Author: jnelson

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Help, by Ray S

It is the darkest of nights. As though the universe
were an endlessness bereft of all of its stars and planets. On a hilltop he
stands naked, nothing to hide himself with. Slowly he stands astride raising
outstretched arms, takes a deep breath, opens his mouth, and from the depths of
his lungs screams HELP!
At another time in a small square room—floor, walls,
ceiling thickly padded no discernible openings, absent of any light, the
blackness surrounding him like a smothering blanket—again the cry HELP!
A blazing sun scorches the desert plain blinding the
drop off the edge of space. Visions of the climax scene from an old movie where
the protagonist speeds the car over the cliff. Could he will this kind of an
ending? Would he be brave enough to follow through and end it all? Or would he
chicken out before he accelerated the gas pedal, or maybe go over the cliff
before he could change his confused mind? That perhaps a stroke of good
fortune—speeding away to the end screaming HELP!
He has arrived at NOW. The same hilltop but the
universe enveloping it is a deep midnight blue with stars sparkling like
diamonds scattered forever. He stands up tall and steady, still naked to his
world and yet clothed with a garment of gratitude and love for the NOW that has
brought him so very many beautiful friendships and blessings.
HELP is here NOW!
©19 Sep 2016 
About the Author 
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GLBT Hopes, by Phillip Hoyle

Growing up
I had no GLBT hopes. I had no idea what those initials represented; no idea
that the concepts and rich human experiences behind them had anything to do
with me. I didn’t feel hopeless. I was simply clueless.
In my early
twenties I came to hear and understand a little about the beginnings of the gay
liberation movement. I had taken great interest in the African American
movements, had begun to read about the feminist movement, and realized I needed
to know more about all such movements. I had very generalized hopes for all of
them, for the securing of civil rights for all Americans under law regardless
of race, gender, sex, education, and a number of other differences that left
them susceptible to many injustices. I saw how churches as well as the general
community were unjust towards minorities. I had hopes for a better America and
for better American churches.
For myself
I had believed in the idea that you grew up, got educated, got married, reared
children, and in my case served churches through your ministry. Since I was on
route to become a minister, I accepted I would have to toe the line on some
things that others in the congregation might not find necessary. Life was good.
Whatever LGBT hopes I had were for others.
At the
point when I accepted that homosexuality was right at the center of who I was,
I hoped that my wife might find herself to be lesbian. We could then work out a
special arrangement to continue living together. It didn’t happen. I assumed I
would always be married and hoped I would never to go too far in satisfying my
homosexual needs. I didn’t want to change the trajectory of my life.
Midlife
took care of that for me. I was changing emotionally. I had no doubt that I
loved my wife or that she loved me. I wanted a man to love me; I wanted to love
a man. When I realized I was going to become the bad husband and a bad
minister, I changed both roles. I was hurting my wife. I didn’t want to do so.
We talked but there was so much emotion—so many emotions—we didn’t know what to
do. Our settlement settled little. We did separate. I bore the responsibility
before our families. We said goodbye with a kiss and tears.
Within a
month I had GLBT hopes. Lots of them: to finish my job obligation; to move to
one of three western American cities; to live openly as a gay man. For twenty
years I had considered myself bisexual. Now I was going to simplify my life.
My gay hope
was to learn just what gay would mean for me. First though some other things
would take my attention: getting work for income, writing, and dedicating lots
of time to the visual arts. I began writing episodes from my life and then
writing about my new work: massage. A new gay hope emerged: to write up my gay
life experiences. Before long I was pleased to find myself loving a man who
loved me. I hoped we’d have lots of time together. He died from AIDS. Then I
grieved a true GLBT grief. During this time I was careful with myself. I stayed
busy with my work. I was still engaged as a gay man. I wrote about the loss of
my gay partner. It was a sequel to one I had written a couple of years earlier when
a gay friend had died from AIDS. (The two pieces may be my best writing to
date.)
Then I met
a gay daydream at a bus stop in my neighborhood. Our love blossomed. Then he
died. I sagged. Still I wrote and realized I would write much more about my gay
experiences. My arts kept me hopeful.
A straight
woman friend of mine told me about the SAGE of the Rockies Telling Your Story.
I attended wondering how my writing would be heard by a truly GLBT audience. It
was like a gay hope come true. From this ever-changing group of storytellers
that offers ever-changing and sometimes emotion-blowing perspectives, I have
clarified my new GLBT Hopes:
I now hope
that GLBT (etc.) folk will all someday take time to hear one another’s stories.
There is no better way to come to know oneself than to hear the stories of
others, no better way to be inspired than to hear the experiences of another
person you know more than superficially. I hope that those stories will also
become of interest to other humans—you know like those who claim to be straight
or heterosexual or some other category. I want this latter so they can see how
little different are all people.
I hope that
GLBTs will always vote mindfully in local, state, and national elections.
I hope that
LGBTs will come to appreciate and respect one another as much as we want others
to honor and respect us.
© 9 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
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Hunting, by Pat Gourley

