Author: jnelson

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Writing is Like a Gondola Ride, by Carlos

Writing is an Exploration.
You start from nothing
and learn as you go….E. L.
Doctorow
Last
week when my husband Ron and I first boarded the Venetian-inspired gondola
intent on riding the canals of Fort Lauderdale, I felt a bit self-conscious.
After all, we are not overt crusaders of gay rights, instead changing the world
one grain of sand at a time. Yet, here we were about to draft a testament
declaring our emancipation. As sole passengers of our flat-bottomed boat decked
out in sensuous cushions, billowing curtains, and floral bouquets, we were making
an emotive and political statement about our right to love as our gondolier
guided us through the circuitous waterways. Tito, our gondolier, greeted us
warmly, taking pictures of the happy couple as we smiled in romantic bliss, I
probably smiling more like a shy bridegroom than a well-seasoned lover. At the
table next to a divan in which we reclined, we laid out a feast, cold English
ginger ale, honeyed matzo crackers, a disc of Boursin cheese flecked with
cracked black pepper, and strawberries with sensuous nipples begging to be tongued,
nibbled and devoured. Having requested classical romantic music, Chopin,
Debussy, Rachmaninoff, I soon discovered that the music wafted out into the
canals and walkways, enrapturing the world around us with love’s hymns. We made
an adorable couple, as we lounged and fed each other blissfully, basking in the
gentle heartbeats of lyrical watery refrains. 
The
gentle waves beneath us gurgled in a rhythmical flow as they massed and fell like
the breathing of my beloved sleeping under a field of stars keeping watch. The
gondola sliced through the water slow and steady, its bow knifing through the
glassy reflection and creating undulating waves measuring a beat out to shore.
The sound of the waters kissing the shoreline commingled with the soft strains
of piano and violins billowing around us. We nuzzled against each other, toasting
our relationship like a candle flame damning the night as we drifted off into
inner worlds so infrequently traversed. Visually, we could not get enough of Camelot;
with every turn, we were met by tiered pagodas crowned with brass finials, red-tiled
Mediterranean villas, and by expansive lush grounds populated by strutting
peafowl, colorful Muscovy ducks, and oblivious loons sauntering amidst Eden. Although
I subconsciously rebelled at the ostentatious wealth surrounding me, where
money built empires on the backs of the working class, at this particular moment
in time, I decided to suspend my political sensibilities, recognizing that my
own feet are often unwashed.
Around
us, the scarlet pendants of flamboyant blossoms dangled from leafy canopies
like ruby earrings worn by a royal Persian bride, contrasting with the rosy
fingers of the tenderly setting sun in the horizon. When the sea breezes tickled
them, coconut palms sashayed in unison, like a well-syncopated troupe performing
a choreographed repertoire. We drifted through the sun-dappled canals,
surrounded by a Crayola calliope of rainbow colors, citron, Bahama water blues,
egg yolk yellows, and the ever present shades of island paradise greens.
In
the downtown section of the canals, boatloads of tourists shared the waterway
with us. On the river walk, they sauntered along the meandering sidewalks graced
by restaurants, art galleries, and parkways. Ron and I noticed numerous interesting,
but for the most part gratifying, reactions to our presence in the slow-moving
gondola as we cuddled and kissed openly. Certainly, we were not attempting to
be the standard of a gay couple in love. We simply sought our rightful place as
two men standing before the altar of history.  Some people, especially older men with paunchy
bellies and Republican scowls on their face, simply ignored us as though choosing
to deny our presence by cloaking themselves in the vestments of moral
indignation. Some just gawked at us with an incredulous
did-we-really-see-what-we-thought-we-saw open-mouthed gape. However, most, and
especially the millennial generation, smiled and waved at us, clearly conveying
that despite the Scalias and Alitos slithering under their rocks, despite
homophobic political and religious ideologues, America is changing. Violators
of human rights may continue to reject our rights to love, refusing to condone
our way of life to justify their holier-than-thou prejudices, but America is
evolving as it comes to recognize that I love him and he loves me, and that’s
all that matters. Fortune has sided with those who dare!
Writing
is the equivalent of a gay couple gliding on a gondola scrutinized by the
world. Writing requires courage and conviction. It requires standing up against
the fear that we will divulge too much of our souls, placing ourselves in a
position of being misunderstood, judged, rejected. When we write, we open
ourselves up to the eyes of others, never knowing whether our creation, our
lives, our authentic voices will be validated or whether reviewers’ accusations
will have us shrivel up, becoming small and voiceless. Thus, to be a writer requires
taking risks, recognizing that fear has the potential to open up new venues,
new worlds, new ideals for the writer as well as for those fortunate enough to
be a part of the sacred journey. A writer needs to unleash her/his fears,
embrace his identity, and glide, not necessarily fearlessly, but with
conviction that only when he is true to himself, will others smile back and be
transformed. The writer himself shall be transformed. He will give himself
permission to sit on a beach and witness the rising of the sun; he will recline
upon the earth and in a blade of grass commune with the cosmos as it unfolds
majestically before him; he will dance with the stars above him, and know that
he originated from some deep longing out there, as well as within him. Writers
do not work in a vacuum. We are aware of the coconut palms’ calypso waltzes, of
the droplets of water that nourish the countless ancestors of our pasts as well
as the progeny of our futures. As Toni Morrison wrote, “all water has a perfect
memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was.”  As a writer, I capture, awkward and unevolved
as it may be, a moment of time, a beam of sunlight glistening on the surface, a
coiled blossom whose epicenter holds intangible truths. I am a wayfarer
blissfully celebrating as I glide  down
the currents that are but a Mobius strip of eternity. Writers are listeners and
observers and thus responsible for capturing moments that will dissipate as
quickly as a lifetime, but in surrendering to those moments, our explorations
come to an end, and we arrive where we started, recognizing the point where it
all began. Like all artists and philosophers, we embrace what and where we are,
we face our fears, swim the currents, and remind our fellow wayfarers that we
are all enlightened mediators on the canals in which we are carried. Therefore,
if my good reader will excuse me, I will return to the embrace of my beloved
word, knowing that the journey begins with a cadenced breath.
© 27 July 2015 – Denver
About
the Author 
Cervantes wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.”  In spite of my constant quest to live up to this proposition, I often falter.  I am a man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic.  Something I know to be true. I am a survivor, a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite charming.  Nevertheless, I often ask Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth.  My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the Tuscan Sun.  I am a pragmatic romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time.  My beloved husband and our three rambunctious cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under coconut palms on tropical sands.  I believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty.  I am always on the look-out for friends, people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread together and finding humor in the world around us.
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Pushing the Buttons, by Betsy

