Author: jnelson

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The Knitters’ Dilemma, by Cecil Bethea

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

I now know I had a trike. I have a photo of it.  But I don’t recall it. The first bicycle I
can remember that was mine was a blue probably Schwinn with big old fat
tires.  When I grew to be old enough to
ride out of my neighborhood, I went everywhere on that vehicle: to school, to
the store, on “bike hikes” on the weekends with my friends.  One day I was riding down a small hill on
Morris Avenue.  I got going very fast—too
fast really— the handlebar began to shake back and forth Before I knew it I was
out of control.  At the bottom of the
hill was a roundabout—right in front of my dentist’s office. I hit the curb of
the roundabout and flew into the shrubbery in the middle. Next thing I knew I
was in my mother’s car on the way to the surgeon’s office. My dentist, Dr.
Bienville, had seen the accident from his window and went running to save me.
He carried me into his office and called my mother who took me to the doctor. I
suppose he checked my teeth first. I only suffered a nasty cut on my face which
the surgeon did a great job of stitching up. I still have a scar which is
barely discernible now 70 years later.  I
sure loved that blue bike, but it was never again ridable.
When my children were 2,4, and 6, we went to the Netherlands
to live for 2 1/2 years. As  is the case
for the Dutch people, bicycles were our main mode of transportation in the
crowded streets of that country. In the 1960’s I had never seen child carriers
for bicycles in the United States. But they were as prevalent as tulips in
Holland. All kinds. Between the two of us my husband and I could easily carry
our 3 children about on bikes with no problem. 
Safety was not so much of a consideration back then. No one wore a
helmet, not even did we put them on our children’s heads. I suppose some heads
had to be sacrificed before anyone thought of using helmets. One of our
favorite weekend activities was riding our bicycles on the ever present paved
paths through the Dutch sand dunes, one of the few undeveloped natural places
in the Netherlands.
Back in the U.S. in the 70’s and in Denver, I didn’t own a
bicycle. But we were able to remain a one car family for many years because
Bill, my husband, used his bicycle to commute the two or so miles to work every
day rain or shine. 
It was not until the late 1980’s that I started cycling
again—riding to work and around town on errands.
In 1986, I took my first long distance bicycle trip with my
daughter and her boyfriend both in college at the time. Still no helmets to be
seen. There were bicycle shops but they only housed bicycles and parts—no
paraphernalia of any kind—no spandex cycling shorts with padded crotch, no
handlebar mounted computers to tell you how fast you were going, how far you
had gone, all meteorological info you could possibly need, what day and time it
was, and your location coordinates—none of the accessories we see in the shops
today.
But that cycling trip around western New York state, and the
Allegheny Mountains in Pennsylvania was a wonderful and memorable adventure for
me.  I think that’s when I became hooked
on cycling.
In the 1990’s now an out and proud lesbian, I bought a blue
Fuji and rode the MS 150, a 150-mile ride from Denver to Pueblo and back to
raise funds for the MS Foundation.  This
ride is not a race, but many riders joined teams for the purpose of training,
socializing, and supporting each other on the ride. Early on I found myself
joining the “Motley Spokes team.”  The
competition was about raising money, not riding fast. 
During these years I pedaled several charitable rides in
various parts of the country and met many wonderful people. I have been very
lucky as well as I have many times been able to bring my own personal sag
support with me.  Gill has always been
willing— actually she has mostly wanted to come along (not on a bicycle) to
satisfy her wanderlust.  Unfortunately,
sometimes she becomes engrossed in her own bird watching, wildlife viewing,
picture taking activities and is distracted from her duties as a sag support.
She tends to turn her phone off so as not to disturb the wildlife—not helpful
to a stranded cyclist. Once riding in North Dakota in a vast open area with no
one in sight, the sky turned black and looked ominous.  “I wonder where Gill is, I said to myself.
”This looks like tornado weather.”  Two
hours later I arrived at the town that was our destination for the day, but I
was a bit scared, I must admit. And there she was. No bad weather where she had
been. Just tons of birds.
My best cycling experience and most memorable was across the
southern tier of the United States from Pacific to Atlantic. This was a two
month, 3800 mile fully supported tour with a company called Womantours. That
was in 2005. This trip has provided me with endless material for story
time.  Most of you have heard some of my
ramblings about this particular adventure. And I suppose I will continue to
refer to it as long as I am telling stories.
I have loved my bicycling experiences and the memories they
have provided.  I guess that’s why I love
a bicycle trip. It’s always an adventure. And I love adventure. 
© 30 May 2016 
About the Author 
 Betsy has been active in
the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old
Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been
retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major
activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a
volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading,
writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage.
She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren.
Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her
life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.
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Leaving, by Ricky

