Author: jnelson

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A Meal to Remember – Giving Thanks by Nicholas

It was our first Thanksgiving together in our first flat together in San Francisco. We loved the place up the hill from Parnassus Avenue above Cole Valley. The street was Woodland, named so, we presumed, because it ended in a small forest of eucalyptus that ran up Mt. Sutro in the heart of the city. The rent was a bit steep even then but we fell in love with the redwood shingle house of which we occupied the first floor. We were right at the usual fog line so we could watch the fog roll in from the ocean at the front and see the sun at the back.

Our flat was elegant. Old wood trim, arched front window with beveled glass, neat little kitchen with lots of counter space that was a deep, lustrous purple. I loved those deep purple countertops. That was the first kitchen that I loved to cook in.
Being our first Thanksgiving in our own place, we decided to entertain at home with friends coming over instead of joining Jamie’s family in Menlo Park, an hour south. It was kind of a statement of independence from the family and a statement that holidays were ours. So, we invited a bunch of friends and began planning dinner for eight on Thanksgiving Day. We asked each person or couple to contribute something like an appetizer, a salad, a side dish, dessert, wine. We ordered the turkey and would roast it and make stuffing.
We got a 12 pound bird and studied up on what to do with it. What’s to cooking a turkey, we thought. You throw it in the oven early in the morning, check it now and then, and, voila, dinner was ready. Truth is, this wasn’t the very first turkey I had cooked. A previous boyfriend and I had cooked a turkey one holiday so I thought I knew what I was doing. I should have learned more from that turkey, I mean, the boyfriend. 
With the bird in the oven in plenty of time, we thought we were in fine shape to get other things done. Jamie decided to call his mom just to wish her a happy holiday and remind her of what a wonderful time we were having. Mom, being mom, couldn’t leave things alone and had to start asking questions about what was, to her, our cooking experiment. Had we washed the turkey, had we wrapped it in foil or a roasting bag, had we made stuffing, had we gotten the giblets and other parts out of both ends.
Wait a minute, I said, both ends? Turkeys have two ends? I know they do in nature but in the supermarket? I had pulled some extra body parts out of one end, where was this other end and what was supposed to come out of it? Humbled and desperate, we dashed to the oven and yanked the damned bird out of the heat. The cavity was empty, as it was supposed to be. We pried open the other end, having discovered that indeed there was an opening there too. That’s when we realized we were in trouble. The back side, or maybe it was the front, was still frozen solid. I neglected to mention that we had gotten a frozen turkey and had given it what we thought was a proper 2-3 day thawing, but the damn thing was still ice inside.
We threw it back into the oven, cranked up the temp and hoped it would cook. Guests were due to arrive soon. Turkeys are slow birds, especially in the oven. Hours seemed to go by and it was only warm. 
Since we’d planned a leisurely meal, we told people to come over early so we could nosh. We did just that. Guests and their dishes arrived to great cheer and our anxious announcement that dinner might be a little later than planned. We did not elaborate.
We opened the wine. We ate the appetizers. We ate the salad. We opened more wine. The turkey was gradually getting warmer, even starting to cook.
Then the second disaster of our elegant holiday feast arrived. The friend assigned to bring a nice dessert showed up late, though that was no problem compared to the one in the oven. “What did you bring for dessert,” we asked. He proudly pulled out a five-pound bag of apples, just apples, like from a tree. He said it would be a healthy dessert. I said, let me show you where the flour, butter and sugar are and you can bake a pie, like now. Or, I gave him a choice, I could put one of his apples in his mouth and throw him into the oven so we could have two turkeys. He opted instead to go out and buy something.
We were just about ready for dessert by then anyway since we had consumed the entire meal including sweet potatoes and vegetables when at long last the fucking turkey was ready to eat.
We did have our lovely Thanksgiving dinner though the order was slightly reversed with the main course last. I’ve never again purchased a frozen turkey but have successfully cooked fresh, never frozen birds to the delight of hungry guests. I do not recommend buying frozen turkeys.