One thing that pushes my buttons is deception
and dishonesty.
This is about pushing MY buttons when I am
pushing the buttons of my computer.
There is some excellent honest reporting and
investigative work done in the media. But all too often the words deception and
dishonesty bring to mind t certain media sources and motives behind publishing
certain bits of information.
The internet is such a great source of instant
information.  Put in a search word and in
a nano-second you have more information than you ever needed.  Often more information than you know what to
do with. Sifting through it can be daunting. 
Can you trust that the information is true?  To separate the reliable from the suspicious,
I apply this criterion: what or who is the source and are they trying to sell
me something or promote a product or service. 
If the answer is “yes” I toss it out as untrustworthy.   The motive for putting the information out
there is to get me to buy something, not to disseminate information that could
be helpful or to help get to the truth, or to advance someone’s knowledge.
 To
report and promote the truth simply for the sake of truth itself is a noble
cause.  Most people, organizations, and
corporations have ulterior motives for promoting their “truth.”   If this is the case when I am searching the
internet I cannot trust the information I am reading.
We are all familiar with some of the books
promoting certain diets–often promoted as cure-alls for what ever ails
you.  For example the vegan diet will
keep your heart healthy well into old-age. 
It can actually reverse heart disease and diabetes claim its
authors.  The Paleo diet of meat and
vegetables, no grains, no starch will keep you from ever getting any disease at
all.  I truly believe the authors of these
books are sincere and I know they are scientific in their research and
presentations of the facts they have determined to be true.  But I also know they cannot all be touting
the truth. The research they have done and they will continue to do is going to
be exclusively designed to support their truth, not destroy it.
 I cannot say enough on the subject of the media
and its lack of trustworthiness.  Many
mainstream TV programs claim to be reporting the news.  But some are actually making political comments
at the expense of the truth.  The truth
all too often never gets out until it is too late.  Even if the true story is reported, we still
must be very suspicious as to whether it is accurate.
Consider the now known fact that the Iraq war
was based on a lie.  The people and the
news media were told that Saddam Hussein had WMD’s.  We had proof. 
Our government reported this information unequivocally knowing that it
was not true and the media passed it on. 
Yes, the media did report the lie accurately.  And then later reported accurately that it
all was a lie, but some Watergate-type investigative reporting might have been
very useful at that time.   
So how do we know what to believe or not
believe.  People often select one belief
over another because they WANT to believe it. 
This turns out to be simply a case of self-deception.  Try changing the mind of a person who has
deceived himself into believing what he wants to believe.  I personally know very few people who behave
this way.  I suppose that’s because I
prefer to hang with people who value the truth and the ability to think, and
choose to use that ability when searching for the truth.
So when it comes to pushing the buttons on my
lap-top or getting my buttons pushed I try to evaluate as I am reading or
listening, I avoid Fox so-called news, and pick and choose the reporters I read
or listen to.
© 23 June 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).  She has been retired from the
Human Services field for about 15 years. 
Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping,
traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports
Center for the Disabled, and learning. 
Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close
relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four
grandchildren.  Betsy says her greatest
and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of
25 years, Gillian Edwards.
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Scars, by Will Stanton

Like each of us, I have
suffered, throughout my years, scars, some physical and some emotional.  I have accumulated scars resulting from
incidents of injury, cancer, unwarranted personal attacks, emotional abuse, dishonesty,
greed, and lack of common human decency. 
Frankly, I’d rather not dwell upon them. 
Dredging up those memories is very uncomfortable for me.
There is something else
about me that people should come to understand.   There is something about me that has made
me, throughout my life, particularly sensitive to the misfortune of
others.  I understand their hurt; I
empathize with their plight; I can imagine walking in their shoes.  I am prone to feeling regret and sorrow; and
I tend not to forget.  I wish more people
were like that.  In addition, the
traumatic incident need not be a recent one. 
I know something about history; and, unfortunately, history is replete
with sorrow.  Yes, those incidents
happened a long time ago; and, no, they did not happen to me.  However, I still wish that those so many sad
incidents never had happened, especially when they have happened to the young,
those who had too short a time to experience the world, to grow, to live.
     
