Author: jnelson

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Hospitality, by Phillip Hoyle

My
parents lived truly hospitable lives. As a couple striving to live within the
Christian and biblical tradition, they entertained strangers and travelers. They
knew the stories of heavenly visitors that sometimes showed up asking for a
meal or a place to spend the night. They were familiar with the Old Testament
story of Abraham and Sarah’s visit by angels and the New Testament
interpretation that the same thing could still happen. They read the biblical commendations
of individuals and churches that welcomed travelling prophets and evangelists. In
their own time they lived out the spirit of those old stories and
interpretations.
They
also entertained their children. Of course that idea is not caught up in the
hospitality laws and traditions of Hebraic antiquity, for in Jesus’ teachings
there was no righteousness in taking care of one’s children or parents. Anyone
with dependants simply was responsible for the attendant burdens. Yet when I
contrast my parents’ providence and attitudes toward their children with what I
know happens too often in other children’s families, my parent’s home shines as
a place of true hospitality toward progeny, offspring who were treated as
persons not property. Our home went beyond the ancient values that treated
wives and children as a man’s chattels, for my parents treated one another
humanely and their children as well. They also treated other people as human
beings of value, and thus they related responsively to and responsibly toward
them. Surely such a distinction can be listed as hospitality, extraordinary
hospitality.
I
enjoyed a great upbringing in a hospitable home environment. So did Myrna, my
wife. Upon coming together, we saw our home as an environment for rearing
children and entertaining friends and strangers. Thus we accepted foster children
and “foster” adults into our home. For five years we entertained, as it were,
foster children when we served as a boarding home for the Kansas Children’s
Service League, a group I knew about due to my mother’s long-time support of
them. We also welcomed relatives and friends to live with us while they went to
school: Myrna’s sister who attended medical assistant school, a foster-daughter
of my sister’s who attended cosmetology school, our friend Ted who attended
graduate school, an old classmate Donna who likewise attended graduate school,
and friends of our son and daughter, kids who needed familial support in
various ways. We welcomed a friend of our son’s who as a young adult lived with
us for several months, and we welcomed a slightly crazy woman to live with us
for several more months, a woman who seemed always to be almost one inch from
living on the street. These experiences among many others kept our house lively,
taught the two of us strength, adaptability, and perseverance. Our home became
a crash pad, a loving support, an oasis, a place of cross-cultural learning, a
bed and breakfast, and the center of loving tolerance. The experiences changed
our lives, our perceptions of social reality, and our willingness to take
chances on other persons’ lives.
I
wonder then why we were unable to enfold my homosexuality into such an enduring
relationship and environment. Perhaps hospitality and homophobia don’t mix well
and the antipathy against homosexuality is too well institutionalized in western
society, too highly integrated into myths of otherness, sin, and transgression.
Both my wife and I were surprised at how quickly we moved towards separation
when details of my sexual truth became extrovert. We remain friends and when
together still wonder why we live separately. We are both hospitable; using our
separate homes to benefit others, and we are pleased that our children do the
same. Still the question lingers.
An
elderly minister and I once discussed the injunction in Matthew’s Gospel that
allowed for a church to kick out a member who would not act right. The wise man
pointed out that according to other good news passages such a sinner had to be
welcomed just like a brother or sister. But somehow, when homosexuality enters
the picture, there emerges a deep rift of disappointment, dirt, despicability, disrespect,
and dire detriment, enough so as to rip apart an intergenerational, long-standing
love and hospitality. Obviously marriages are not magic; nor is hospitality
uncomplicated.
Hospitality
must have been very difficult for Rafael’s mother, yet eventually she welcomed
me into her life on behalf of her dying son.
She
had to enter the home he shared with his gay American partner, a man her own
age.
She
had learned of her son’s homosexuality only about three months before when he
was in legal trouble. Then she learned that her eldest son was gay, he was ill
with HIV, and soon after that he was living with an American man.
Rafael’s
father was warm. His brother was warm. His sister was warm. I had to read body
language to understand those things. His mother was not mean, but she wasn’t
warm towards me. Some of what I understood about her I learned from her son.
She was not happy with the situation. It was against the church. It was against
all her dreams for her son and all the expectations she had held for her own
life. Sure her son had fathered a son for her, but he was supposed to stay with
his family, not run off to America and live with some gay man.
Rafael
told his parents they were welcome to stay at our home while they were visiting
him, but I was part of the deal. They were to be our guests. Of course, he
didn’t make it home until we were arranging home hospice for him. Then he
stayed less than thirty hours for when the home nurse tried to insert a
catheter to his bladder, she got blood. He had just been diagnosed with
full-term Hepatitis C.
Cultural
expectations were going to be a problem. I did housecleaning although I knew it
was women’s work. Once his father invited me to come sit with him. Of course we
could not talk. He wanted things to be as normal and proper as possible with
his wife and daughter doing the cooking and cleaning.
I
too was gracious and hospitable.
I
have received the hospitality of strangers.
I
have received strangers into my hospitality.
Home
life and hospitality.
Myrna:
Hospitality and generosity.
OT
traditions, NT traditions.
Users
and the hospitable, the foundation of a prejudice.
Hospitality
and spiritual dimensions of growth.
Pragmatic
considerations in hospitality.
Jesus’
words of hospitality—both to receive it and give it. Holy images.
Hospitals
Hostels
Hosts
Invitations