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

Of course, the first
episode of leaving to which I was a party, was my birth.  I was seen leaving the birth canal by total
strangers.  It wasn’t like I wanted to be
leaving that warm and cozy small space, but my mother kept pressuring me to
leave—as in “Damn it! Get out of there and be quick about it.”  At least, that is what the screaming sounded
like to me.
Then there was the time
when I was about 4 or 5-years old, when my parents and I were to be leaving to
go somewhere.  Mom had finished leaving clean
clothes for me on my bed and told me to get changed.  Leaving the living room for my bedroom, I
arrived and began leaving the clothes I was wearing on the floor until I was
naked.  I then went to my bed to get
dressed and noticed that my dick was hard and demanded attention.  My mom saw me not getting dressed and not
leaving my dick alone so she told my dad. 
Dad spanked me for not leaving my dick alone.  Now
really!  He’s a man who at one time
was a boy.  He should have remembered his
discovery of his dick and known
better than to spank me for not leaving my dick alone.  Once a boy discovers the pleasures of not
leaving his dick alone, he will never be leaving it alone for very long for the
rest of his life.  After all, I doubt that Dad was leaving his
alone—my being alive is proof of that.
I’ll be leaving this
story for now because it is 3:00 AM and I am sleepy.  I may write more someday about all those
other leavings in my life.  (i.e.:
Leaving home for that first day of school. 
Leaving home for my first overnight campout. Leaving home for
college.  Leaving home for the
military.  Leaving the military for
home.  Leaving for the church to get
married.  Leaving the apartment for the
delivery room—4 times.)  Perhaps, I’ll
just be leaving this story unfinished.
© 7 Nov 2016 
About
the Author 
I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale
and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I was sent to live with my grandparents on their
farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents
divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.

My story blog is: TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Fond Memories, by Ray S

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

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All that Jazz, by Phillip Hoyle

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

I feel
lucky to live in jazzy Denver. The house sits just three blocks from live jazz
performances six nights a week. And Jim and I try never to miss hearing Larry
Wegner and CJ Nicolai when they perform at the club. I bought their CD and sent
it to my sister for her birthday. It features “I Can’t Get Started,” “Stars
Fell on Alabama,” “The Falling Leaves” (CJ sings that in French), “No Moon at
All,” “Smile,” and “The Nearness of You.” Lynn wrote back: “Dear Phillip, Thank
you for the jazz CD. The first time I played it, I was cleaning the hard[wood]
floors. After one or two songs, I was crying to the music. My Style of music! …
Now we play one song at night, to get relaxed. I think I’ll never get tired of
it.” 
© 2 January 2017
About the
Author 
Phillip Hoyle
lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In
general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two
years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now
focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE
program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
Posted on

Birthdays, by Pat Gourley

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

I was born in La Porte Indiana in 1949, raised
on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40
plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS
activist. I have currently returned to
Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.
Posted on