Let me relate one such
incident that, when I heard it told to me and my family, surprised and saddened
me.  It is a remarkable experience of
mine when I was ten years old.  For those
of you who were in this group two years ago, you may recall that I briefly
mentioned this episode in my story about my time in Europe.  This time, I would like to go into greater
detail to clarify the impact this incident had upon me.  The two persons suffering deep scars were two
former soldiers, one Canadian, one German. 
The very end of this story is the main point, a coincidence that is most
amazing.  I never have forgotten that
moment.
In 1954 through ’55, my dad
was an exchange-teacher doing research in Germany.  Our family went with him, living and
traveling throughout Europe during that time. 
I recall one sunny afternoon when we sat at an outdoor café while my dad
talked with several young men who now were exchange-students.  One man in particular (I’ll call him “Tom,”
for I do not remember his name) stated that he originally was from Canada and
had fought, along with the Canadian and British troops, on the beaches of
Normandy and onward, trying to capture Caen. 
He began to relate at length his experiences, unforeseen experiences
that had left a deep, emotional scar; for he just could not forget what
happened.  He had been prepared to fight
German soldiers, but he was not psychologically prepared to fight children.
I never forgot Tom’s
poignant tale.  I became perplexed about
Germany’s immoral use and waste of young people, throwing them into battle
during Germany’s inevitable collapse and defeat.  Recently, I wished to understand more about
Tom’s having to battle boy-soldiers.
Under Nazi rule, joining the
Hitlerjugend became compulsory.  From an
early age, obedience and fanaticism were drilled into them.  The children’s mothers were inundated with
propaganda to assure that this indoctrination continued at home.  Boys as young as nine received paramilitary
training.  This was the only world-view
these youngsters had.  Consequently, most
did not perceive the insanity of sending children to war.
Not all parents or children
wished to have anything to do with the Hitler Youth.  Punishment for noncooperation was swift and
harsh.  The Gestapo could arrest parents
and send them to concentration camps. 
There even were reports of some SS officers using compulsion to force
boys to sign up as so-called volunteers. 
Boys would be held in locked rooms without contact with their parents,
and denied food, water and toilet facilities until they signed.  Others, some members of the regular army complained,
had been physically beaten into submission.
Some parents and boys, of
course, were “true-believers,” and boys eagerly joined.  Those whom the authorities judged to possess
special qualities were invited to enter into the élite NAPOLA schools (Nationalpolitische
Lehranstalt, National Political
Institution of Teaching). 
Those boys likely felt proud of their handsome uniforms and their own
Solingen-steel daggers.  Along with a
steady dose of political propaganda, they received regular military training,
all under the guise of “playing games.” 
They had no idea of what lay before them.
Since Germany’s defeat at
Stalingrad in 1943, Germany faced defeat after defeat with tens of thousands of
soldiers killed or captured.  In
desperation, the authorities began to rely upon underage boys to fill the
gap.  One such division, sent to the
front just before the Normandy invasion, was the 12th SS Hitlerjugend Division,
made up boys mostly fifteen to eightteen, although many were younger.  For example, when captured, Willy Eischenberg
was just fourteen and Hubert Heinrichs only ten years old. 
Willy Etschenberg 14, Hubert Heinrichs 10 Oct 1944
In place of the traditional
tobacco ration, these boy-soldiers received candy, and in place of the beer
ration, they received milk, if and when it was available. Otherwise, they
trained hard to fight like adult SS men. 
I consider war and violence in all forms to be evil, let alone warping
young minds toward fighting wars. 
The Allies, with their
overwhelmingly superior air power, attacked repeatedly to take the area around
Caen and eventually the city itself. 
26,000 tons of bombs were dropped on the old city, crushing it to
rubble.  The remnants of two German
armies were trapped around Falaise and attempted to break out, but they needed
a rear guard.  Sixty of the 12th
Hitlerjugend Division were given that suicidal task and took positions in the
École Superieure.  Firepower from
attacking soldiers and artillery constantly bombarded the young defenders.  The boys, however, refused to retreat.  Of the sixty, only two, chosen as messengers,
survived.
Once the Allied soldiers
discovered that they were fighting just kids, they were surprised and
shocked.  Yet, the ferocity of the boys
astounded the allied forces.  One British
tank commander recalled how Hitler Youth soldiers had sprung at Allied tanks
“- – – like young wolves, until we were forced to kill them against our
will.”  Their fearlessness and
determination reportedly was explained by their training in the NAPOLA schools,
along with their bitterness regarding the massive Allied bombing of civilians
in their homes and cities.
From June 7th through July 9th,
the combined 12th Hitlerjugend Division lost more than 4,000 dead
and 8,000 wounded or missing.  Even the
replacement division commander, Kurt Meyer, wrote down his feelings of dismay
and sorrow.  “That, which l now
experienced, was not war any more, but naked murder.  I knew every one of these boys. – – These
boys had not yet learned how to live; but, God knows, they knew how to
die!  The crushing chains of the tanks
ended their young lives.  Tears rolled
over my face.”  A few days later,
Field Marshal von Rundstedt lamented, “It is a shame that these faithful youth
were being sacrificed in a hopeless cause.” Erwin Rommel made similar remarks
shortly before he was forced to commit suicide.
Later, an Allied soldier
found an undelivered letter on the body of a youth, killed in the battle.  The boy had expressed the feelings of many of
the division’s boys: “I write during one of the momentous hours before we attack,
full of excitement and expectation of what the next days will bring. – – – Some
believe in living, but life is not everything! 
It is enough to know that we attack and will throw the enemy from our
homeland.  It is a holy task.  Above me is the terrific noise of rockets and
artillery, the voice of war.”

That
is what I learned about the young soldiers whom Tom faced around Caen and
Falaise.  When he discovered whom he was
fighting, when he saw the slaughter, he was shocked.  Yet, the memory which most disturbed Tom, the
memory that left such a long-term emotional scar, was the scene of backing some
of the tattered remains of the Hitlerjugend into the river.  He and his fellow soldiers stood on the bank,
picking off every fighter they could see.
The whole point of this
story, the one that I could not forget, is what happened next as Tom finished
his sad tale. He ended by saying, “We didn’t stop firing until we saw no more
figures in the water.  I don’t think any
of them survived.”  At that point, a young
man, sitting alone at a nearby table, quietly turned to our group and stated
simply, “I did.”
 All of us at our table sat in stunned
silence.  After we recovered from our
initial shock, my father spoke to the person and discovered that, as a young teen,
he had been a member of the 12th Hitlerjugend Division and had
barely reached the other side of the river as all his friends perished in a
hail of bullets.  Tom’s scar, or that
other young man’s scar, were not my scar; yet I was deeply moved by what I had
just heard.  Not a scar, but the sad
memory of that day, shall remain with me forever.                                                       © 27 May 2015
Scars:
Postscript, Battle of the Bulge
(as told by Joseph
Robertson at age 86)

Those
remaining boys who survived the fighting around Caen regrouped to fight in the
Battle of the Bulge.  American
infantryman Joseph Robertson fought against them.  One incident in particular left him with a
deep, life-long scar.  He was interviewed
at age 86, when he told his story in his own words.