© 12 Mar 2013 
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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Once in a Lifetime, by Pat Gourley

It was in the summer of
1973 and I was living on Elati Street in Denver in a railroad duplex we were
renting from a landlord who I seem to recall lived in Texas. There was at any
one time 3-6 folks inhabiting the place. We had all recently relocated from
Champaign, Illinois. The men all had homosexual tendencies, which for the most
part were still in a state of unactualized potential and a couple of, I
believe, straight women who were fluidly moving in and out of residence.
One of these women named
Sue had recently checked out the hospital a few blocks to the east named at
that time Denver General, now called Denver Health. She came home telling the
mostly under-employed men in the household that the hospital was hiring several
different positions and maybe we should check it out. I was at the time working
down in Englewood at Craig Rehab hospital in their kitchen and having some
minimal patient contact. Having no car it was a bus ride back and forth down
Broadway and I was anxious for a more challenging change closer to home.
In August of that summer
of 1973 I was hired as a hospital attendant at Denver General on the inpatient
psychiatric ward, 4-West. The attendant staff was all male and all my
co-workers conscientious objectors. I had avoided the draft by having a high
lottery number and the good sense to not volunteer and end up possibly coming
back to the States in a body bag from Vietnam.
The attendant staff was
all male I suspect to provide muscle for the all female nurses so I am not sure
why I got the job being all of 145-pounds soaking wet in those days. This turned
out to be my “once in a lifetime” decision that has given my professional life
direction for the past 42-years. I am assuming that something that is once in a
lifetime should have more impact that one’s usual run of the mill life happenings
and this decision to wade into nursing was it for me. The duties of the
attendants did include elements of what I call real nursing i.e. hands on
interaction with clients. No advanced degree was necessary with the ability to
communicate with people in distress being the main requisite of the job.
Back in the early 1970’s
the mentally ill, especially the homeless mentally ill, had a much better
chance of hospitalization rather than today’s all too frequent option of
incarceration. And so began my several decades of interacting with Denver’s
most disenfranchised. I did detour for 10-years to what was then called
Colorado General but in those days they actually served the indigent uninsured
as part of their mission.  That hospital
has also changed its named, moved to Aurora and now has TV ads featuring Peyton
Manning. I find the tone and pitch of these commercials to be very off-putting
but I will not explore that further at this time.
This personal lifetime of
nursing is particularly poignant for me today since back on the 28th
of November 2015 was my last day of work as a nurse at Denver Health. It was a long
very busy 13-hour day in Urgent Care attending to many of the same type of
folks and their issues as I was back in 1973.
I’ll close this piece
with a couple things. First, is that Colorado has the chance to vote on single payer
health care in November 2016. We as a state currently have a very high rate of medically
insured thanks in large part to accepting federal Medicaid support through the
Affordable Care Act. Single payer would though be a great improvement in spite
of this current commendable high-insured rate.
Secondly, I want to share
a series of encounters I had with a homeless fellow I ran across on my walks
into work my last two days on the job. The first occurred at 0600 on Friday the
27th. It was a cold snowy morning and this fellow was under a
blanket on the Cherry Creek Bridge on Broadway just south of Speer Blvd. This is
often a favorite spot for the homeless folks and he seemed bundled up and out
of the wind so I proceeded to work thinking though I might see him later in
Urgent Care.
At the end of my shift
about 7:15 pm I walked home the same way and was surprised he was still in the same
spot but now sitting up and still covered in his blanket. My assumption,
perhaps wrong, was that he had spent the day out in the sub-freezing elements.
I kept walking but after crossing Broadway I turned around thinking this is
really not OK even for a seasoned homeless person.  I cautiously engaged him and he popped his
head out of the blanket. He said he was OK that the blanket was warm. The next
words out his mouth were to ask if I had a smoke. Despite the obvious health
issues related to smoking to lecture him on this under the current
circumstances seemed ludicrous. Instead I gave him the four bucks I had and
encouraged him to walk the one block down to Denver Health where he could spend
the night in the Emergency Department waiting room at least.
The next morning walking
into work again I was stunned he was in the same spot. Still under his blanket,
a thick coat and pretty good hat and rhythmic breathing quite noticeable. He
was not lying directly on the pavement but still this could not have been
comfortable. I have over the years encountered numerous homeless who prefer
even sub-zero weather to the shelters for a variety of reasons. I decided I
would walk home later the same way and if still there I would give him the $20
bucks I had. He was however not there in the evening and I wondered if he had
walked down to the hospital or to a shelter or much more likely just moved on.
He had selected a spot
out of the wind, temperatures in the high teens with lots of traffic and
pedestrians within a few feet and he was reasonably dressed so I never thought
the situation life threatening but if not careful frost bite could have been an
issue for his toes at least. The greatest clothing need for homeless shelters
is socks. I should have brought him a couple pairs from work. Since I walk
central Denver a lot I plan to always venture out especially in wintertime with
an extra pair in my bag.
© December 2015 
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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Forever, by Gillian