I lived on a farm in Northern Indiana until the age of
sixteen. Though we were as far as you could be from the toxic reality of
today’s factory farms there certainly were plenty of animals raised that met
their demise at the hands of various family and extended family members
directly or indirectly. By indirectly I mean we sold and loaded plenty of
animals into trucks that were headed for the local slaughterhouse.
I learned to kill chickens with an axe from my mother who
emphasized not letting the headless bird flop all around and spray all the
younger siblings and cousins lined up watching the slaughter with chicken blood.
I was quite good at it. This is something I cannot for the life of me imagine
myself doing today. Any backyard chickens that I might have in the future would
live to ripe old ages dying from chicken heart attacks or falling prey to a
local fox or coyote.
For whatever reason, there were no hunters in my immediate
family. There was one Uncle nearby who did some hunting but that was mostly for
rabbits and pheasants.  I can to this day
hear my aunt complaining about trying to get all the buckshot out of the poor
rabbit before cooking it. She also made a delicious rabbit gravy as I recall
and that was worth biting down on the occasional piece of buckshot missed in
the cleaning.
The closest I can remember my dad ever came to hunting was
one winter when he had hurt his back and was told, incorrectly in those days,
that bed-rest was required to heal the sprain. The bedroom had a window that
looked out over the backyard and onto a corncrib. This crib was made of fencing
that allowed the grain to thoroughly dry out and not get moldy but still exposed
the ears of corn. From that vantage point he could see rats scurrying about and
munching away on all his hard work. So, he took to shooting the varmints out
the bedroom window with a 12-gauge shotgun missing more often that not.
I myself had a very short period of attempting to hunt
rabbits around the age of 12 or 13 with a small caliber long gun I think that
was called a 410-shotgun. Despite hours of traipsing through the snow no
rabbits lost their lives at my hand.
Once we moved from Indiana to north of Chicago there was even
less hunting by folks on our neighboring farms than there had been in Indiana.
We were really only a mile or two from being Chicago suburbanites and random
gunshots not something the neighbors would have appreciated.
There was a woman name Margaret though in the farm next to
ours who I became fast friends with due in large part to our similar political
views. We loved talking politics for long hours denigrating everything
Republican. She did though have a very efficient way of killing chickens every
spring. She would tie them up and suspend them by their feet, about a dozen at a
time, from her clothesline. She would then quickly march down the line with a
sharp butcher knife severing heads cleanly and efficiently. I know this may
sound gross to you but do remember that the burger or chicken breast you enjoy
today did not get to your plate as a result of the animal committing suicide.
As I began to get in touch with my queer nature, especially
from age 16 on, anything to do with hunting or people who engaged in it really faded
from my life. I know absolutely no other queer person I am aware of today who
hunts. There is one straight man occasionally in my life who does hunt and that
is for sport not a need for food. 99.9% of the animal killing for food these
days is done in very inhumane slaughterhouses mostly by exploited immigrant
labor far from our eyes. It then appears magically in the meat sections of
grocery stores neat, tidy and wrapped in cellophane.
Harry Hay was a very adherent vegetarian for the entire 20
plus years I knew him and long before that. He was fond of saying, when asked
about whether he ever ate meat or not, that it would only be if he personally knew
the cow. This always seemed to imply also that one really should know intimately
whom they are eating and that they had done the killing and butchering
themselves.
I think this would be a splendid plan for all meat-eaters to
do their own slaughtering. I imagine this would end much of the cruel factory
farming and vastly increase the number of vegetarians and vegans. This would
then go a long way toward saving the planet by helping to reverse global
warming. Remember there is virtually nothing we as individuals can do to impact
climate change more than to refrain from eating any animal product. Hunting
these days should really only involve looking for a good sale on kale.
© 25 Sep
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. 
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Three Fond Memories, by Louis