“I was hid behind the big
tree that was knocked down or fallen, and I could see these Germans in the
woods across this big field.  And, I saw
this young kid crawling up a ditch straight towards my tree.  So I let him crawl.  I didn’t fire at him.  But, when he got up within three or four foot
of me, I screamed at him to surrender. 
And instead of surrendering, he started to pull his gun towards me,
which was instant death for him.  But,
this young man, he was blond, blue eyes, fair skin, so handsome.  He was like a little angel.  But, I still had to shoot him.  And, it didn’t bother me the first night
because I went to sleep, and I was so tired. 
But, the second night, I woke up crying because that kid was there.  And to this day, I wake up many nights crying
over this kid.  I still see him in my
dreams and I don’t know how to get him off my mind.”
Those dreams, that scar,
haunted Joseph Robertson for sixty-five years until his death at age ninety in
2009.

© 27 May 2015 

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.
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Living on the Faultline, by Nicholas

          Late that
pleasant afternoon, after I’d finished classes, I walked across campus to do
some work in the library. On the third floor I found the book I needed and was
about to sit down at a table when things began to rumble. It was Oct. 17, 1989
and San Francisco was about to get a shaking like it hadn’t felt in decades.
Floors and walls trembled in the familiar motion of a California earthquake.
Fixtures rattled a little and swayed. Then the real shaking began. Ceiling
lights knocked around and flickered and then went out. Books were flung off
their shelves. Filing cabinets toppled over. People dove under tables and I
quickly placed my brief case over my head to protect against falling debris. I
had been through many earthquakes in San Francisco—felt the building sway,
heard the rattling, been waken up in a rippling bed, felt the floor jumping
around beneath my feet—but this time, for the first time, I was afraid. “God, I
could die here,” I thought.
          Then, it
stopped. Fifteen seconds that felt like 15 years. The lights were out but being
5 o’clock in the afternoon, there was enough light for us to thread our dazed
way down three flights of stairs and out of the building. There was no panic as
hundreds of students climbed over piles of books and papers and dust to leave.
Outside, people milled about the campus. I was in probably the worst building
in the worst spot for an earthquake. The San Francisco State University campus
sits almost exactly atop the San Andreas fault and the soil is mostly sand
which tends to magnify the waves of an earthquake. The building I was in was
built of concrete slabs, the kind that respond to shock waves by simply
collapsing. It’s called “pancaking” in which the floors just slide down onto
each other, crushing anything in between. I was glad to be outside.
          Since all
power in the city was out, no traffic lights worked, cars just stopped on the
street, dazed drivers wondering what to do next. No streetcars could run
either. The city just stopped.
          The first
reaction to a major earthquake is confusion. Buildings and the ground they’re
built on aren’t supposed to move like that. Disorientation is the first shock.
          The campus is
in the southwest corner of the city and with traffic totally snarled and no
public transit operating, I figured I might as well start walking home which
was close to the city center, probably 4-5 miles away. I started walking, heading
toward clouds of billowing black smoke. I hoped it wasn’t our house burning
down.
          The streets
were crowded with walkers and some people had transistor radios to get some
news. Remember, this was way before Internet, Facebook, cell phones. No such
thing as instant communication.
          One lady stood
in front of her house and announced to passersby that “That quake ran right in
front of my house.” Had the tremor run right in front in your house, I thought,
you wouldn’t be standing here now. The actual shift in tectonic plates was
probably miles deep in the earth.
          Somebody said
the Bay Bridge collapsed—a part of it, in fact, had. A freeway in Oakland had
collapsed, killing 60 people. The Marina District, built on landfill by the
bay, took the worst damage and was burning. All highways, bridges and trains
were unusable. If you couldn’t walk to where you needed to be, people were told
to just stay where they were. I kept walking, stepping around the occasional
pile of bricks and stucco that had fallen off buildings.
          Finally, I got
home. Everything was OK. We lived on a hill overlooking Golden Gate Park, the
most solid geology you could find in San Francisco (the hill, not the park
which is sand). Walls cracked and books had wobbled to the edges of shelves,
but nothing toppled or collapsed.
          Jamie got home
soon after I did. He’d been in a highrise office building downtown and had to
walk down ten flights of stairs but managed to drive home taking a circuitous
route through neighborhoods to avoid traffic jams. Some of the office towers
had actually banged against one another at the height of the shaking—or so we
heard.
          Shortly after
we arrived home, two friends showed up. They both worked in SF but lived in
Oakland and couldn’t get home so they hiked to our place and stayed with us.
There was no power in the house, so we built a fire outside in a little hibachi
grill and heated up some leftovers. The city was dark except for the glow to
the northeast where the Marina District kept burning. We felt oddly safe on our
bedrock hillside.
          We did
actually perform one rescue that dangerous night. The woman who lived in the
flat below ours was stranded in East Bay which meant her cat Darwin needed
feeding. He sat mewling at our back door until we invited him in and gave him
some food. Next day Darwin repaid the favor by leaving us a dead bird on our
doorstep.
          In the days
that followed, the city slowly got back to a new normal. Mail delivery was
cancelled for three days and many shops remained closed. The World Series
between SF and Oakland resumed. Buildings and freeways were inspected and some
condemned. BART resumed running trains the next day but the Bay Bridge was to
stay closed for at least a month until the collapsed section could be repaired.
Ferry boats started running across the bay—actually a nicer way to commute. We walked
through the Marina District over the rippled pavement and past the leaning or
burnt out flats. Everywhere you went you calculated how safe it was or wasn’t
until you realized there was no place safe but you went on anyway. Living on
the faultline. 
©
19 April 2015 
About the Author 