LGBT Hopes, by Nicholas

According to my records, with this piece, I am starting my
seventh year of coming to tell and listen to stories on Monday afternoon.
It seems odd to think about hope in this grim start to what
may be a long and grim year of frustration, setbacks and bad news. This is not
a very hopeful time we live in. But maybe this is when we most need to remind
ourselves that hope is possible, hope is what keeps us going, hope is what gets
us out of bed each morning. And hope, no matter how irrational, is good to
have.
So, my hope for the lesbian, gay and trans community is that
we learn to turn to each other more for joy and less out of necessity. I know
that fearsome problems still haunt our world and community. Violence and
bullying is a daily fact for many of our youth. Discrimination still runs
rampant in many areas. Determined gay-haters, like the soon to be
vice-president of the United States, persist in their work to undo the dignity
and security of LGBT lives and generate hostility toward us. There is still
plenty of inequality and prejudice out there.
But in many ways, our world is getting less frightening and
our grasp on basic rights is growing more secure. It is no longer acceptable to
openly degrade gay people—which is why our enemies have to resort to ever
greater subterfuges to try to harass us. They’ve lost the sanctity of marriage
so now they are reduced to fighting for the sanctity of toilets and who shall
be allowed to do their business in which ones.
We still have battles to fight, but my hope is that we will seek
out each other’s company less out of a sense of a need for protection, less out
of desperation, and more because we just want to be around other L, G, B and T
people. We come together not so much because we need to seek shelter in a
hostile world but more because we can best express ourselves with each other.
I have many non-gay friends and love them dearly. It’s not
that I sense any barriers between us. Yet, there is still more I sense in sharing
with queer folk. We share experiences that we’ve all known and don’t have to
explain. We share a humor derived from being outsiders. We share
spiritualities, arts and a sharp sense of just what community is—or is not. We
have been forced to make up our own culture and so we have. We are different
and we should relish opportunities to engage those differences.
Most of us come out of a time when lesbians and gays could
never take anything for granted. And we shouldn’t. Above all, we shouldn’t take
each other for granted. You can find very fulfilling relationships with non-gay
people but I do believe that there is one thing we can find only with our own
kind—happiness. I do hope that organizations such as the community center we
are in continue to thrive—not out of fear and self-defense but from joy. We
still need to find each other. I hope that we continue to come here because we
want to, not because we have to.
Even in a world more tolerant and open, there is still that
special depth of connection that we get to see only in each other. Call it love
or desire or a magical ability to coordinate colors and a flare for decorating,
you won’t find it outside. You may be welcome to watch football games with
legions of Broncos fans, but you won’t get much of a response by commenting
that Eli Manning is so much better looking than his brother Peyton. They just
don’t get it.
© 8 Jan 2017 
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.
Posted on

Celebrate Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, by Louis Brown

I know it is difficult to
think about Celebrating when there is a storm cloud hanging over the United
States. But remember the candidate who gets fewer votes wins the White House,
that is the new normal. So Washington will continue to be Alice in Wonderland,
where up is down, left is right, backward is forward, ignorance is cherished, love
America means hate America, etc. Still we survived the hostile presidency of
George W. Bush. And we shouldn’t stop celebrating our holidays.
(1)
On Oct. 28, 2016, 7 p.m. at Saint John’s
Episcopal Cathedral, located at 14 Street and Washington Street, there was a
Halloween organ recital, that is, there was a showing of a German silent horror
movie, “Nosferatu,” Angela Papadakos was the organist. She started by playing
Bach’s Toccata and Fugue. (hum a few bars), spooky in itself. Then she
continued playing matching the mood of the scenes and her musical accompaniment.
Some people in attendance were wearing Halloween costumes, so I put on my
diminutive black top hat, and my neighbor, a young woman, in the audience told
me my hat was “awesome.” That made my evening.
(2)
Read flyer for Holiday Luncheon. Also I am
thankful for Prime Timers, and I met Joseph Bump at the luncheon who evaluated
my home situation about 7 or 8 years ago when Prime Timers was meeting in a
restaurant on West Colfax Avenue, which is in my neighborhood. Prime Timers
members keep track of each other (without being busy bodies). So if one ember
is having difficulty, if possible, Prime Timers helps him out. I wonder why I
do not recall any elderly women participating. It wasn’t a male-only club.
(3)
Read copy of E-Mail from Danny Dromm re
Gay History.
(4)
In New York City, gay libbers celebrate
Christmas by attending the Christmas chorale as performed by the NYC Gay Men’s
Chorus at Carnegie Hall. Does Denver Colorado have something analogous? I hope
so.