©
March 2014

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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My Favorite Place by Michael King

My favorite place is being
in my imagination where I can fantasize. I imagine how a painting will make a
statement and then let the fantasy work itself out on canvas. Usually the
fantasy is better than the painting however after a few years I often realize
that the painting does express that concept. In this process the painting seems
to paint itself. This is true of writing also. I will have an idea that I wish
to express and the story writes itself.
In my imagination a meal
will begin and as I put things together in the kitchen the food on the plate
will be a facsimile of the idea with the colors and flavors being nearly as
beautiful as I had visualized. With a little practice I can figure out timing,
visual impact and blending of flavors so that the meal actually duplicates my
fantasy.
I enjoy imagining the decorating
of a room, making a sculpture, planning a trip and wishing for things and then
later enjoying the outcome of my previous fantasies. I had a list of the
qualities I hoped for in a companion. One day he walks into a coffee shop, we
take one look at each other and have been together ever since. My world is in a
large part the joy of having been somewhat creative, very individual and personal
and filled with appreciation.
As I look back on my life
everything I ever wanted I have gotten. Not always when and exactly like I
expected but often I achieved or received what I had visualized. Some desires
that came to pass were fairly disastrous and it took time to recover. Others
came too late to be of any real satisfaction.
I don’t just lie around
fantasizing all the time. I take a little time to bring about results. I also
explore what and how I want to be doing, what experiences I would like to have
happen and what I want to do or get to make my environment enjoyable including
activities and social events. But when I’m not doing something to fulfill my
wishful thinking, I’m laying around focusing on my imaginary world where wishes
are discovered, arranged, rearranged and visualized with smells, sounds,
feelings and emotions and being prepared for manifestation. My favorite place is
in my imagination.
© 6 July 2013

About the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities,” Telling your Story”,” Men’s Coffee” and the “Open Art Studio”. I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.

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Summary of Sycamore Row by Louis

Prompt: April 14, Great Performance

My version of going to the theater is reading novels that will probably become movies. One of these is John Grisham’s latest novel, Sycamore Row (2013). John Grisham is the creator of the new literary genre, the “legal thriller.” I will start outlining the plot of this novel by giving away the surprise ending, because, by doing this, I am putting the events of the novel in chronological order. The plot’s easier to understand that way.

In 1930 Cleon Hubbard, a white Mississippi landowner, arranges the lynching of his black neighbor, Sylvester Rinds. Sylvester has 80 acres of land and his family lives on the farm, including brothers and sisters, and nephews and nieces. Cleon Hubbard also has 80 acres. After Sylvester Rinds is murdered, Cleon goes to his wife, Esther Rinds, shotgun in hand, and forces her to sign over the 80 acres to him. He annexes the Rinds property through violence.

Cleon Hubbard has two sons, Harry Seth and Ancil F. Hubbard. Seth was 12 years old and his brother Ancil F. was 7 years old, and, crouching in the nearby bushes, the two boys witnessed both of these events. Seth and Ancil enjoyed playing with the Rinds kids, especially 7 year old Toby Rinds. Father Cleon Hubbard, with a sort of posse, chased all the Rinds family off of the land. Needless to say, Seth and Ancil hated their father. When Seth was 18 years old, he left and joined the Navy and wanted to escape Mississippi, which he despised with a passion.

The lynching took place from a sycamore tree that was in a straight row of sycamores, which explains the novel’s title. Seth Hubbard grew up and inherited a good deal of money and property that his father bequeathed him when he, Cleon, died. But in the divorce settlement, his second wife, Sybil, got most of his property, leaving Seth virtually penniless. Seth still had a house near Clanton, Mississippi, where most of the plot of the novel takes place. He mortgaged this house and went first to Palmyra, MI and bought a lumber yard and prayed for a hurricane so that there would be a good demand for lumber. The hurricane came, and elderly Seth Hubbard was making money again. He then went to Alabama and bought more lumber yards, then to Georgia same thing. He bought large tracts of land in South Carolina. 10 years of this risk-taking, and Seth wound up with a fortune of $24 million.