Nicholas grew up in
Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He
retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks,
does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.
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Reputation, by Gillian

Reputation is an idle
and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving. –
William Shakespeare
As most often,
I completely agree with you, Will.  A
reputation is a dangerous thing; good or bad, yours or someone else’s.  I guess the essence of their threat lies in
the fact that we all tend to become sucked in by them, rather than by the
reality of a person’s character. And, again, this is as true of our own as of
others’. Being fooled by another person’s reputation, or image, is dangerous.
Being led astray from your real self by your own, can be disastrous.
Reputations,
and the images they create of us, can stay pretty stable throughout a lifetime,
but for many of us they are fluid, changing as we grow. Who doesn’t know that
wild child with the dreadful reputation in high school, who grew up to be a
boringly conventional pillar of the community? Nevertheless that past
reputation can hang around. Who has completely forgotten Chappaquiddick? It
followed Ted Kennedy to his grave and beyond into the history books. The same
for Monica Lewinsky, who will forever haunt Clinton’s reputation.
I’m not sure
whether reputations have become more insidious in our modern word, or less.
In the days
when most of us lived in small communities where everyone knew everyone else,
it was hard for anyone to escape their established reputation and build a new
one. You aren’t going to employ Bob to put in your new windows. He got caught
shop-lifting at the dime store when he was ten. Probably rips off all his glass
from some place. And as for letting Mary baby-sit. Remember how she knocked her
baby sister off the chair that time? Well, yes, probably was an accident but
still ……   
These days, we
tend not to know that the woman selling us insurance used to beat her children,
or that the man fixing our car is a longtime alcoholic. On the other hand,
anything you do or say can swoop around the world in a nanosecond, and if
whatever it is goes viral, God help you!
I believe a
lot of what Facebook is about is changing reputations, your own and others’,
which is surely much easier to do these days than back in the small town where
you were the town drunk for life no matter that you had been on the wagon for
half of your life.
Winston
Churchill was a perfect example of changing reputations. Come to that, he still
is.  His youthful military escapades were
a mixed bag, but, never lacking in ego, by the age of 26 he had published five
books about them. His reputation was mixed, but he was made Lord of the Admiralty
at the ridiculously young age of 37. Sadly for him, and alas much sadder for
the 250,000 casualties, his poorly-conceived Siege of the Dardanelles during
WW1 was a total disaster and he was forced to resign, with his reputation in
tatters. He immediately redeemed much of it by consigning himself to trench
warfare, where he reportedly fought with vigor and valor.
Between the
wars, his constant warnings of impending and inevitable war with Germany again
diminished his reputation. No-one wanted to hear it. The Boer War was not so
long over, and the British were not up for another. But when Germany broke its
promises and invaded Poland, Churchill was proven right and his reputation
soared. Almost instantaneously he was made Prime Minister and, with his reputation
as that British Bulldog thundering around him, proclaimed by most as Britain’s
savior. His very reputation, along with endless stirring speeches, did much to
keep spirits high under desperate conditions, and to keep most Britons
determined to go on fighting.
But that
reputation, as a supreme fighter who would never give up, lost all appeal the
moment the war ended. Churchill’s hawkish reputation coupled with his endless
warnings over the new threat from the Soviets, were too scary for peace-time. Two
months later Winston Churchill was defeated soundly at the polls.
His ego,
however, remained undaunted. He had no fear for his reputation.  “History,” he pronounced,
“Will be kind to me for I intend to write it.”  Which he did. Over his lifetime he wrote 43
books in 72 volumes.
But still he
was unable completely to preserve a positive reputation.  Although for many years it was considered
akin to blasphemy to criticize such a great hero, that is no longer the case.
There is much discussion these days as to whether Churchill was, to quote Dr.
Andrew Roberts, “Brilliant Statesman or Brutal Demagogue.” Just from
his own quotations, he was clearly misogynistic and racist, but in his day that
was not condemned as it is today. So reputations change not only as a person
changes, and events change, but as attitudes change.
And so we
re-write history.
It’s hard to
be sure what one’s own reputation is. Probably, in many cases, not exactly what
we think it is or would like it to be. I do know that when I was married the
first time, to a man, we were considered a really strong, stable couple. I know
that because our friends were so utterly shocked when we split up. And, in so
many ways, that reputation was valid. Except for one teensy weensy detail which
no-one knew.  In one way our reputation
as a married couple was true. In another, it was as far off as it could be. But
I was the only one who knew that; and I played my part so well.
When I came
out, I became a bit confused. I wasn’t at all sure what the archetypal lesbian
would be; but whatever it was, that’s what I would become. I observed carefully
in this new world, and acted accordingly to create a new reputation, a new
version of myself. Thankfully, this stage did not last long.  
You’re doing
it again! I said to myself. Your entire life you
have created a false reputation for yourself, and now you’re finally free,
you’re doing it again! STOP!
So I did.
And for over
30 years now, I have simply been me. I don’t know what kind of reputation I
have.  I don’t care. A reputation is
simply others’ visions, versions, of me. It may or may not be anywhere near the
truth. It simply doesn’t matter.
Free at last!
© October 2014 
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 now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25
years.
Posted on