© 19 Nov 2016  
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.
Posted on

Believing, by Betsy

For the first two decades
of my life I religiously recited a creed almost once a week affirming a
belief.  Later in my 30’s I stopped doing
this because I realized I really didn’t believe the things I was saying I believed.
I had no hard feelings about the church, I just stopped believing. I’m
referring to the liturgy of the Episcopal Church where I was baptized and
confirmed.  The creeds recited in the
church liturgy—the Nicene and Apostle’s—were so familiar to me that I could
recite both from memory at an early age.
Why are children taught
to claim beliefs which they are too young to understand, accept, or
reject?  Could it be that IF it is etched
deeply enough into your psyche, you will hold on to it for life, never
questioning it. It becomes “yours.”  It
feels good and it keeps us “safe.”
I recited as I’m sure
most of us did, the Pledge of Allegiance every day in school hundreds of times
before I ever pondered to what it was that I was pledging allegiance. Around
third  grade I thought it odd to pledge
to a flag, a piece of cloth hanging on a pole or a wall even while
understanding that it is a symbol of our country.  But still why the rote recitation? I think we
all know the answer to that question.  By
recitation it becomes part of us, we own it and hopefully, later in life, we
understand and embrace its meaning. 
Never once did an adult explain to me what I was reciting and what it
meant.  Just that the recitation was not
only important, but also part of one’s life—part of one’s day—like brushing your
teeth.
 The next question that comes to mind is why do
some examine their beliefs and others go through life never doubting?  I cannot answer that for others, only for
myself. I don’t remember my parents teaching me to think critically about
anything. They were good parents and I loved them, but they did not question
the standard cultural beliefs—at least not out loud. They were not ardent about
spreading the teachings of the church, but they accepted those tenants more as
a matter of being good Christians and good citizens. I pretty much went along
with them, I guess. I really don’t remember. Believing was not “big” in our day
to day life. At the same time doubting and challenging was not big either.
I think my mind became
“ripe” for critical thinking when I was in college. Or maybe I simply was not
mature enough before then. A light came on when I realized I could not will
myself to have faith that something was true simply because I was told to do so
or because I was told the consequences would be painful for me if I chose not
to. One teacher, Professor Jaffe, taught me to question everything. I suppose
that’s because that’s what one does in Philosophy class.  But I learned from Professor Jaffe that what
is important about learning is thinking for oneself, as well as being exposed
to the information. What one does with the information is the whole point.
Thinking back, it seems
that it was my husband who put me up to applying critical thinking to   my religious beliefs.  They may have been faintly held beliefs;
nevertheless, they had been a part of me for a long time. He simply raised the
question one day, “maybe Jesus was just a good man and not divine. How do we
know for sure?”  That’s when I made a
conscious decision not to take that leap. 
We started discussing the power of the church historically. How most of
the wars fought throughout history were fought over religious beliefs.  From then on, I questioned everything, my
feelings as well as my beliefs.  It was
years later, however, that I took any action regarding the feelings I had been
questioning in regard to my sexuality.
I am not trying to say
that critical thinking is good and faith is bad. They each have a place in my
life. But what I do say is that when believing gets in the way of accepting
facts and blocks applying information to form one’s opinions, there is a
problem. Believing versus gathering information and forming a point of view
seems to be the conflict going on today in some political situations. When I
see Trump supporters interviewed on the evening news, what I see is people full of fear holding a belief because
of that fear, and holding it in disregard of the facts. For example, the belief
that ISIS is the greatest threat to life in the U.S. today. ISIS is coming and
therefore we all must have guns to protect ourselves and our families. One look
at the numbers would make anyone question that belief: in 2013 deaths from
ISIS-16; deaths from gun violence-33,000. The numbers speak for themselves if
one is willing to take a look at them.
For me it is hard to put
my faith in something a book says, even a book considered sacred, or something
a person or institution tells me to believe. Yet until I grew up this is what I
did and what I was taught to do. This is what most people are taught to do. If
it works for them, more power to them. 
But it does not work for me and I cannot imagine it ever doing so.
© 12 Jan 2016 
About
the Author 
 Betsy has been active in
the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old
Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been
retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major
activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a
volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading,
writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage.
She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren.
Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her
life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.
Posted on