Well of course there’s no
such thing. In human time, we’ll all die someday. In historic time, we see that
everything comes to an end; even in geologic time nothing is forever.
Continents wander about the surface of the earth, joining and separating and pushing
up mountains. Even our planet is about halfway through its lifespan. In
another four and a half billion years, give or take time out for weekends and
holidays, Earth as we know it will grind to a halt. As our planet cools, it
will become, perhaps, rather as Mars is now; in the same way as Mars was,
perhaps, once rather as Earth is now.
Nothing is forever. But
it’s tricky.
Via our own memories, or
through education, we know a great deal about so much that has gone before; has
not been forever. What is hard, is to grasp the current absences that will not
remain forever, so many of which we ourselves have lived. We had, in our youth,
no concept of the absence of a Ground Positioning System. We cannot
grasp the lack of something we don’t know will ever exist. Or that GPS would in
turn would lead to a voice coming from a device in your car and giving you
detailed moment by moment directions, guiding you from A to B. We did not dream
that phones would not be forever attached to the wall or that in a relatively
short time they would be capable of delivering to their users vast amounts of
information. We never knew that someday we would say, there’s an app. for
that! And it’s not just technology that shows so little sign of forever.
Most of us, people of a certain age, did not know that life in the closet we
inhabited was not forever. We could not dream that we would live to see, some
incredible day, The White House alight in rainbow colors. Come to that, we had
no vision of the significance which would one day become attached to those
colors; that rainbow. Nor could we see our part in it.
Betsy and I, along with
most of the world’s population, watched the Women’s Soccer World Cup. I
remarked to her that the fact that there even is such a thing as women
playing soccer at all, never mind a World Cup watched, in the U.S. alone, by
almost 30-million people, is as completely incredible to me as the recent,
amazing, legalizing, throughout the entire U.S., of same-sex marriage. It was
little more than two years ago that I stated, in one of my Storytime writings,
that I did believe it would arrive, some day, but not in my lifetime. Of
course, in my youth, it was something I could not conceive of in the very best
of my imaginings. All that existed was a void in thought, word, and deed, which
I could only suppose would last forever.
One of the good things, I
find, about growing old is that we really do get it. We really know that those
good times will not last forever, so we enjoy them more intensely, perhaps more
frequently, while at the same time managing not to feel that terrible sense of
loss and regret when they are over. By the same token, we know that the bad
times are not forever. We will get over it, and life will go on. Or we will
not, and we will die. And quite honestly, I cannot believe that will be
forever, either. Nothing else is, as far as I know, in the entire universe. So
why would death be the single exception? What will follow I don’t even
speculate. It is simply another of those conceptual voids, like women’s soccer
and gay marriage once were to me, which will not last forever. Someday it will
be filled. I just don’t know with what.
© 13 Jul 2015 
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