Gifts from Afar, a Harmony Story, by Carol White

In 1992, 23
years ago now, the State of Colorado voted to pass something called Amendment 2
to the Constitution of our State, which said that gay and lesbian people could
have no rights whatsoever, and whatever rights they already had in cities such
as Denver and Aspen and Boulder would be canceled or repealed.
The Amendment
2 campaign and battle was vitriolic and pretty nasty.  We worked hard and
thought we were going to defeat it, but when it passed, we were all stunned and
devastated.  It is very difficult to explain the hurt that hung like a
black cloud over our whole community in the wake of that election.
Amendment 2
passed on a Tuesday in November.  That Friday Harmony, a GLBT chorus that
I was conducting at the time, went to the YMCA of the Rockies in Estes Park for
our usual retreat before an upcoming concert, where we normally rehearse and
polish our music for the performance.  But on this occasion we were also
crying and telling election stories and trying to support each other after
having been knocked off our feet, so to speak, by the people of Colorado.
That same
weekend there happened to be another retreat going on at the same YMCA for
Methodist youth leaders from our jurisdiction, which covered four states.
 One of the ministers who was leading that retreat happened to be the
brother of one of the women in Harmony.  The brother and sister got
together, and the brother minister through his sister invited Harmony to sing
for the convocation of Methodist youth at their Sunday morning meeting.
She brought
the idea back to the choir, and we accepted.
As Sunday
morning came, we lined up outside the Chapel, which is still there but has
later been remodeled.  At that time there were no pews.  And since
there were over 100 Methodist youth, they sat on the floor in the middle of the
chapel, and since there were over 100 Harmony members, there was no place for
us to get except to surround them standing up.
So I went to a
little stage at one end of the Chapel, and said that I had been a Methodist
youth just like them, had received a Master’s in Sacred Music from SMU in
Dallas, and had served a large church as minister of music for four years
before being fired because I was gay.  Then I said that Harmony was a GLBT
chorus, and we would just like to sing a couple of songs for them.
I said,
“This first song is dedicated to all of you who might be gay, or all of
you who are struggling with self esteem for any reason.”  I knew that
most high school kids struggle with self esteem for a variety of reasons.  The song was:
“How
could anyone ever tell you you are anything less than beautiful,
How could
anyone ever tell you you are less than whole,
How could
anyone fail to notice that your loving is a miracle,
How deeply
you’re connected to my soul.”
Then we sang a
Holly Near song and taught it to them and they sang along.  It was:
“We are a
gentle loving people, and we are singing, singing for our lives.
We are a gentle
loving people, and we are singing, singing for our lives.”
Other verses
said, “We are gay and straight together,” “We are a land of many colors,” as
well as a few others. 
We were about
to leave, and some of them said, “No, sing another song.”
There was an
old organ at the other end of the chapel, and our accompanist cranked it up and
started playing the introduction to our theme song, and the choir started
singing,
“In this
very room there’s quite enough love for one like me,
And in this
very room there’s quite enough joy for one like me.
And there’s
quite enough hope and quite enough power
To chase away
any gloom,
For Spirit,
our Spirit, is in this very room.”
At the end of
the first verse, one of the girls sitting on the floor got up and stood with
Harmony in the circle.  They continued singing,
“In this
very room there’s quite enough love for all of us,
And in this
very room there’s quite enough joy for all of us.
And there’s
quite enough hope and quite enough power
To chase away
any gloom,
For Spirit,
our Spirit, is in this very room.”
During the
second verse, several youth, in groups of two’s and three’s, stood up and
joined Harmony in the circle.  They kept singing through their tears,
“In this
very room there’s quite enough love for all the world,
And in this
very room there’s quite enough joy for all the world,
And there’s
quite enough hope and quite enough power
To chase away
any gloom,
For Spirit,
our Spirit, is in this very room.”
By the end of
the song, there was no-one left sitting on the floor.  They were all
standing arm-around-shoulder around arm-around-shoulder.
There was
nothing left to say.  We had gone there to sing for them, and they had
turned it around and helped us when we needed it most.  Harmony filed out
of the Chapel knowing that we had been blessed. 
They had given us a Gift from Afar.
A few years
later Amendment 2 was repealed by the Supreme Court of the United States.
© 29 May 2015 
About the Author 
I was born in Louisiana in
1939, went to Southern Methodist University in Dallas from 1957 through 1963,
with majors in sacred music and choral conducting, was a minister of music for
a large Methodist church in Houston for four years, and was fired for being gay
in 1967.  After five years of searching,
I settled in Denver and spent 30 years here as a freelance court reporter.  From 1980 forward I have been involved with
PFLAG Denver, and started and conducted four GLBT choruses:  the PFLAG Festival Chorus, the Denver Women’s
Chorus, the Celebration ’90 Festival Chorus for the Gay Games in Vancouver, and
Harmony.  I am enjoying my 11-year
retirement with my life partner of 32 years, Judith Nelson, riding our bikes, going
to concerts, and writing stories for the great SAGE group.
Posted on