I have three categories [of
fond memories]:
(a)          My mother at Christmas time, and her
fabulous garden (herb garden included). Sour ending: she died.
(b)                       
Politics: George McGovern’s campaign. Sour
ending: Richard Nixon got elected.
(c)          My love affair with John Wheeler. Sour
ending: he dumped me after 6 weeks and 15 years later, turned into a mentally
impaired middle aged man.
(a)          On Christmas morning, my mother would
put on a red satin robe, which she put on only on Christmas Morning. She would
walk regally down from the second floor of our house to the first floor. For
her, Christmas was the day she celebrated her five young sons, of which I was
number 4. Our oldest brother Arthur would distribute the Christmas presents,
some of them were donated by a local church. We were poor, but well fed. Our
Christmas dinner table sparkled with elaborate china and fine crystal ware,
handed down to us from our well-to-do great great grandparents, Hiram and
Hester Brown of the early nineteenth century. Mother Elinor Brown really made
me feel special.
Elinor
Brown also kept an elaborate garden. She loved working in it for hours on end.
When we moved into that house in 1950, the previous owners, the Horns, had
purchased about 3 tons of topsoil. As a result, everything my mother planted
grew luxuriantly and flourished. Most of the lawn was shaded by two very tall
maple trees. And part of the garden was her herb garden which provided mint
sprigs and sweet basil, etc. My mother grew holly hocks, all kinds of roses:
tea roses, rambler roses, yellow roses, button roses, wild roses. Her irises
were yellow and yellow and purple, and dark blue and light blue. She grew lady
slippers and Jack-in-the-Pulpits. When I was around 30 years old, a friend told
me that the reason that flowers are so beautiful is that they are sex organs.
Well yes Mother Nature is somewhat lewd in many different ways.
The
sour ending was that my mother died aetatem 76 years, and she was born in 1913,
which would mean that she died in 1989. Elinor Brown was well-read and was an
inspiration for many children not just her own five sons.
(b)                       
Politics:
I was in my 20’s when the War in Vietnam was going on. Everything about that
war made me feel guilty. The establishment’s stated reasons for us being there
were not very convincing. All the appalling pictures. I felt very guilty. So,
when George McGovern came along and demanded we stop the whole disastrous war,
I was relieved. My guilt was assuaged. I volunteered in his campaign. Although
Richard Nixon beat him, I was not too dismayed. As reprehensible as Richard
Nixon was, he could have been a lot worse.
In
a report about President Obama visiting Laos, I recently heard that we dropped
2 million tons of bombs on Laos. For what reason?  I’ll never know. I also remember the reports
of large numbers of veterans returning from that war as drug addicts. It was a
bummer every which way.
(c)          About two years ago, I told you about
my short-lived love affair with John Wheeler. I wasn’t too worried about
invading his privacy given how common his name is. My love affair with him went
on for about six weeks, during which time we would walk down the street and,
you remember the song, “people stop and stare”, well people would literally
stop and stare at John Wheeler, his beauty was so spectacular. I never told him
what I really thought of him. I would say, “I think you are handsome or
good-looking”. Whereas, in reality, I thought he was a rare beauty. His elbows
were perfect, his farmer toes were beautiful. His proportions were perfect.
Well he was a model for a sports magazine. He would curl his eye-lashes.  Every night he would put a dab of Vaseline on
his eyelids. The long eyelashes made his beautiful almond-shape eyes even
dreamier. His back muscles were rippled beautifully. His posture was perfect. He
kept an enormous rifle in his closet. God knows if that was legal or not.
The
sour ending: For some reason, after six week, he said
he got a computer technician job in Connecticut and would be moving there with
his girlfriend. He never wrote to me, never gave me his address in Connecticut.
In other words, sadly, I got dumped.
About
20 years later, while I was a caseworker in Queens County in New York, I was
assigned a client, a John Wheeler. I said to myself it couldn’t be my
ex-boyfriend. I went to his apartment in Jackson Heights and saw it was the
same John Wheeler, all his good looks gone. He looked like a slightly dumpy
middle-aged man. The sad part was his memory was so defective that he could not
remember what you said at the beginning of your sentence by the time you
finished your sentence. His brain got pickled by too much vodka, to be honest.
He was clinically mentally impaired. What was the point of me asking him about
his computer technician career in Connecticut? He would not know what I was
talking about.
© 5 Oct 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.
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Ice, by Lewis Thompson

I like Ike……….ooops.  I meant to say, “I like ice”.  Ike was one of those warm-hearted
Republicans, the kind that’s hard to find these days.  Nothing ice-like about him.
I’m an ice lover.  When I have a glass of pop, I first half-fill
the glass with ice—store-bought ice, the clear kind.  That’s one reason I seldom drink coffee, beer
or wine.  Whoever heard of putting ice in
those beverages (except for iced coffee, which seems contrary to the natural
order)?
I’m not very fond,
however, of icy surfaces, especially the kind people walk on.  It seems kind of ironic that when someone
slips on ice and gets a bump on their head, the first order of treatment is to
put ice on it.  Ice has got us coming and
going.
Then, there’s the
government agency, ICE.  They’re the
folks that President-elect Donald Trump seems to believe don’t have enough to
do, so he wants to have then round up and deport millions of Mexicans who are
in the country illegally.  I wonder what
he’ll do with the families in which a parent is here illegally, albeit employed
and paying taxes, but in which the children were born here and are American
citizens.  The whole concept is enough to
give me a headache.  Ice, anyone?
©5 Dec 2016 
About
the Author 
I came to the
beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the
state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my
native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two
children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married
to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was
passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were
basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very
attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that
time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.
Soon after, I
retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13
blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to
fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE
Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.
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Bicycle Stories, by Gillian