Sports, by Betsy

As a child I was not
involved in any organized sports.  No
soccer leagues, no softball for girls, mostly just playtime and as an older
child “hanging out.”
We did play sports in
school.  I remember kick ball–just like
baseball only you kick a soccer-sized rubber ball–then run around the bases. I
loved that game.  Also dodge ball was big
in elementary grades. 
When I was about ten my
father took me out on skis a few times. Not to a ski area, rather cross
country.  Being in the lumber business he
knew where the old abandoned roads were and I was proud of myself indeed to be
out on skis with my Daddy.  For a few
years the family would venture up to Old Forge in the Adirondack Mountains,
stay in a hotel and ski at the ski area. In those days in NY State a rope tow
was the best means of propulsion to the top of the ridge.
I loved skiing, except
for getting cold.  Today 70 years later I
am still skiing and have no intention of giving it up any time soon.
Also in the winter we had
many opportunities for ice skating. We would skate on the nearby lake, in fact,
I could skate to school at the other end of the lake.  In New Jersey our lake froze over quite often
as I remember. 
On a couple of occasions as a child my Daddy
took me to the local horse stables where we could rent a couple of horses and
off we would go. Just walking an old nag, I’m sure. 
But again, I was on top of the world because I was with my Daddy. That
was probably the best sports experience of those early days and we probably
only went out on horses a couple of times. I was devastated when I had to quit
that because I was allergic to horses.
My mother was not
athletic and did not like sports except bowling which she participated in
weekly for many years.  I do believe it
was more of a social activity for her than a competition. However, she always
went along on the ski trips and was a good sport about it.
Around age 15 my Daddy
taught me to play golf.  He was a avid
golfer and quite skilled at the game. In the ensuing year I came to take it
quite seriously, playing for fun and in occasional competitive events in high
school and college.
As I am writing this, I
keep thinking of more and more sports which were introduced to me by my father.
He really had been quite an athlete himself in college. I know that because at
home in the attic I happened upon some of the medals and certificates awarded
to him.
I am also reminded of
sporting events my father took me to watch. What I remember best are the hot
dogs at Ebbets Field or maybe it was Yankee Stadium.  The game I thought boring to watch, but I
enjoyed the yummy hot dogs slathered in mayo, mustard, and pickles.
Also memorable was the
time we went to see Babe Didrikson Zaharias* play golf in an LPGA [Ladies Professional Golf Association] tournament in
New Orleans. Babe was the greatest woman athlete of her day.  Having competed in the Olympic games in
track, she was now a golf champion. I must have been around 16 or 17 at the
time of that event since we lived near New Orleans. I will never forget
approaching her when she was practicing on the putting green before a
match.  She signed my program for me and
my heart went thumpity-thump.
Another sport my father
taught me was ping pong. We had an enclosed sun porch at the back of our house
in New Jersey which housed our ping pong table. Daddy would challenge me to a
game and start out by announcing that he would even the playing field, so to
speak, by tying his right arm behind him, or spotting me a number of points. As
I grew older and more adept, the number of points he spotted me diminished
until finally we were even. He could not have been happier, which was a message
to me about what is really important in sports.
When I was in high school we were forced to
move from New Jersey, a rather progressive place, to Louisiana, the ultimate in
conservatism and tradition. We, of course, had to give up the winter sports.
After the move in  school my sports
participation came to a rather screeching halt. Girls did not do sports in my
Louisiana high school.  It might cause a
girl to sweat, which is not lady-like.The best I could do was to be a cheer
leader and cheer on the boys.
It was then that my
father taught me to play golf. It was my saving grace when it comes to sports
participation during those three years in Louisiana.
My choice to leave the
deep south and go back north to college was probably driven somewhat by my love
of sports and particularly winter sports.
When I married and became
the mother of three children, I gave up golf and took up tennis.  I found that I could from time to time manage
an hour of tennis, but never could I find a half a day for a round of golf.
Also money was tight. Public tennis courts are free, not so with the golf
course, even public ones.  Also during my
years of mothering I coached my girls’ recreational
soccer league teams.  When that was over
and I was age 40 something I started playing the game until I turned 60. 
I continued playing
tennis for the rest of my life, my Patty Berg signature golf clubs gathering
dust in the attic. I have been tempted but have not found time to get back into
golf.  I’m spending too much time and having too
much fun on the tennis court.
The sports introduced to
me by my father have been very important to me throughout my life and continue
to be so. They have opened up doors, brought me closer to friends and family
simply by being able to play together. Teaching and participating in sports
with each of my three children I know has brought us closer together over the
years.
Some of my best
friendships have grown out of my interest and participation in sports.  I play regularly with good friends at the
Denver Tennis Club, tennis and ping pong. I’m happy to say that my lovely Gillian has
joined me in ping pong.  She is a
formidable player and we have our own table at home.
I still play ping pong,
ski cross-country and downhill. I have taught skiing to the disabled for 16
years at the National Sports Center for Disabled, which has been an educational
experience, and enlightening.
Did I mention cycling?
Like most kids I had a bicycle back in New Jersey as a youngster.  I rode it to school and rode around the area
with my friends.  We pedaled our bikes to
the movies on Saturdays and to the drug store for sodas.
I took up serious cycling
when I retired in 1998.  My ambition upon
retirement had been to hike the Colorado Trail. 
I had worked as a volunteer building the trail now I wanted to hike the
entire length. When the time came, I had to give up the idea because of a
chronic back condition. So instead I took up cycling and have had some of the
best adventures of my life as a result–the ultimate being the trip from the
Pacific to the Atlantic which I pedaled in 2005. 
I am fortunate that I
have an aptitude and a proclivity for sports–most sports, and have had the
opportunity to learn to play, to practice, and the health to participate in
them which is truly the love of my life–well, one of them anyway.
*Babe Didrikson Zaharias
© 13 Nov 2014 
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