Passion, by Betsy

Passion: an intense desire or enthusiasm for something.
Passion is energy, – feel the power that comes from focusing on
what excites you. – Oprah Winfrey
I have a passion for a few things:  First, for certain people; namely, my loved
ones—my partner, my children and grandchildren.
Second, I have a passion for music–not all music.  Mostly for the classical of the baroque, classical,
and romantic styles and a little contemporary. 
I am very limited in my ability to perform music.  I do like being a part of a choral group and
have been doing this for much of my life. 
But listening is stirring and inspiring. 
I use my iPod when exercising. 
Nothing like a Schubert or Brahms quartet to keep me moving and working
hard on the stationary bicycle, elliptical or rowing machine. Some music does
excite me and gives me energy. Often fellow exercisers ask me what I’m
listening to.  When I tell them, they
give me a very strange look as if to say, “Don’t you know about rock!  You poor thing.”
My greatest passion is for sports. That is doing, not
watching. I am a mediocre spectator fan—well, that’s probably an
exaggeration.   I don’t pay a lot of
attention to which teams are winning or losing. 
Occasionally I’ll watch a tennis match on TV or even a Broncos
game.  But given the opportunity I would
a thousand times prefer to play, compete, or do most any activity
involving  physical action, motion,
skill, and/or a desire for adventure.
I must mention one other passion I have.  Now in my later years, I have become aware
that I have a great respect – I think it qualifies as a passionate respect for
the truth.  Perhaps that is because I
spent a good portion of my adult life living a lie.
I have noticed that what may appear to be a person’s passion
turns out to be short lived and it is no time before the individual appears to
be passionate about something else.  This
is particularly manifested in children and young adults.  They jump from one interest to another, I
suppose, exploring different areas of interest until one of those areas becomes
their deepest passion.
As I was giving this subject further consideration, I came to
the conclusion that passion and obsession are very closely related.  I had this thought when I realized that I had
made a glaring grammatical error in last week’s writing and I actually read it
using the wrong part of speech and didn’t even notice.  The realization hit me in the middle of the
night the next night as I lay in bed. I thought, “Surely I didn’t write it that
way.”  So I jumped out of bed at 3:00Am
and checked my paper.  Yes, I had written
it that way and read it that way.  Very
upset with myself, I had to wake Gill up and tell her.  “I can’t believe I did that,” I said.  At that moment I realized I have a passion
for the correct usage of the English language and its rules of grammar.
Understand.  I DO NOT have a passion for
writing, but the use of the language definitely intrigues me. This goes back to
my high school days when my English teacher, who taught me for all 3 years of
high school English, exposed us to very little literature.  Mostly we studied grammar and a little
writing.  Most in the class thought the
grammar was rather boring, but I loved it. 
I guess I have the kind of mind which loves to analyze and that’s what
we did.  We analyzed sentences most of
the time and learned rules of grammar and word usage. So…..When does passion
become obsession?  At 3:00AM.  Ask Gill. Passion becomes obsession when one
becomes dis-eased over what she thinks she has a passion for.  (Oh, oh, there I go, ending a sentence with a
preposition.) 
© 22 April 2015 
About the Author 
Betsy has been active in the GLBT community
including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for
Change).  She has been retired from the
Human Services field for about 15 years. 
Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping,
traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports
Center for the Disabled, and learning. 
Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close
relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four
grandchildren.  Betsy says her greatest
and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of
25 years, Gillian Edwards.
Posted on

Bumper Stickers, by Will Stanton

Bumper stickers.  We all have seen hundreds of them, many on
car bumpers, some stuck on car or truck windows.  A search on Google images brings up lots of
them, but I have to say that I’m not impressed with many of them.   The
vast majority of those stickers I would prefer never to have stuck onto my own
bumpers.  Many of them appear to have
been concocted by mindless idiots who think that they have been so clever.  The stickers neither convey any message worth
reading nor spark constructive thinking. 
Too many of them are simply profane, substituting profanity for
wit. 
And, far too many of them
express hate, something that I have grown very tired of.  I actually saw a battered old pickup truck
with a sticker on the cab’s rear window that read, “Save America.  Shoot all Muslims and Democrats.”  What added to the irony was that the
stereotypical looking cretin behind the wheel also had placed a “I love Jesus”
sticker next to the other one.  It
reminded me of a satirical bumper sticker that I once saw that asked, “What gun
would Jesus buy?”  Or, there was one I
saw that said, “Nuc a gay whale for Christ.”
I have become weary of
seeing religious messages on bumper stickers. 
Of course, those people who place them there have the right to do so;
however, I think that there are so many that they become tiresome.  Or worse, the statements shout intolerance,
proudly inferring that their religion is the only true religion, and all others
are false, sure to send the adherents to hell. 
The acerbic-tongued, British actress Maggie Smith sums it up quite
nicely: “My dear, religion is like a penis. 
It’s a perfectly fine thing for one to have and to take pride in; but
when one takes it out and waves it in my face, we have a problem.”
I can think of a lot of
messages that I could share with others, but I feel that most people would
think them too tame, too “goody-two-shoes.”  
Here are a few.  “Have you treated
everyone kindly today?”  “Have you been
honest in all of your business dealings today?” 
“Are all your political statements honest and constructive?”  “Do you strive each day to make society a
better place?”  I feel that such messages
should be seen by everyone; however, most likely, many people, viewing such
positive messages, might choose to become irritated or even angry.  The messages convey modes of behavior too
foreign to their own experience and desires.
Of course, most people
select bumper stickers that concern them personally, often omitting messages of
general interest.  I, too, can think of
various messages based upon my personal preferences, such as good music and its
remarkable influence upon emotional health and even physical well-being.  How about a bumper sticker that says “Build
fresh brain cells.– Listen to classical music.”  Or, “Go for Baroque.” 
Or, people might prefer
something a little more catchy.  At one
time a few years ago, I met a young waiter whose father was an
opera-tenor.  The father and his favorite
historical figure was the superlative singer Carlo Broschi, known on stage as
“Farinelli.”  The waiter asked me to find
a good portrait of Farinelli and to assist in preparing the digital data to
make a series of good-quality T-shirts, some for his dad and himself, and
others for friends.  An acquaintance of
mine who was supposed to print them never bothered to do so, but the slogan
still could work on a bumper sticker. 
Print a picture of Farinelli along with the statement, “It takes balls to
be a castrato.”  That bumper sticker
might raise an eyebrow or two.