Apart from many tales of
many many happy days being my Beautiful Betsy’s athletic supporter as she rides
hither and thither and yon around the country, most of my bike stories are not
particularly positive.
My very first ‘bike ride’
was, as with many of us, on a tricycle. It was the summer before I turned five
and started school, and being an only child I had led a pretty solitary,
sheltered, life up to that point. I never owned a tricycle myself; this was an
old one which my cousin Peter had outgrown. Peter was four years older than me,
and it was he who led me off on this adventure. 

Peter & Gillian just before starting on the adventure.

We started off sedately enough
down a paved lane which became a muddy cattle trail which in turn became a
steep, narrow path hurtling down from the pasture to the river. Peter, also an
only child and not averse to having someone, especially a soppy little girl, to
show off to, shot off down the path on his boys’ two-wheeler, pedaling as fast
as his legs would turn, and letting out some pseudo-macho, pseudo-cowboy, yell.
I, oblivious to lurking dangers, rushed to keep up. Had I had anything beyond
zero experience on a trike, I would, of course, have known that three wheels on
a path like that were, at very best, going to get hopelessly stuck. But I
headed off in blissful ignorance, full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes! 

Well,
long before I could get stuck in the mud, the front wheel hit an exposed tree
root and I ended up, or rather, down, face first onto a lump of granite, which
seriously loosened by two front baby-teeth. Meanwhile, Peter, arriving safely
but too swiftly at the end of the path, was unable to stop his bike and ended
up in the river. There had been recent thunderstorms in the hills and the river
was an angry brown torrent. Luckily for Peter, he and his little bike tangled
up together and jammed between two rocks, where he hung on for dear life and
yelled for yelp. This story might have had an unhappy ending, but my aunt,
casting a suspicious eye on her son as do most mothers of nine-year-olds,
observed us heading off across the pasture on the bluff above the river, where
he was, I later learned, forbidden to take his bike, and gave full chase. So,
other than, later that day, my uncle pulled out both of my battered front baby
teeth, we were little the worse for wear.
I never went bicycling
with Peter again, though we both rode bikes. I rode mine for purely practical
reasons; it was a way to get around. Peter rode to get around, but also rode
just for the fun of it. Then he went on long rides as a member of a bicycle
club, and did a little competitive racing. His daughter eventually married a
serious cyclist, though she never cared for bike-riding herself. Her husband
was in France training for the Tour de France when he died, on his bike, of a heart
attack. It turned out that he had some abnormal, and relatively rare, heart
condition, about which the details were never very clear and I forget if I ever
knew the correct term. He was only in his twenties when he died.
Twenty-five years later,
my cousin Peter, in his sixties, was riding his bike home from a nearby harbor
where he had been fishing. He died, on his bike, of a heart attack. As if two
men in the family dying of heart attacks while riding bikes was not coincidence
enough, the autopsy showed him to have the exact same heart condition as his
erstwhile son-in-law. And some like to say there is no such thing as
coincidence!
It seems that the
bike-riding at the time of the heart attacks was also coincidental. Both men
could as easily have succumbed to their heart conditions anywhere, anytime; as
likely to die reading the paper on the couch as to die on a bike.
Yes, but …….. I must
admit that when I got news of Peter’s death, and the circumstances, it scared
me. Two members of my family dead on the very seat of a bicycle, and I was
deeply in love with, and committed to, an avid bicycler. You must admit, it
would give you pause! And shortly after that, Betsy decided to go on her ride
from Pacific to Atlantic, an endeavor which of course I wholeheartedly
supported even while it rather gave me chills. I just had to get over it, which
in the event was not so very difficult. My anxiety level decreased rapidly as I
tried to consider it rationally. I decided it was actually good. I was what
Robin Williams refers to in his Garp persona, as ‘pre-disastered’. To
have such a thing happen twice in one family is extraordinary; a third time is
surely out of reach of reality. I even began to be amused, thinking of Sherlock
Holmes’s musings,
‘To lose one wife may be
considered unfortunate, but to lose three?’
No. It was ridiculous. I
shook it off. Now I never think of it. We are already too old to die young, and
if, by some horrible chance, Betsy should be stricken by a lethal heart attack
while riding her bike, hey, thank you kind fate. To die suddenly and swiftly in
the midst of an activity you love. Who could ask for anything more?
………………………………………….
And, although it has
nothing to do with my story other than the topic, I have to include a simply delicious
quote I stumbled upon.
When I
was a kid I used to pray every night for a new bicycle. Then I realized that
the Lord doesn’t work that way so I stole one and asked Him to forgive me.
Emo Philip
© 30 May 2016 
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.
Posted on