On the negative side, he had lung cancer though he could not stop smoking cigarettes. He was in constant pain, the cancer from his lung metastasized to his ribs and spinal column. He knew his death was not far off. So he went to a law firm in Jackson, MI, and drew up a will, leaving most of his wealth to his two children, Ramona Dafoe and Herschel Hubbard. A year passed, and he changed his mind. Then Seth Hubbard hung himself from a sycamore tree on his property. 

Three years previously he hired a black maid, Lettie Lang. Either at the time he hired her or later he realized that Lettie Lang was actually the granddaughter of Sylvester Rinds. Lettie Lang’s maiden name was Tayber, but she wasn’t a Tayber, she had been adopted by Clyde and Cypress Tayber after her real mother, Lois Rinds, had to disappear, thanks to Seth’s white father, Cleon Hubbard. 


To compensate for the heinous crime of his father, Seth Hubbard left the bulk of his fortune to her, Lettie Lang, actually a Rinds. Seth also left 5% of his fortune to his church, the Irish Road Christian Church and 5% to his long lost brother, Ancil F’ Hubbard. Seth did this in a holographic, i.e. a handwritten will, that he sent to Jake Brigance, Esq. of Clanton, Mississippi. He wrote this second will which stipulated he was renouncing all the provisions of the previous will of a year earlier that he had drawn up with the Rush Law Firm of Jackson, MI. In the second holographic hand-written will, he stipulates specifically that he is disinheriting both of his children who, he felt, did not love or respect him.

With the permission of the Judge, Reuben Atlee, who presided over the trial gave him permission to spend some of the fortune to hire an expensive company that specialized in locating missing persons. They finally located Ancil Hubbard in Juneau, Alaska, where he was working as a bartender under an alias, Lonny Clark. Jake Brigance had an associate lawyer, Lucien Wilbanks, although technically, because of past improprieties, he had been disbarred. Lucien Wilbanks was an alcoholic. Nevertheless, JB sent LW to Juneau, Alaska, to locate and speak with Ancil F. Hubbard, alias Lonny Clark. Lonny Clark was in the hospitalized since he had suffered brain injury in a brawl in the bar where he worked. LW went to the hospital, and at first pseudo-Lonny Clark denied ever hearing the name, Ancil F. Hubbard, once LW told him Ancil Hubbard might inherit a million dollars from his deceased brother, Ancil Hubbard admitted he was Ancil Hubbard. LW went to a local lawyer in Juneau, Alaska, and arranged to videotape Ancil Hubbard’s deposition or testimony.

Once understanding that they were going to be disinherited, Ramona Hubbard Dafoe and Herschel Hubbard, Seth’s two children, hired Wade Lanier, Esq. to challenge the holographic will, claiming that their father Harry Seth Hubbard did not have “testamentary capacity” to make a new will. Remember, the two children inherited most everything in the will of a year earlier. Once Jake Brigance “probated” the more recent holographic will, the Clanton, Mississippi, knew there was going to be a long, probably drawn-out battle over who gets Seth Hubbard’s millions. And a battle there was. Wade Lanier was a very good lawyer, and he had his investigator turn up another holographic will, written up by one of Lettie Lang’s previous employers, that she LL had failed to mention in her initial deposition, in which an elderly white woman, Irene Pickering, the previous employer, left her $50 thousand. Irene Pickering’s son managed (apparently unfairly) to have this holographic will annulled, and Lettie Lang got nothing out of it. Nevertheless, Wade Lanier planned to argue that Lettie Lang had a history of exerting undue influence on her elderly dying employers.

Though unstated, Wade Lanier planned to argue that Lettie Lang became Seth Hubbard’s illicit girl friend in order to access his millions. Wade Lanier’s investigator found a beautiful black woman , Julina Kidd, in southern Georgia who stated she had filed a sexual harassment case against Seth Hubbard a few years earlier. The case was settled out of court, but there was a record of her allegations, which would tend to establish that Seth Hubbard had a propensity to take sexual advantage of his female employees.

