration of a good friend who had found another path to follow, an everlasting journey, more than likely in a bright red Mercedes with a WARHOL license plate.
The paraphrase of an old Tin Pan Alley tune, “the hip hooray, the ballyhoo, that’s the lullaby of Broadway.”
It was solemn godly, holy, prayerful, and joyous at St. Andrews house this day.
For those of the uninitiated, the opening production was splendid theatre; for the true believers, it was as it should be: elegantly proper and appropriate. It was like an opening night and a closing night combined, and the star was taking his curtain calls.
Memory time recalled a fascinating career in so many public endeavors, the many people and places of a life well lived. A loving family and, of course, the names (and sometimes even the addresses) of scores of friends and their circumstances.
The remembrances offered by friends at Telling Your Story were so very heartfelt. To me, none could have been more poignant than Orville’s “Amen.”
The pomp and circumstance concluded. The mourners are left with their thoughts and grief, or loving joy. On this latter note, I know that there now is a shining new star “Dancing with the Stars.” The houselights have dimmed, the curtain has fallen, this show is over, but his star sparkles brilliantly in the firmament forever.
Goodbye, dear friend.
(Author’s note: Irreverent as I may appear, no disrespect of the Church and its traditions and dogma are meant. It’s just that I knew Randy Wren as a happy, wonderful showman and sensed his love affair with the theatre. Amen.)
© 24 Jul 2017 
About the Author 

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Hooves, by Phillip Hoyle

Hooves are more a fantasy than a reality for me, the sound of hooves on the ground more a live radio show trick than an experience of being near live horses. I guess that is part of my city life upbringing although our city had the grand population of 20,000 and sat in central Kansas. There were real horses nearby.
I remember my grandfather Schmedemann’s team of horses that pulled the hay wagon during bailing. I sat on Grandpa’s wagons and imagined flipping the reins to make those huge animals pull me, but due to their size, I kept my distance. I remember their stalls in the north end of the stock barn and the leather strips they wore on their backs to keep the flies off while they worked. I don’t recall just when they were no longer around, sometime in my mid-childhood, but I’m sure I learned the phrase “sent to the glue factory” around then. I don’t know if it was at all true. I did like their large hooves and the shoes they wore.
I recall real hoof sounds from horses in hometown parades, the Cheyenne Wyoming Frontier Days in 1959, and other parades and rodeos in following years, right up to Denver’s Pridefest Parade I started watching in 1999.
The only horses I actually rode besides the pony in a pony ring at an Estes Park resort were likewise in Colorado years apart, two trail rides. The first when I was a teenager I recall in vivid detail. The trail master shouted, “Pull your reins to the right,” to us not long after we’d begun the climb above the Big Thompson River. I didn’t understand or was too preoccupied with my daydreams not to even have heard him. My horse probably didn’t know that much English or looked to see the trail master. She walked the path several times a day all summer long but that afternoon saw off to our left the small bear that concerned the trail leader. I didn’t know what was going on but remember my horses’ hooves clattering on the rocks as she tried to push ahead of other horses on the trail. That’s when I heard the follow-up command shouted at me. “Hey you, pull your reins to the right,” and to everyone else again, “Don’t let them see the bear.” I did so and finally realized the problem. Both the horse and I were okay. The bear was probably laughing. Of course, I’d never even heard of a laughing bear.
The other ride was with a youth group I led. We were at a resort on Grand Mesa. Most of the kids wanted a trail ride. I joined them and held my very young daughter in my lap. About two minutes into the ride she fell asleep. I held her close to me as we went up and down steep slopes, jerking and jostling with the rhythm of the horse. She slept calmly the whole ride while my arms got very, very tired.
I can still play gallop like we kids did in childhood but I rarely do so these days. My grandkids grew up. I have some great grandkids but don’t know if they will ever want to play horse. Maybe I’ll find out at Christmas.
© 9 October 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