Creative Writing (Untitled), by Cecil Bethea

Keith
Kirchner lived on the next block down from ours.  He must have been five years older than me
because he finished school in 1940.  He
was drafted in the spring ‘41.  After
basic he went into the Army Air Corps. 
Knowing the army like I do, I’d say he was pushed into the Air
Corps–bombers, a machine gunner.  My
mother and his used to talk on the phone several times a week. This way we kept
in touch with him and his training.
First
the telegram came telling that he was wounded, for anybody with a star hanging
in the window, any telegram was almost as bad as a death notice. Not knowing
anything except he was alive and wounded must have been mighty bad.  Slowly the news slipped across the ocean that
he was badly burnt and couldn’t write.  I
wondered if his arms had been burnt off, 
A month or two later we found out that he’d been awarded a Medal of
Honor.  Talk about a splash!  The paper printed on the front page the whole
citation about how an incendiary bomb had exploded in his plane.  He’d picked it up and thrown it out the
window saving the other men but burning himself just about to a crisp.  I was taking chemistry then and had just
learned what a bitch phosphorus is.  Now
I know he was wearing one of those heavy leather flight suits which would have
protected him somewhat.  I see how he
picked the bomb up in the first place. 
What I can’t understand is how he continued to hold on to the thing.
When
he finally came home, we didn’t see him without his long-sleeved shirt buttoned
all the way up.  Of course most of the
time he had a tie on.  His face and neck
were scared something awful and his hands too. 
Couldn’t hide those parts.  I’d
wonder what his body looked like naked especially down there, you know
I have
been cogitating about this ever since.  I
did my time in Korea, All I got was a Purple Heart for being stupid and a Good
Conduct Badge for not getting caught. 
Keith and I’d have a beer ever so often. 
While we were talking and drinking I noticed that his hands weren’t the
color of mother-of pearl but more like unpolished opal.  Another time I remember regretting to him not
doing something brave and famous like him. 
He just said, “You didn’t have the chance.”
© 3 Sep 2008 
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.
Posted on

Public Places, by Betsy

I recently had occasion to kill some time in downtown Denver. Gill and I were meeting family for brunch one Sunday morning. The restaurant was on the 16th St. mall so we took the W line train to Union Station, hopped a mall shuttle and arrived on time, fresh, unstressed, and hassle-free— made possible by our choice of public transportation—no fighting traffic, no searching for a place to park, etc.

After breakfast and visiting, Gill returned home on the W line. The others went their way. I had two hours to wait before attending the 1:00 pm performance of Carmina Burana by the Colorado Symphony Orchestra and Chorus at Boettcher Concert Hall.

It was a beautiful Sunday morning so I decided to amble down 16th St. mall and see what I could see.

I was immediately reminded of how I love downtown Denver. I was struck by the numbers of people bustling about on a Sunday morning. Half the stores were closed it seemed. So, what were all these people doing? Going somewhere and most of them in a hurry. Many were sitting in restaurant patios drinking whatever or eating, but mostly just enjoying the environment, the clear blue sky, and warm temperatures.

I immediately realized that the magic about this mall environment is made possible by the fact that there is no automobile traffic. Only and occasional shuttle bus, bicycles, skateboards, and scooters. Even the hand/foot propelled vehicles are not allowed to be ridden on the mall. Everyone is required to be a pedestrian.

There appears pop art at every turn of the head—the buffalo herd near Wazee St.—six or eight life-size buffalo silhouettes standing on the side walk, musicians at almost every block playing guitar on one corner, flute on the next. And then there are the brightly painted upright pianos sparsely scattered throughout the mall waiting to be played by anyone who cares to try.

The center of the mall strip is a cultural center of its own: people playing board games on the stationary checkerboards, permanent concrete fixtures in the center of the mall strip, people reading the Sunday morning paper, people reading a local map, people playing the pianos. I’ve often wondered what they do with those pianos when it rains or worse when it hails which we all noticed it has a tendency to do here.

In spite of its location in the heart of downtown, the mall is amazingly peaceful, at least one gets that sense. The benches and chairs and tables and especially the plantings make it so. The trees, grown to maturity now, are plentiful complemented by the ever-present giant flower pots displaying a splash of color here and there.