Things seemed to be going Wade Lanier’s way. Lettie Lang’s credibility was questioned. Did she exert undue influence over the very elderly and sickly Seth Hubbard to get herself named in last will and testament? It sort of looked that way.

Then Ancil Hubbard’s video testimony arrived and was shown to the jury on a VCR. Ancil Hubbard explained the lynching he and his brother had witnessed when they were children. Though Seth Hubbard did not say so in his second holographic will, it became clear that SH knew that Lettie Lang was the granddaughter of Sylvester Rinds and he was compensating for his father’s crime, the lynching of Sylvester Rinds and Cleon’s grossly illegal seizure of SR’s 80 acres. Of course, the jury decided Seth Hubbard did know what he was doing at the time he wrote the later second holographic will.

In the epilogue to the story, Lettie Tayber Rinds Lang divorced her husband, Simeon Lang but stated that she did not want the whole fortune, she just wanted her own house, the 80 acres, so that she did not have to be a maid any more.

She also did not want Seth Hubbard’s two children, as unsympathetic as they were, to be completely disinherited. So she agreed that Ramona Hubbard Dafoe and Herschel Hubbard receive a few million each for themselves and their children, i.e. Seth Hubbard’s grandchildren. The bulk of the money, however, would be put into a scholarship trust for needy black students who wanted to go to college. Judge Reuben Atlee presides over the final disposition of this case.

The End

Three other novels that John Grisham wrote that were made into films were A Time to Kill, The Pelican Brief and The Firm. They are all very high quality.

© 8 April 2014



About
the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

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Don’t Touch Me There by Lewis

[Note: The following anecdote is not based upon actual events.]

He looked straight down at me, expectantly, and asked, “May I touch you here?”

“Be my guest”, I replied.

Then, again, “May I touch you there?”

“Naturally,” I responded.

It was only sex, without commitment or depth of feeling beyond the corporeal. It was fun, entertaining, spontaneous, and more than a little frightening. After all, he was only the third man I had “been with” in my nearly seven decades of existence. 

I am not enamored with the concept of “casual sex”, unless it is self-inflicted” or, to put it a little more aptly, self-administered. I hold nothing against those with a less risk-adverse attitude toward sex. Perhaps, I, for reasons meritorious or otherwise, have greater expectations as to the payoff that should come from bestowing upon someone the most precious and personal gift I can give–save for one–that being my heart.
For the moment, my heart resides in the rose garden in Cheesman Park, where lie the ashes of my late husband, Laurin. My heart is occupied, for the moment, with reminiscences of his mind, his body, his heart, his loving touch. So, I invite others to offer me a handshake, a hug, a kiss on the cheek. But, for now, please don’t touch my heart.

©
21 April 2013

About
the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.

Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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Meals to Remember by Gillian

Much as I like to eat, I am not any kind of gourmet. I have very simple tastes and don’t care so very much what I eat, so it comes as no surprise that I can come up with only two meals that I remember because of the actual food. Memories of any kind can be wonderful or awful, so let’s get the awful one out of the way.