My Favorite Water Sport, by Will Stanton

I suppose I could regard this
topic of “My Favorite Water Sport” to be rather presumptuous. It assumes that I
engage in a variety of water sports, let alone doing any at all – – which I
don’t.  I never have.
I do, however, swim
frequently; and I have done that most of my life.  Of course for me, that’s not a sport.  Swimming would fall under the athletic
heading of “physical education and recreation,” that is, I do it for exercise
and health.  Ergo, “re-creation.”
My parents taught me very
young to swim, probably starting around two or three.  We would go frequently to the university
swimming pool.  I never have enjoyed
being exposed to chlorine, but the indoor pool had the advantage of being open
during inclement and cold weather.
I actually signed up for, and
completed, a life-guard class so that I could get a job at the city pool during
the summer.  The teacher, however, after
the class was completed, refused to give me my certificate because she said
that, at age fifteen, I was too young.  I
had to be sixteen.  Thanks a lot!  Why didn’t she tell me that at the start?
By the time I was twenty, I
had developed sufficient breath capacity that I could swim 2 ¼ lengths of the
pool under water in one breath.  Now that
I am superannuated, I don’t even put my face under.
During summers, my brother and
I used to go to the city pool.  That was
the setting for my first sexual dream, “seeing” a girl swimming under water,
nude.  I wasn’t all that fond of the city
pool.  It was situated near the junk yard
next to the river, which occasionally flooded the whole area including the
pool.  My knowing what was in that
flood-water did not thrill me very much. 
And, that flooding didn’t even have anything to do with the “Baby Ruth”
that I saw floating there one day.
During some summers, I swam in
a variety of lakes.  There were two
man-made lakes nearby.  Also, my family
and I did some camping near lakes, and we invariably swam.  I recall one called “Crystal Lake,“ and it
certainly was.  The lake had a pure
white, sandy bottom with nothing growing and with no fish.  I could look straight down to the
bottom.  I also attended several summer
camps, and, of course, they always were situated adjacent to lakes.
On several occasions, I swam
in the ocean.  I did not care for the
salt and the waves and, sometimes, cold, especially on the North-Atlantic
coast.  I especially was wary of the
Portuguese men-of-war floating about or on the beach in Florida.
 At least, I did not suffer the fate of the
scuba-diver off the lighthouse point who was pulled under and killed by a giant
squid.  Those who recovered his body
claimed that, from the size of the sucker marks on him, that the squid may have
been sixty feet long.  That sounds rather
extreme, but recent explorations have filmed squid bigger than that. That could
not have been a very enjoyable way to go.
I still swim several days per
week at the pool here in the city.  That
assumes, of course, that it is not shut down again for maintenance.  As I said before, I now am superannuated; therefore,
I choose to attend the “seniors swim hour,” which I refer to as “the old farts’
swim.” 
 

Elderly Man Swimming
During summers when they have
had youth swimming classes just before ours, and the boys in the locker room
see us shambling wrecks of dissipated humanity, I wonder what they think.  Or perhaps, they, being so young, cannot
relate to us.  Perhaps they regard us as
non-human aliens.       
Young Swimmer
© 22 Oct 2016 
About
the Author 
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.
Posted on

The Females in My Life, by Ricky

Like everyone else on
this planet, the first woman in my life was my mother.  Mom was the care giver when I was young, but
she was also the rat-fink of my life. 
She would always tell my father of my daily misdeeds and he was the
disciplinarian in the family.  During
that time period, discipline consisted of not too gentle spankings, so I
learned to fear both of them.  Mom was
also the one who came to Minnesota, while I was living with my grandparents, to
be a bridesmaid for her sister and then did not take me back to California when
she left Minnesota after the wedding.  I
think I subconsciously resent her even to this day for leaving me and for being
a rat-fink.
The second woman was my
father’s mother.  After I was born she
came to live with us for about one year. 
I don’t remember that time period much and as I grew up, I did not see
her very often.  The next female in my
life was my beloved Bonnie, a black and white collie, who became the best baby
sitter a two-year old toddler could not escape; that is until I learned to take
her with me when I left the yard.  Sadly,
she got distemper and passed before her first birthday.  I don’t remember if I grieved for her very
much.  I only now remember her from old
photographs and the stories my parents told me over time.
Next was a girl in my
Kindergarten class at the Hawthorn Christian School in Hawthorn,
California.  Her name was Sandra
Flora.  She was like a girlfriend to me,
or more precisely, I was a boyfriend to her. 
With long curly hair and the full dress that little girls wore at that
time, she looked like a young Shirley Temple. 
I carried her Kindergarten school photo in my wallet well into my 40’s
when I finally lost it.
The next woman in my
life would be my mother’s mother.  I
lived with her and my grandfather for two years on a farm in central Minnesota
from the age of 8 until two-weeks before I turned 10.  She was a reasonable surrogate mother but at
9-years of age, I ended up with a mild ‟school boy crush” on my 4th
grade teacher, Mrs. Knoll.  She was a
very young beautiful lady and in her second year as a teacher.  The crush was mild because she was married so
I knew I had no chance and I was not quite into full blown puberty.  My 3rd grade teacher, Mrs.
Sorensen, was a good but matronly teacher and thus of no interest to me.
Back on the farm, my
aunt Darlene, my mother’s younger and only sister, would visit occasionally
with her husband.  When I was 8, I was a
ring-bearer (like Bilbo and Frodo) at her wedding.  My younger cousin, Pamela Anderson, was the
flower-girl.  There was one other female
on the farm that I had a platonic relationship with, at least on my part.  Her name was Peanuts and she was a Guernsey
cow.  Her stall was the first one as I
would enter the barn and so she became my favorite, almost like a pet.
One week before I
turned 10, my mother and new step-father came to Minnesota to pick me up and
take me back to California.  They also
introduced me to the next female to enter my life, my little baby sister,
Gale.  For the next 9 years she and her
twin brother and I had a close family relationship.  They were the kids and I was the
babysitter.  Not too much personal time
for me, but we did have some amount of fun growing up until I went away to
college and then the military.  She still
lives at our ‟home town” of South Lake Tahoe.
The next female was
never alive in the literal sense but she really was a lady.  She was the Skipalong, my step-father’s 39
foot cabin cruiser he used as a tour-boat on Lake Tahoe during 1957 and ’58.  I was his deckhand in 1958 and I
really loved the ‟job” and the boat.  All
I had was that one summer with her as the next summer, at the beginning of the
season, she sank at a pier while her engine was being overhauled and was sold
for salvage.  I still miss her even today
as that summer was perhaps the happiest of my childhood.