I almost ran into a steer on the mall. Beautifully painted light blue with colorful depictions of the Denver skyline, DIA, some trees and mountains representing our beautiful area parks. These words were written clearly on its rump.

“DIA Denver International Airport is the nation’s largest—53 square miles

Denver has the nation’s largest city park system with more than 200 parks within its city limits.

Not to mention the 300 days of sunshine each year.”

No wonder I love this place. Especially in the summer. I love the park-and-ride bicycles standing neatly in a row on their racks waiting for the next rider to jump on. What a great idea. I’m glad to see this grab-a bike-program being used and persisting. If I were in a real hurry, I could pay the fee pull a bike out of its stall jump on and pedal to Botcher, deposit my borrowed vehicle and be in my seat in 10 minutes. But I have plenty of time so I continue with my amble.

Arriving at the DCPA I am struck immediately by the awesome view straight ahead of me—the snow-covered peaks of the Front Range between a bright blue sky behind and the green foot hills in front. All this from a vantage point in the midst of downtown Denver. Takes your breath away. Again, now on the main concourse of the DCPA, I realize that it is the absence of traffic that makes this environment so special—relaxing and hassle free in spite of the numbers of people moving about.

It was time to go into the concert hall and take my seat. Soon I was again transposed momentarily to some other world by the awesome beauty of this powerful piece of music by Carl Orff, Carmina Burana. There is something so special about listening to live music. The performance was inspiring. I felt a wave of pride in MY orchestra, MY chorus, MY concert hall—all mine because we all belong to MY hometown.

I have been to many awesome public places most in this country and some in other countries. On this day, I could easily say that downtown Denver is just about my favorite.