I have talked before about my time in Russia. Right after it became Russia and the old U.S.S.R . broke up, I spent a few weeks on a volunteer job in Leningrad, at that moment returning to it’s old self as St. Petersburg. I stayed in a private apartment with a lovely woman named Ludmilla, and her silent soldier husband and equally silent soldiers-to-be teenage sons. The last Sunday before I was due to leave, there was a “family dinner,” the first since I had been there, to celebrate my stay with them. Ludmilla’s widowed father, who lived some miles away in one of the many little towns that dot the Russian landscape, was coming in on the train specially to meet me, and bringing rabbits he had trapped in the woods for what Betsy would term a “taste treat sensation.”
Oh whoopee. I sighed to myself, mentally squaring my shoulders, could do this. Not with the delight expected of me, and that I must try to fake, but I could do it. In England during my youth we all ate a lot of rabbit, usually scattered around in little pieces in a big stew, liberally augmented by vegetables. I was well versed in ways of wrapping the bits of meat in some vegetable matter while in my mouth, then swallowing quickly without actually chewing the meat or allowing it anywhere near my taste buds. Of course that was fifty years ago, but I was sure I retained the knack.
So, Ludmilla of course refusing my offer of help, we huddled around the only table, a small wooden one in the kitchen corner; three silent men and me, with, thankfully, a charming and garrulous Grandpa. He and I managed quite an informative conversation in spite of no common language; possibly the free flow of vodka had something to do with it. Anyway it came to a sudden end as Ludmilla approached flourishing an old pewter plate which she placed, with as much ceremony as can be mustered in a small, crowded, steamy, kitchen, not in the center of the table but directly in front of me. Ludmilla and her dad beamed at me with pride and anticipation. Even the silent ones nodded gravely in agreement.
The small head still contained accusing, though by now, lusterless, sad brown eyes. The top of the head had been cut off, exposing the brain. Beside the gruesome, pitiful, object, a tiny glass spoon rested. Everyone in the kitchen watched, silently. They had sacrificed their favorite treat for me. I knew what was expected of me. My stomach heaved. Oh please oh please don’t let me throw up. I took a long drink of water and considered doing the same with vodka but knew that would only exacerbate my digestive woes. Ludmilla, bustling housewife too busy to stand and stare, placed a huge stew-pot on the table, accompanied by an exquisitely carved trencher piled high with chunks of thick black bread. Oh, thank you God, I can do this. I put a big piece of bread beside the beleaguered bunny, picked up the spoon, raised my head, and beamed at everyone.

“Thank you; all of you. Spaciba. Balshoye spaciba.”

I sounded so sincere, I almost believed it.

I toasted each of them individually. Surely, a little vodka would help.

And after all, rabbit brains are very tiny.

OK, enough of that. On to the good memory. Betsy and I were hiking in Scotland, I suppose ten or fifteen years ago. We ended up in a delightful little town, the name of which I knew until recently when it leaked from my brain along with a lot of other stuff. We decided, not for the first time, just to get fish and chips to go for dinner. We knew there had to be a “chippie” in a place of this size, and found it with little trouble. These chip shops which are scattered throughout Britain are not a chain, they are owned by individuals, and therefore, although they all look and smell much the same and serve essentially the same things, the end product varies.
We scuttled off with our haddock and fries still scalding hot. It was cool and drizzling a little and the heat felt good as it seeped through the paper wrapping; no longer simply newspaper as in my youth, but with hygienic wax paper now inserted between the paper and the food. At least that was how that particular shop served it though sadly some have now gone to those awful indestructible styrofoam boxes. 
We found a bench in a lovely little park beside the river and beneath a big tree to keep us dry, and unwrapped our precious bundles. Why, I have no idea, but those were the best fish and chips I have had in my entire life, before or since. Betsy thought so too. We raved to each other over them. We chattered happily about how far we had walked that day. Could we possibly….? We deserved it, didn’t we….? We practically ran back for a second order.
As I inferred at the beginning, I have had many many wonderful meals worth remembering, but I love the memories for where I was and the people who shared them. Mostly I have only a very vague memory, or none at all, or what I actually ate. Collectively, my meals most worthy of recall are those Betsy and I have had while camping, and the content of them is rarely memorable. We eat very basic food and much of it gets repeated day after day, especially as we often camp for days in some spot miles from any food source. There is something so special about eating outdoors, often by a stream or river, listening to the birds twitter and sing, while gazing into the campfire with the love of your life beside you. 
How could you possibly remember what food you ate?
© March 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.