She had a colorful career.  It is
believed she was built in the 1920’s in Morris Heights, New York by the
Consolidated Shipbuilding Corporation. 
She was originally 36 feet long but upon arrival in San Francisco she
was modified to 39 feet long and a ‟lookout cockpit” was added to the bow as
she began service as a rum runner during Prohibition.
In the Fall of 1958,
after that wonderful summer, I developed another school boy crush.  This time it was during full blown puberty
and on my unmarried, first year 5th grade teacher, Miss
Herbert.  She was beautiful, young, and
had a wonderful personality.  I was in
LOVE!  Then she got married over
Christmas vacation.  I was
devastated.  It appeared to me that I
would never get the women I loved, which due to the age differences, is
probably a good thing.
The next female arrived
at our house on Red Lake Road, in South Lake Tahoe when I was 12.  She was ¾ Oriental Poodle and ¼ Pomeranian—a
little, black, shaggy, and “yippy” lap dog. 
She bonded to me the first night in our house and became the first
female I slept with for the next 9-years. 
I was monogamous but she was a very prolific bitch. No! I was not the
father of her litters.
After I joined the Air
Force, I met my first girlfriend as an adult. 
She was the best friend of the woman I would marry 5-years later.  During the intervening years, I also met the
woman who taught me about making out and foreplay.  Then there was the woman who took my
virginity.  Actually, I guess it was a
mutual thing as she did not have to twist my arm to get it.
Then I married Deborah
and we enjoyed 27-years and 9-months together before she passed from complications
of breast cancer.  During those years,
the final women in my life were born to us—our three daughters, one of which
made me a grandfather with her 2-daughters.
So those are the women
and other females in my life.  I chose
not to tell about my two female cats, so be thankful for small favors.
© 23 November 2014  
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

Three Dollar Bill, by Ray S

Possibly
this has happened to you at some time. You go to the storage room in search of
some sort of old legal paper stored for safety because you couldn’t tell when
you might need it.
The
other day this became my mission. So I was buried in a collection of storage
boxes and file boxes searching for a copy of a paid mortgage.
Of
course, I became completely diverted by a box of old photographs: portraits and
snapshots. At the bottom of this box I found a thin blue book titled “Our Baby”
complete with faded pictures and notes.
Curiosity
got the best of me, so I settled down to read the writer’s detailed description
of the baby’s arrival, weight (7 lbs.), length (21”), etc, as well as the
mother’s pleasure about the food and rest she’d gotten in the hospital. Then
there was the list of gifts and their donors, and a ribbon-tied bundle of
letters and cards.
At
this point I decided the latter was too much a tackle and put it back into its
niche. At this point I saw a yellow envelope that had been hidden by those
cards and letters.
The
printed name on the envelope read “Western Union Telegraph” and was addressed
to Mr. J. W. Wulf, Cleveland, Ohio. It was a copy for the sender’s file. Of
course, I had to read the enclosed telegram.
The
message stated:
Ray
Wulf arrived 11:35 AM
Oct
19, 1926, Berwyn Hospital
Berwyn,
Illinois
Baby
and mother doing fine.
Signed
Homer E. Sylvester
It
was the everlasting three dollar bill, where or from whom it came from, but it
has lasted for 90 years.
© 14 March 2016 
About
the Author 