© 6 June 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

Military and Law Enforcement, by Ricky

          I once served as a Deputy Sheriff in Pima County (Tucson)
Arizona for just short of 4-years.  At
one time Pima County extended all the way south to the Mexican border during
the time that Wyatt Earp was a lawman in that part of the county.  So, he and I were both deputies in Pima
County.  I resigned returning to college
and pursuing a BS degree in Law Enforcement but the school, BYU, changed the
focus of the course so I graduated with a BS in Justice Administration.  During my time in Tucson, I was stationed 24
miles north in the Marana Substation and also served about 9-months in the
vehicle maintenance section coordinating vehicle repairs and routine
maintenance.
          In those years I went to 3 fatal traffic accidents;
apprehended two armed robbers—recovering $10,000 in stolen money from a drug
rip-off; convinced a local “runaway” to return home voluntarily; recovered one
stolen car driven by 5 escapees from a Texas Sheriff’s youth farm/ranch—the
oldest being only 12; detained for ICE numerous undocumented aliens; eliminated
one very potential neighborhood “feud” between a 12 yr old boy and an out of
patience new neighbor; arrested four California men who came to Tucson to buy
bricks of marijuana and who had an illegal sawed off shotgun; tracked burglars
through the dessert; became a scoutmaster for the church troop; wrote over 200
traffic tickets; arrested 30 drunk drivers—one of which was a priest (I later
learned the local “retreat” was one where the church sent its pedophile priests
for rehab);  did not arrest one drunk
driver because he was only 20 feet from his driveway; got propositioned by a
waitress; got propositioned by the CIA; recovered a stolen purse at a high
school football game—referring one 6th grade repentant boy to his father
and one unrepentant boy to the system via a “paper referral” and released him
to his father; was the only lawman in 500 square miles during midnight shifts;
in an act of revenge, I collected enough “dirt” on one of my supervisors that
he was transferred back to Tucson and decided to resign instead—2-years short
of retirement; and saving the best for last, I got married.  Working in Marana was exactly like being a
Wild West deputy except I drove a car instead of riding a horse.  I loved the work.
          When I resigned to return to college, I was in the process
of collecting signatures to run for the local Justice of the Peace.  Although I had more than enough signatures,
when BYU called and said there was an opening in married student housing,
Deborah and I decided to return so I could finish my degree.  She had to quit her medical technologist
position so we could go.  Shortly after
arriving and starting classes, I remembered why I really didn’t like
school.  I also joined Air Force ROTC so
ended up on active duty once again when I graduated.
          My first assignment as an officer was to the security
police squadron at Malmstrom AFB, Montana as a Shift Commander for the on-base
law enforcement and base security flights. 
The base security flight primarily guarded the nuclear weapons storage
area.  I spent two-years in that position
and then was assigned as a Flight Security Officer for the flights providing
security response in the off-base missile field.  My flight and I would be away from the base
for 3 ½ days at a time.  I participated
in a few incidents but the one experience I really want to tell you all about
occurred after I arrived at my next base in Jacksonville, Arkansas circa 1984.
          Little Rock AFB was home to a missile wing supporting the
liquid fueled Titan II ICBM.  In
September 1980 prior to my arrival (1983), one nuclear tipped missile exploded
in its silo.  This is the story of what
happened before, during, and after the incident.  This information is not classified so I won’t
have to kill any of you after you’re done reading it.
          Whenever a nuclear warhead is present, Air Force
regulations require that at least two people must be present in such proximity
to each other that each can monitor the actions of the other—absolutely no
exceptions or violations are tolerated. 
The Titan II is a two-stage rocket. 
To save weight, parts of the very thin outer skin of the rocket are
actually part of the fuel tanks.  The
fuel is of two types—an oxidizer and the fuel. 
Both are hypergolic, meaning that when the two chemicals touch, they
instantly ignite.  The fuel and oxidizer
tanks are so thin that the rocket will collapse in upon itself if the liquid
fuels are removed improperly as the fuel keeps the tanks from being able to
collapse.  The skin is so thin that
hand-held maintenance tools to be used on the missile or its components have
lanyards permanently attached to prevent the tool (sockets, wrenches, etc.)
from falling between the rocket and the maintenance platforms surrounding it
and puncturing the skin.
          So, one day all the counts, accounts, no accounts, and
recounts (oh wait that’s different story). 
One fateful day, two maintenance technicians were in the silo performing
maintenance on a component internal to the missile.  One of the men needed a tool that he forgot
to bring down with him.  He knew that a
tool box (with tools to be used elsewhere in the underground launch complex
outside of the silo) was located in the tunnel towards the launch control
capsule.  These tools did not have
lanyards attached.  Being stupid,
careless, or just plain lazy, he left his partner alone with the missile (major
violation #1 and also stupid decision #1) and went to get the unauthorized tool
rather than having them both go topside and return with the authorized tool
(stupid decision #2).
          The tool needed was a socket for a socket wrench.  While using the socket, it slipped off the
wrench and because it did not have a lanyard, the socket fell between the
missile and the maintenance platform around the missile (Murphy’s Law in
action).  Can you guess what happened
right after the “Oh shit” expletive?  You
guessed it.  The socket fell three or
more levels gaining momentum before hitting the edge of a platform below and
bouncing into the side of the missile puncturing a fuel tank.  Instantly, red fuming nitric oxide began to
leak setting off the chemical vapor sensors which triggered the alarm.  The launch crew ordered the silo evacuated
and notified the base of the problem (good decision #1).
          The deputy wing commander responded with the emergency
response teams.  Upon arrival, two
environmentally suited fuel personnel went down to the silo to inspect the
damage.  Upon their report the base contacted
the Martin-Murrieta company (the builder of the Titan II) to get their
input.  After a short period of time,
Martin-Murrieta replied: 1st you can’t do anything to stop the leak;
and 2nd the missile will explode in approximately 8 ½ hours your
local time today.  Periodically, the two
fuel personnel were sent down to check on the progress of the leak (dangerous
or even stupid decision #3).  (No
civilian or even some military members routinely accuse local commanders of
using their brains.  Yes, I am biased.)  At one time, they even ordered the 740-ton
silo cover door be opened so that the explosion would not be contained within
the silo.  Instantly the highly toxic red
vapor left the silo and a large red “cloud” began to drift towards highly
populated centers, so the cover was closed (good decision #2).
          An order was given to send one man back down to check on
the missile (the launch capsule had been evacuated by this time) (major
violation #2 & stupid decision #3).
As
the 8 ½ hour time limit approached, two environmentally suited personnel were
ordered down to check on the missile (stupid decision #4 and also fatal).  As the expected explosion time arrived, the
two suited personnel were on their way back. 
The first one had cleared the stairwell coming up completely above
ground.  The second one was still half
underground when the missile exploded. 
The first man was blown across the complex into the chain link fence
where the fence fabric cushioned his impact. 
The second man was “cut in half” at the waist by the force of the
blast.  The debris from the incident was
stored in an above ground maintenance shed at one of the remaining missile
complex sites.  I had the pass-key and I
actually saw the remaining parts of the destroyed missile and the bloody
environmental suit of the airman who died.
Here
is the sequence of events at the time of the explosion.  The fuel finally leaked out enough that the
missile began to collapse.  As it
collapsed the other 1st stage fuel tank ruptured, the two chemicals
touched and instantly exploded; the pressure lifted the 740-ton silo cover door
off its foundation rails; the blast spread out circular injuring the two
airman; that blast caused the 2nd stage fuel tanks to rupture and
they also added to the explosion which accomplished five things; 1st
the 740-ton door was lifted quite high; 2nd the nuclear warhead was
blasted like a bullet into the bottom of the 740-ton door breaking it into two
pieces one being 1/3rd the size of the original; 3rd the
larger piece flew about 30 yards and then flattened the Air Force pickup truck
that the deputy wing or base commander had been sitting in just 30-seconds
earlier; 4th the smaller piece landed about 100 yards away; and 5th
the warhead was nowhere to be found (major violation #3—a lost and unguarded
nuclear bomb—heads will roll).
The
rest of the night, military radio traffic was filled with the euphemisms “has
it been found” and “where is it”.  The
bomb was found the following morning during daylight hours.  One of the perimeter security guards was
actually sitting on it all night.  He
never reported finding it because he didn’t know what it was.
EPILOG
1.    
All security police personnel were shown a
dummy warhead during their initial orientation upon arrival at the base (it
looks like a large milk can of the type used on family dairy farms);
2.    
The two environmentally suited airmen were
given medals (one posthumously);
3.    
The surviving suited airman was given a
Letter of Reprimand because he was the one who went down alone to check on the
missile even though he was following orders—he was supposed to refuse to obey
as it was an illegal order; and
4.    
Nuclear bombs are designed to be
“three-point safe”.  This means that they
will not yield a nuclear explosion if burned, receive a high impact, or hit by
a stray electrical charge.  The design
could never be thoroughly tested.  Anecdote:  When the person who created the three-point
safe design was told that the bomb was found with a large dent (from impacting
the 740-ton door) having survived the explosion, he was heard to say, “I TOLD
them it would work!”
5.    
In 1984, I became the project officer for
the installation, planning the procedures for use, and personnel training for a
DES confidential real-time usage encrypted radio system.
          I know this is the true story because I read parts of the
official investigation report and reviewed the numerous photographs.  One photograph sticks in my mind.  It is an overhead shot of the silo taken via
helicopter.  The silo opening is dead
center and surrounding it are compression circles.  It strongly reminds me of a dart board or
even a target.
          Do any of you remember hearing or reading about this event?
 I was in the Air Force as a Missile Security
Officer in 1980 stationed in Montana; I never heard of it.
For other versions of the explosion go
to:
http://encyclopediaofarkansas.net/encyclopedia/entry-detail.aspx?entryID=2543
http://www.techbastard.com/missile/titan2/littlerockaccident2.php
http://www.techbastard.com/missile/titan2/littlerockaccident.php
The public versions are different than
the official investigative report I read. (Nothing new about that is there?)
What did a Titan Launch Complex look
like?  Go to:
http://www.themilitarystandard.com/missile/titan2/silo.php
© 31 Mar 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
Posted on