  
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In Memory of Mickey — The Wildest of the Wild Ones by Donaciano Martinez

Mickey passed away on April 18, 2014, at age 68, due to complications related to a heart condition that worsened over the past several years. Born in Denver, Mickey had been a lifelong resident of Denver. There was cremation and the memorial service was held in May at the home of a family member, who noted that a church was ruled out because the family “never accepted” Mickey’s lifestyle.

I have met several wild people throughout my long life, but Mickey always was the wildest of the wild ones. Although Mickey could not read and write and was legally considered disabled due to partial paralysis in an arm and leg, she had more street sense of anyone I have ever known.

Mickey and I instantly clicked when we first met in Denver in early 1976. Although the term “transgender” was not used in those years, Mickey clearly fit the transgender identity because she always presented herself (through attire and behaviors) as a woman. In some of our many long talks, she told me that she self-identified as female ever since she was an early teenager in the late 1950s and she never had any interest in going through surgery to become a woman.

The Swingers Club

Mickey was a very extrovert person with a delightful sense of humor. We had many good laughs and fun times together. She always jokingly called me “Girleena Garcia” and I always jokingly called her “Cochina” (naughty lady). Early on, she told me that she and her “sister” ran a swingers club in order to supplement the low income Mickey had for many years through the Social Security disability program. Telling me that her so-called “sister” consisted only of a poster-size framed photo prominently displayed on the living room wall, Mickey boasted that the image of her “sister” had brought in big bucks to the swingers club. Through her straight male acquaintance who produced straight porno magazines, Mickey always got free ads to promote the swingers club that was supposed to be located in the upscale Green Mountain residential area west of Denver. Once men responded to the ads by calling Mickey’s telephone number, Mickey claimed to be the “sister” whose photo was in the ads. Eager to meet the “sister” and other women who were part of the so-called swingers club, numerous men paid their “membership fee” by putting cash inside an envelope and depositing it through the mail slot of the home that Mickey rented. When men subsequently called Mickey to inquire about the swingers club meetings that never materialized, Mickey politely told them that “all the girls left town” to become dancers in Las Vegas. Just like that, poof, men’s expectations were dashed along with the cash they had paid.

Upon learning about the imaginary swingers club, I told Mickey to be extremely careful as her club could be targeted by undercover police. Her reply was that police never could do anything to her because she was “not a street hustler.” I reiterated my plea upon telling her that undercover police did not limit their operations to street hustlers. My warnings were most prophetic when Mickey got arrested in 1977 by an undercover police officer, who had targeted Mickey’s swingers club around the same time that a different undercover officer shot and killed a street-hustling drag queen in an alley. The charges were dropped against Mickey when court testimony revealed the Denver Police Department (DPD) had erased portions of the audio tape that captured an undercover police officer’s phone conversation in which Mickey agreed to accept a stolen TV as payment for membership in the swingers club.

The Biggest Haul of All = $1100 Cash

Despite Mickey’s 1977 court case, the 1977 police killing of a street-hustling drag queen, and the second police killing of a street-hustling drag queen one year later in 1978, Mickey moved full steam ahead with the swingers-club scam that brought hundreds of dollars hand-delivered to her doorstep without having to set one foot on the streets of Denver.

In 1979, Mickey was arrested on several felony charges after a DPD undercover officer dropped off $1100 (eleven $100 bills) in an envelope through the mail slot at Mickey’s home. When DPD officers subsequently raided Mickey’s home, they tore the place apart and terrorized her pet monkey upon looking for the marked $100 bills. Facing a lengthy prison sentence if convicted, Mickey was very worried about her future. In open court, DPD audio tapes were played with Mickey’s voice describing in great detail how she would do the nasty with the undercover police officer. Because the police never found the evidence after leaving her rented home in shambles, Mickey was set free after a trial that was publicized in the Denver media. [Mickey told people in later years that she had hidden the $100 bills by tightly rolling them up inside empty lipstick tubes on top of her fancy makeup table, but the police never looked inside the lipstick tubes despite ransacking the drawers of her makeup table.]