Posted on

I Do Not Exaggerate, by Phillip

I
felt like Johnson’s laughter was exaggerated as in too loud, too much like a
billy goat’s bleating, just too obnoxious, but as I came to understand much
more about him and his habits, I found his laughter a minor detraction. He was
a man given to life-long drug use and alcohol abuse. He had been adopted by
well-meaning parents who found they couldn’t easily relate to this new family
member, could barely cope with the challenges he presented: impulse control,
ADHD, bipolar swings, obsessive-compulsive behaviors, and eventual drug-induced
schizophrenia. It took them decades to understand all that; it took me years to
begin to fathom the dimensions of his life. Originally I knew only his manic laughter.
I
met Johnson when giving free massages at an AIDS clinic. By the time I was
finished giving him that first massage, I was pretty much in love with this crazy
man with loud voice, boisterous laughter, and keen wit. While I observed these
attributes I also became aware of his odor, first wondering why some guys came
to massage without bathing and then realizing the smell wasn’t awful and then
really liking it. Oh those pheromones! They cause problems for the unsuspecting.
Johnson
came to the monthly massages at the clinic rather faithfully; something I only
later realized must have required a focus he could barely sustain. I always
smiled when I saw his name on my list for the day. As I got to know him more,
heard bits and pieces of his story, came to admire his intellect, his
vocabulary, and the structure of his thought (the man was no mimic, no parrot),
my interest in him deepened.
Occasionally
I would run into him away from the safety of the massage contract. On these
occasions we would drink coffee or beer or we would simply talk. When he
started coming to my apartment for his massages, I learned much more. I also
found my defenses rising.
Some
years into our friendship I realized Johnson’s life was becoming increasingly
disorganized. For him I provided a kind of safety net I suppose; he provided me
the entertainment of his stories of life in places I’d never go, for instance,
sleeping on a grate in front of a public building along East Colfax, working as
a cook in a restaurant while high as a kite on some drug, or getting into a
drunken fight on his way home from a gay bar. When I realized he spent some of
his time homeless, living on the street, I told a friend that I felt Johnson
was hoping I’d invite him to live with me. I was trying to figure out how to
avoid such a request.
One
winter afternoon he stopped by my apartment. We talked, which of course meant we
also laughed together. I fed him. After dark descended, he prepared to leave
but said he needed to give me the perishables he had got at a food bank. The
overnight temperature was predicted for 10° F. I realized he wasn’t simply
going out to a bar; he assumed he might end up on the street and lose the
perishables to frost. I told him to stay. He stayed two nights and then got
into some housing through his case manager’s connections.
I
started seeing the effects of the drugs he took, like the time in a massage
when he wouldn’t turn over for the face-up work. He laughed with quasi embarrassment
saying he’d taken X the night before. Or the time I saw him intimidate another
guy who he thought was looking at him strangely. Or the time I met him at a
sandwich shop and pushed food on him as he sat across from me, his eyes at
half-mast. He never asked to move in with me, perhaps not wanting to have me
refuse him. I came to appreciate that he treated me with respect, even love.
His
difficulties increased when he got into legal trouble over drugs. Mostly Johnson
seemed to live alone or perhaps he just failed to mention anyone important in
his life. Finally I met a lover of his, a chef. The last time I saw this
partner was when we went together to visit Johnson in prison. The incarceration
served to end that affair.
I
got over whatever naiveté I had when I heard the stories from him about
surviving in a flophouse, living on next to nothing while he awaited disability
insurance, squandering the SSI back-pay settlement on drugs, and being tied up
and tortured in someone’s dungeon one happy New Years Day. He always laughed,
mining each experience for its humor.
To
you listeners who may be prone to exaggeration I say, “No we did not have sex.”
Such was not part of our friendship although I certainly had thought about having
sex with Johnson any number of times. I just was not willing to become the
partner of a drug addict. I was more self-preserving than that. Oh, I loved
this sucker—body, mind, personality, odors, wit, and openness. I liked that he
liked and trusted me. I loved him starting with those strange pheromones, the
feel of his muscles, and the beauty of his underarms. I even liked when he
showed up on my table with safety pins in his nipples. I liked our hugs. I
liked that he protected me from his worse times. I responded to his
desperation. I loved our correspondence from his prison stays, was intrigued
with his wild bad-boy personality; and I appreciated that he didn’t try to make
me enter his world.
I
know that some folk who knew him would think I exaggerate Johnson’s good
aspects, but I believe I do not. Like every person I have known, he was a blend
of good and bad. Neither attribute is absolute. For me the art of living is to
find a balance that one can sustain without bringing unwanted harm to others.
Of
course I am not unaware of the sometime unwanted aspects of things. I am pretty
sure Johnson did not want to die from an overdose. Probably he didn’t expect
the coke he took to be enhanced. Still, he certainly knew the risks. He wasn’t
always wise, but in his way he lived life rather fully. I don’t defend him but,
I did love him in ways appropriate, and that is no exaggeration at all. 
© 12 Mar 2013 
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

A Looming Wrinkle, by Pat Gourley

I am going to approach
the topic of Wrinkles with a bit of a
wrinkle and write from a secondary definition of the word and that would be
”snag”. A wrinkle can be a snag rather than the latest distressing line on my
face or ass.
The potential snag I’d
like to address is the slowly emerging effort to take the “T” out of LGBT. I am
linking to a recent provocative piece from The
Independent, a British newspaper, entitled Why it’s time to take the T out of LGBT written by Katie Glover.
Ms. Glover is a transgender woman and editor of the transgender and drag
publication Frock Magazine: http://www.independent.co.uk/voices/why-its-time-to-take-the-t-out-of-lgbt-10493352.html
She starts right out of
the box exposing the myth, quite prevalent even in the LGB community, that
transgender folks are gay. Most are not and in fact the percent that are is
likely no more than the percent of the general population that is gay or
lesbian. Glover goes on to point out that being gay and being transgender are
two very different things that should not be mixed up.
Historically it made
survival sense for trans folks to hitch their wagon to the larger gay movement
where they received at least some modicum of acceptance or dare I use the much
more loaded and perhaps offensive word: tolerance. Times though have changed
and with the transgender closet door swinging wide open and their numbers
swelling a tipping point has perhaps been reached and it’s now time to break
away from the LGB’s.
A poignant example from
Glover’s piece of the confusion that exists in the lesbian and gay community
around trans folks was the recent appearance of Caitlyn Jenner on the Ellen
DeGeneres show. Ellen was quite surprise by Caitlyn’s lukewarm stance on same
sex marriage.  Cait was trying to explain
to Ellen that she was a traditionalist on matters of marriage, though she has
evolved somewhat from the more strident view she held prior to transitioning.
If this movement for the
trans community to severe ties with the LGB’s continues to gain steam it may
prove to be quite the painful wrinkle. One component of why this will be
difficult for gays and lesbians to accept might be the weirdly pejorative views
straight society have foisted on us with terms like sissy and tomboy. That gay
men are effeminate and lesbian’s masculine butch dykes is still a prevalent and
false meme today. This simplistic and totally incorrect view of who we are I
think may have and still is contributing to lots of confusion around gender.
Perhaps I am wandering a
bit into the bushes here but it seems that many, perhaps most, folks who are
transitioning are like Caitlyn Jenner moving towards their true self and that
being one of the two established and traditional genders, male and female.
Maybe this potential breakaway of T’s from the LBG ‘s might prompt us to view
ourselves as third or fourth gender. Here I am of course borrowing from the
thinking of Harry Hay on such matters. 
Harry always encouraged us to view ourselves as other and distinctly
different in very fundamental ways from our straight bothers and sisters.  Only by exploring and discovering these
differences would we get a handle on who we really are.
This may be way too much
to take on these days, that would be third and fourth genders, when we as a
community and society as a whole seem so confused on the two genders we already
perceive. This daunting task aside perhaps we should just start with a
suggestion from the Glover piece again where she states: “LGB’s and T’s are
getting a little too close for comfort. It might be time to cut the cord”.
I would personably view
this breakaway of the T’s as a golden opportunity to once again retrench from
the assimilationist trips of marriage and the military and refocus on the task
of exploring who we really are, where we came from and what we are for. Maybe
we LGB and T’s really are a bunch of wrinkles lending much needed texture and
nuance to the human race, snags be damned.
© 14 Sep 2015 