Blue Skies, by Ray S

Good
afternoon, Class. Our subject word for today is innuendo. I trust you’ve done
your homework, thus you’re cognizant of how to employ this word. Just tickle
your prurient mind department and chuckle away.
First
off, “Blue Skies” is the title of an old song which prompts a visit to Tin Pan
Alley. You recall the next line—“Smiling at me, nothing but Blue Skies do I
see.”
Now,
see what these titles can do with a little alteration, interpretation, and
innuendo, a la GLBTQ.
Pack up your troubles in your old kit
bag and smile, smile, smile
It’s a long way to Tipperary
Over there, over there
Blow, Gabriel, Blow
Over the rainbow
I’m always chasing rainbows
The boy next door or the girl next
door
I’d like to hate myself in the
morning
This can’t be love
Me and my shadow
Brother, can you spare a dime?
Someone to watch over me
The man I love (or woman)
How long has this been going on?
Sweet and low down
Who cares?
I’ve got a crush on you
Bess, you are my woman, now
I got it bad and that ain’t good
I loves you Porgy
My blue heaven (you fill in the name
of your choice)
Happy days are here again
I’m young and healthy
Over there
The varsity drag
Ain’t we got fun
Little girl
Change partners
What’ll I do?
How deep is the ocean?
Let’s have another cup of coffee
Say it isn’t so
Don’t lie under the apple tree
I hate men
He needs me
After I say I’m sorry
Somebody loves me
Hard hearted Hannah
I never knew
Frankie and Johnnie
I can’t give you anything but love
How come you do me like you do, do,
do?
I wish I could shimmy like my sister
Kate
After you’ve gone
Minnie the moocher
Willow weep for me
There’s a small hotel
The lady is a tramp
I enjoy being a girl
This can’t be love
I’ve got you under my skin
Why can’t you behave?
They say it’s wonderful
The girl (boy) that I marry
You go to my head
That old feeling
When I’m not near the girl (boy) I
love,
          I’m in love with the girl (boy) I’m
near
Don’t worry about me
All of me
You make me feel so young
Anything goes
Oh, look at me now.
         Sing along now and “Get Happy.”
© 27 June 2016 

About the Author