After the close call with the 1979 court case, Mickey decided to keep a low profile for a while by abandoning the phony swingers club that always carried with it a big risk because of the large sums of money that were delivered for something that did not exist.

Advent of Telephone-Fantasy Service

In 1980, Mickey started a telephone fantasy service out of her home. She said a lawyer had advised her that the new service was legitimate as long as she only talked nasty and did not accept any cash for her telephone service. Just as she had done for several years with the swingers club, she advertised only in straight porno magazines and all of her clientele were straight men. After a client paid the club membership via money order to Mickey’s P.O. box, a total of ten 30-minute phone calls were allowed. Mickey talked nasty on the phone while the men became aroused and played with their whoppers. The phone fantasy line was among the growing list of “kinky” things that increasing numbers of straight men liked to do. From the perspective of married men, the phone fantasy was a “safe” activity that allowed the men to express whatever they wanted to Mickey. Many similar phone-fantasy services began to crop up all over the country in those years.

Very candid about her phone-fantasy service, Mickey frequently had this to say: “Honey, these straight guys always think they’re talking to a young, blonde and slender woman, but they’re only talking to an older and overweight lady who wants only one thing out of them – their pocketbook.”


Expanding to In-Person Encounters

Mickey had several in-person clients with whom she made contact through her phone-fantasy service. She always prided herself on the fact that she was “not a street hustler” and operated only out of her home. Learning from the 1979 court case, she stayed away from the exchange of cash for doing the nasty. Instead, she always had her clients “pick up a few things” on their way over to Mickey’s place. The requested items generally entailed groceries that she needed. A big fan of top-of-the-line expensive oil-based perfumes for women, she also had clients stop off at expensive department stores to buy her a few perfume bottles on their way to Mickey’s place. Her wish list later expanded to appliances to adorn her kitchen. Almost always, the men obliged and brought whatever she requested. If they showed up empty-handed without the items she requested, she politely asked them to leave.

In 1986 Mickey began having a relationship with a straight man, who was going through a divorce and who had custody of his one-year-old son. Having been raised on a farm in Montana, the well-mannered and handsome guy was naive about life in the city. He had quite an eye-opening introduction to city life when he met Mickey. She took very good care of the baby boy, who always referred to Mickey as “Mom.” The baby’s father worked long hours at menial jobs to support his baby and Mickey, who stopped the phone-fantasy service throughout the four-year stormy relationship that ended when the baby’s biological mother re-entered the picture and was awarded permanent custody of her son.

Hundreds – and I do mean hundreds – of straight men knew where Mickey lived, but that never was a source of concern to Mickey. The public would have been shocked to learn that one of her longtime in-person clients was a very handsome and married conservative politician who had been elected to the Colorado State Legislature.

A Cart Full of Groceries

Although almost all of Mickey’s clients met at her place, there was one occasion in which she and a married man arranged to meet in the parking lot of King Soopers (a/k/a Queen Soopers) at 9th and Downing in the heart of Homo Heights in Denver. Just as she had done with other clients on hundreds of occasions, she asked her married client to “pick up a few things” at King Soopers. Mickey asked me to accompany her in order to lift the grocery bags as they were too heavy for her to lift due to the paralysis in her arm. I was aghast to see the man (who was extremely handsome and very polite) with a grocery cart full of numerous bags of groceries that the man bought for Mickey, who went through each and every bag to make sure all of her requested items (easily a total of $100 or more) were in the bags. Their pre-arranged plan was to leave the King Soopers parking lot and go to a nearby Ramada motel room (Colfax and Marion) paid for in advance by the man. With Mickey and me in her car and the man following behind us in his car, we got to an intersection at which the traffic light turned red just as I drove through the intersection. Although Mickey and I could have easily just kept going since the man was waiting for the red light to change, she insisted that I pull over and wait for the man because he came through with all of the groceries she ordered. After they did the nasty at the motel room, the guy left and Mickey returned to her car that I was driving. Once we got back to her house, I made numerous trips carrying the bags of groceries from the car to the kitchen.