Leaving / Rejoice, by Will Stanton


[This is the last posting submitted by Will Stanton. — Editor] 

Leaving
He
was diagnosed with lung cancer in 1991. 
We knew the inevitable end; we just did not know when.  Each passing day, each passing year, was, in
its own way, leaving.  We both understood
that.  Some acquaintances told me, “Why don’t
you leave him?”  I would not, not that
way.  I stayed.
I
did not cry as a child.  My mother told
me that, and we both pondered my difference from other children.  Of course, I felt emotion, but nothing seemed
to drive me to tears.  That changed later.  A special someone came into my life who truly
mattered – – – and then left.  It was the
leaving that changed me.  As the famous
19th-century, authoress George Eliot stated,  “Only in the agony of parting do we look into
the depths of love.”
I
always have been sensitive to others, perhaps unusually empathetic and
caring.  That increased significantly
after his leaving, both with people whom I knew, and also even fictional
characters in movies.  If, in viewing
well presented stories,  I become
particularly attached to characters who have deep bonds with each other, I
apparently identify with them, at least subconsciously; for, if they part from
each other, either in having to leave or, perhaps, in dying, emotion wells up
within me.  Such deep emotion comes
suddenly and unbidden.  When a good
person dies, leaving the loved-ones behind, the emotion catches within my
gut.  When loving, deeply bonded people
part ways, never to see each other again, that, too, deeply moves me.  Again, quoting George Eliot: “In every
parting, there is an image of death.”
I
admit it: I never have come fully to terms with reality, with mortality.  And, I’m not like so many who choose to hold
deep-seated beliefs that this world is merely a stepping-stone to a so-called
“better world,” beliefs based upon common indoctrination and, perhaps, upon
fear and hope,  Oh, I don’t mind so much
the afflictions and death of inhuman humans, those whose cruelty and dire deeds
harm others.  But, it is the good people,
the loving people, people who have contributed so much to the betterment of
humankind, whose leaving distresses me. 
I would be so much more content if they (dare I say, “we”?) did not have
to leave.
I
understand and feel the passionate, poetic lines of Dylan Thomas:
“Do not go gentle into that good
night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