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

True Colors – Take a Walk in the Grove, by Nicholas

          I want to tell a story today that involves one of our own,
a member of this group. It’s about a group of people who showed their true
colors in their loyalty to one friend and created a unique space for our entire
community. Along the South Platte River on the edge of downtown Denver, is an
area of Commons Park designated as a spot to remember those who have died of
HIV/AIDS and their caregivers. It’s called The Grove and it is one of only two
AIDS memorial gardens in this country—the other is in San Francisco. Our own
Randy Wren was part of that group that labored for seven years to make it
happen.
          The Grove started with one man’s vision. Doug McNeil knew
of the memorial grove in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco and asked, literally
as his dying wish, why can’t Denver create such a spot. Doug died of AIDS in
1993, a time when the LGBT community was focused more on the battle to undo the
infamous Amendment 2 than on the AIDS epidemic. Amendment 2, passed by Colorado
voters in 1992, prohibited any government or government agency in this state
from enacting any provisions to ban discrimination against lesbian and gay
people. (There’s an excellent exhibition on that history outside this door in
The Center’s lobby.) And it was a time of still rampant AIDS phobia.
          A small group of Doug’s friends vowed to carry out his dream
for The Grove. They weren’t the usual gaggle of community activists and
politicos. They included socialites, arts community supporters, an attorney,
and an Episcopal priest. Most were not gay. They organized a non-profit group
called The Grove Project, got 501c3 IRS status so they could collect funds, and
began the long process of taking on the bureaucracy of the city’s Parks
Department.
          The Parks Department never openly rejected the idea but
negotiations dragged on for years. At first, the area in front of the
performing arts complex on Speer Blvd was proposed. The city objected that
theatre and concert goers wouldn’t want to be reminded of the awfulness of AIDS
on their nights out on the town. Another location in a park in southeast Denver
was suggested but that would have left the memorial far from the Capitol Hill
neighborhood that was most affected by AIDS.
          At some point, the riverfront came into the discussion. At
that time, the area was just beginning to be developed. There was a quiet,
somewhat out of the way spot in a new park—Commons Park—that the city was
planning. That fit the criteria of being visible, centrally located and quiet
enough to promote the atmosphere desired.
          The Grove was envisioned to be a natural area for
contemplation. It was landscaped very simply with trees, natural grasses and
shrubs, and some rocks. A simple inscription reads: “Dedicated to the
remembrance of those who have lost their lives to AIDS and to their loving
caregivers who helped them live out those lives with dignity.”
          The Grove was dedicated in a simple ceremony in August
2000. Doug McNeil’s loyal and persistent friends accomplished his dream after
seven years of work.
          Now, The Grove sits largely ignored and sort of neglected
in a recessed corner of Commons Park, near 15th Street and Little
Raven Street. It is surrounded by high priced condos and apartments but it is
still a quiet and attractive area.
          Recently, a movement got underway to renew the spot, clean
it up, refresh the landscaping and, most importantly, make the community aware
that this historical and spiritual resource exists. In recalling all the
individuals who battled, and continue to battle AIDS, we remember how our community
grew from that experience. We remember those we’ve lost. We remember when being
gay changed from just giving the most fabulous parties to a truly mature
community of caregivers and advocates. We remember our past and that we have a
history. A history that is the root of our present and future.
          I encourage everyone to seek out The Grove and spend a few
quiet moments there remembering. And maybe you can help in its renewal. You too
can show your true colors.
© 2016 

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.