© 19 November 2014 
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

Competition, by Ricky

        I
am not a “competitive” person.  When I
was a child, I enjoyed playing games where there was a winner and one or more
not the winners, but I didn’t care which category I was in ultimately.  I just played any game for fun.
        When
I was old enough to play Little League baseball, I was nearly competitive by
doing my best to help the team “win”. 
But when we would not win, I did feel a bit down, if I had made mistakes
that contributed to our failing to win. 
However, I did not castigate myself because I knew that in spite of
making (or not making) mistakes, I had done my best for the team and I knew not
winning did not reduce the amount of fun I experienced playing the game with
other boys.
        Just
playing a team game for fun still taught me sportsmanship, cooperation, working
together for a common goal, and helped to build my character.  I did not need parents or coaches who
believed in “winning is everything” to motivate me.  If they had, I am sure I would now have more
character flaws than positive attributes.
        In high school,
I never played on the school sports teams. 
They were all about winning and I only liked to play for fun.  The fact that I wasn’t all that good at any
of the sports also contributed to me not even trying out for a team.  I did play friendly team games during PE
class.  Besides the seasonal games of
softball, flag football, basketball we would also play other games for a week
or two.  One of my most memorable games
was badminton.
        The
PE teachers decided to set up two badminton courts/nets inside one half of our
gym.  They then organized the girls and
boys into teams of two players and held a tournament.  Eventually, the boys’ champions played the
girls’ champions.
        My
teammate, Ray Hoff, was one of my two friends in high school.  We first met in 6th grade and
continued as friends throughout our school years.  Winning was nice but we played for fun.  We would constantly talk to each other during
the game, giving encouragement, criticizing our play, and telling jokes all
while batting the shuttlecock over the net. 
Sometimes we were laughing so hard that the other team would score.  In the end, we were the boys’ champions and
got to play the girls’ championship team for our class period.  Ray and I continued our antics and had lots
of fun.  The girls would often laugh with
us.  Ultimately, the girls won with 4
sets to 3 but those 7-games took two class periods to play.  I don’t think anyone else ever watched our
games against the girls.  The other boys
were busy playing basketball and I don’t know what the other girls were
doing.  All I know is that Ray and I had
tons of fun playing a non-macho game.
        For
the years following high school, I still would rather play a game rather than
watch one.  To me, just sitting watching
a baseball, football, or basketball game is rather boring and many people take
those games way too seriously and kill all the fun.  Even when I play a board game like Risk or
Monopoly, I play for fun.  When it
becomes evident that another player is getting too emotional and is too
personally involved in the game, it kills the fun of playing and I’m ready to
stop.
        I
have given up watching team sports that are not sports anymore.  They have become big business and I find no
fun in business.
© 3 March 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 began living with my grandparents on
their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my
parents divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
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

Revelation, by Phillip Hoyle

Some
biblical and artistic revelations combined for me in a most important way, one
that helped me realize the ultimate revelation of God’s love. I begin with the
image of a boy drawing illustrations of several visionary creatures in the
Bible. These word monsters had origins in the apocalyptic literature of the
Hebrew prophets, especially Daniel and several others whose writings were
deemed apocryphal or became part of the extra-biblical collection known as the Pseudepigrapha.
Jesus as a prophet was credited with some such images related to the
destruction of Jerusalem, and due to a fourth century CE decision, the New
Testament ends with one such: the memorable book, The Revelation to John. We
didn’t hear much about these writings in our church until Stan Lecher preached
a meeting one spring. He specialized in prophetic speculation in order to raise
a crowd. The magical world of knowing the future held great appeal and Lecher
knew how to use it. Although in my childhood I was too scared to be interested
in monster movies, I did find these images in the Bible quite intriguing, not
so much for their meanings about the future but simply for their inclusion in
the sacred book. For me, the phenomenon seemed much the same as when I later discovered
the Goodspeed translation of the Bible that used such clear words as ‘rape’ or
the erotic images in the Song of Solomon, or the image of God’s love for Israel
compared with the hopeless commitment of the prophet Hosea to his prostituting
wife. I was fascinated by the unacceptable being found within the content of
the holy. I still am.
So when
sermons got boring I paged through the Revelation and entertained myself by
drawing these wild monsters: for instance, in Revelation 12 a great red dragon
with seven heads and ten horns and ten crowns on his heads and a tail that
swept down a third of the stars of heaven and threw them on the earth and whom
Michael and his angels fought; or in Revelation 13 a creature that rose from
the sea and looked like a leopard with feet like a bear’s and a mouth like a
lion’s and with horns and ten crowns; or in the same chapter another beast that
rose out of the earth and featured two horns like a lamb and the voice of a
dragon. I knew nothing of metaphor and symbol for I was a child as literal as
he could be. I didn’t know what else to do with these visions except to draw
them.
Mom was
interested in my drawings, at least enough to put them in her purse. I don’t
know what became of those scratchings, but I do remember not knowing how to distribute
horns and crowns among the various heads of the angry monsters. Such is the
life of even the most literal of illustrators. Too many decisions, too much
specificity, and the revelations became a problem of literality and meaning.
But my memory of the experience is one of artistic decision making not unlike
what I face now when I am making paintings of centuries-old visions of the Ute
artists of Shavano Valley in western Colorado or of Cherokee interpreters at
Judaculla Rock on the Tennessee River in western North Carolina. I was making such
artistic decisions as a youngster. All those years ago I was an artist and, of
course, a frustrated one just like my son Michael years later when in disgust
he threw away some of this drawings because he couldn’t get them perfect. I
told him then what I wish someone had told the young me, that the art arises from
incorporating your mistakes, trusting that they may be as important to your
work as what you deem ideal. And to imagine that I was thinking somewhat that
way even as a youngster trying to fathom the images and truths of the wildest
symbols in the Bible.
The art is
in the process. For me, the art of living religiously grew to mean being able
to incorporate the common with the holy not to accommodate the sins of my own
life within a vision of a perfect God but rather because the authoritative book
of my religious upbringing declares that the murdering King David was in fact a
man after God’s own heart. My deeply artistic and deeply gay heart knew life
must recognize the good in all, in me. What a revelation!
As I
mentioned before, I still feel that way.
© Denver, 2014
 
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.”