So,
with these thoughts of mine being presented close to All Souls Day (or in
German, “Allerseelen”), with the cold days of December soon upon us, I prefer
my thoughts to dwell, instead, upon our happier memories of May, our younger
days, as expressed in the final lines of Hermann von Gilm poem, “Allerseelen”, “— Spend on my
heart again those lovely hours, like once in May.”
© 23 July 2016  
Rejoice
This presentation of mine
today is very personal, and the first important comments are very blunt.  So, hang on, I appreciate your patience in my
telling.  It deals with my medical
condition over the last several years and my current frame of mind, which has
developed, and perhaps even improved over time.
Among other conditions, my
three major problems — mega-killer immune system killing off all my clotting
blood platelets down to zero, large granular-T-cell leukemia, and the great
possibility of developing blood-clots in any organ, brain, or in the
circulatory system, — could kill me at any moment.  So little is understood about these
conditions, and especially in my extreme case, that the medical staff are
writing papers about me.  I consider that
a dubious honor.
Yet, here is where I
rejoice.  My attitude to all of this has
changed markedly over the last few years. 
When I first was diagnosed with these major problems, I was, of course,
surprised, shocked, and dismayed.  Yet, a
whole team of oncology doctors and nurses went to great, extended effort to
treat me.  For a short time, it seemed to
work.
Then a couple of years ago,
I suffered a truly major event when it seemed that no treatment would ever
help.  With each episode, the efficacy seems
to diminish.  Many people might totally
despair and wish to suffer no more.  I
did not quite despair, but I was profoundly disappointed and felt resigned to
my fate.  So yes, I did think about
simply driving up to the mountains some cold night, park on some high point,
and gaze at the mountain scenery until I fell asleep.  Of course, I never did.  I still have some pleasures and satisfactions
in my life.
Well here again is where I
rejoice.  Despite my circumstances, my
whole mind-set has changed and improved. 
I do what I need to do with St. Joseph’s Hospital the various Kaiser
clinics, and all the doctors and nurses. 
But, it is what I do and think and feel outside of all of that which is
actually making me happy.
For one, just in a week of
being out of the hospital and being able to go home on October 28th
(mind you, with some misgivings of the medical staff), I accumulated as much as
fifty hours of accomplishing important tasks that, otherwise, would have been
neglected and not gotten done.  In addition
to being able to take care of bills and other daily obligations, I was here to
go through the five days of repeated efforts to repair my broken furnace (thank
God, the Denver temperature was unusually warm), the six days to deal
frustratingly with Comcast to get my email back working so that I could
communicate with family and friends, and to have one other repair done.  Now, if you understand, I felt satisfaction
and actually rejoiced that I was able to complete those tasks.
Secondly, I have spent much
of my home-time going back through some of my older, more interesting essays
and stories for Telling My Story, carefully editing, and (most fun of all)
locating and inserting delightful, augmenting images within the text.  I print them for myself, house them in
plastic sleeves, and file them in several notebooks, separated by subject.  Yes, I do find great pleasure in this.
Third, at home, I have the
pleasures of my fine piano, my TV, my computer, and all the comforts at
home.  And on Sundays, I am able to go
with my friends, whom I call “the usual suspects,” to a particularly good
Perkins restaurant, have a particularly delicious breakfast, and then play the
card-game called “Samba,” a form of canasta at my dining-room table.  That simple ritual is a welcome pleasure and
provides me with comfort more than people may realize.  I, especially, have the pleasure of sharing
that with my friends.
Good friends, kind friends,
are the most important of all these factors. 
I am truly appreciative and perhaps even ecstatic to have these
warm-hearted encounters with my friends, more than they may realize.
And, that brings me to what
finally makes me rejoice.  At this
advanced age, with this, yet another, bout of terrible affliction, I finally
have accepted my situation, doing what I need to do but not fighting the
reality of it.  I have developed over
time a more relaxed, philosophical feeling and attitude that “what will be will
be.”  I am very thankful that, despite my
condition, I feel little pain, very much unlike so many other unfortunate
people.  I rejoice in my cheerful,
positive, interactions with people, medical staff and very good friends.  My positive, uplifting connection to very
good friends is, perhaps, my most powerful treatment, my greatest joy.
Thank you, all my kind
friends.
© 15 Nov
2016 
[This is the
last story (his “Good Bye”) Will Stanton read to the Telling Your Story group
on 21 Nov 2016.  Sadly, he passed into
history and memories on 1 January 2017. 
He is sorely missed. — Editor]
About the Author 
25 Apr 1945 – 1 Jan 2017
I have had a life-long fascination with
people and their life stories.  I also
realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or
fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual
ones.  Since I joined this Story Time
group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.