In the Path of a Crazed Bull Elephant In Heat
When I once sought input from my longtime activist friend Betty about Mickey’s very wild lifestyle, Betty wrote:

“Mickey’s line of work is akin to sauntering along in the path of a crazed bull elephant in heat. I admire Mickey’s courage, ingenuity, audacity and her sheer strength of will not to allow anyone to intimidate or threaten her, but I worry about her constantly. Listening to the boys’ fantasies must get horribly old and terribly fast. In comparison to Mickey, the extremely slight exposure I get – at work, in stores, restaurants, streets, wherever – turns my nerves to live electric wires. The boys’ fantasies and their proclivity to violence are as close as a kid glove on a hand. Whether directives from the Pentagon or calls to Mickey’s phone line, the boys’ understanding and masculinity, as defined by them, come across the same. My motto is: gamble safely and only dangerously when it is an absolute necessity. I fully recognize the necessity for Mickey’s gamble every time she answers the telephone or the doorbell, but my blood turns to ice every time I hear a newscast or catch a headline in a newspaper. I also know Mickey is cognizant of the explosive possibilities of every encounter – not just her clientele, but the moralists, the cops, and the staked-out territory she might tread on.”

Fortunately, throughout her many years of life on the wild side, Mickey never was put in harm’s way by what Betty appropriately called the “crazed bull elephant in heat.”

A Book about Mickey’s Wild Life

Mickey periodically asked me to seriously consider writing a book about her wild life. Due to being busy in other aspects of my life, I never had time to follow up on her suggestion. Although the many episodes of her life would have been more than enough material for a book, we always thought that people would find the tales so outrageous and hard to believe she really went through it all. When I once sought input from my longtime activist friend Betty about the prospect of a book, Betty wrote:

“There is a market for the book. A number of people (who started out reading it because it was banned from California to Italy) would learn the truth about the use and abuse of power and by whom. The sensitive and the intelligent, intrigued by natural curiosity, would be educated. Mickey could retire from hustling.”

Although the book never will be pursued by me, this memorial piece should serve as a synopsis of the life of Mickey as the wildest of the wild ones.

© 30 April 2014

About the Author

Since 1964 Donaciano Martinez has been an activist in peace and social justice movements in Colorado. His family was part of a big migration of Mexican Americans from northern New Mexico to Colorado Springs in the 1940s. He lived in Colorado Springs until 1975 and then moved to Denver, where he still resides. He was among 20 people arrested and jailed in Colorado Springs during a 1972 protest in support of the United Farm Workers union that was co-founded by Cesar Chavez and Dolores Huerta. For his many years of activism, Martinez received the 1998 Equality Award, 1999 Founders Award, 2000 Paul Hunter Award, 2001 Community Activist Award, 2005 Movement Veterans Award, 2006 Champion of Health Award, 2008 Cesar Chavez Award, 2013 Lifetime Achievement Award, and the 2013 Pendleton Award. La Gente Unida, a nonprofit co-founded by Martinez, received the 2002 Civil Rights Award. The year 2014 marks the 50-year anniversary of his volunteer work in numerous nonprofit situations.


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Teacher by Betsy

Whether she wants to be or not, a mother IS a teacher. By virtue of being present from the moment her child enters the world a mother, which is a mother who IS present, has to be the greatest influence in a child’s life. Later on a child may want to break away from this overwhelming influence. After all, to become an independent adult a child has to break away. But the influence will always be there. 

I remember breaking away from my mother, but by the time I was 18 I had become human again in my behavior. Now in my dotage my mother is the first person who comes to mind when presented with the topic “teacher.”
I imagine most of a parent’s lessons are conveyed indirectly by way of example. I can think of a thousand things my mother taught me without ever uttering a word about it. 
GRACE: My mother was the most graceful and gracious creature alive. She moved with grace, she ran the household with grace. I can honestly say, I never heard my mother raise her voice. (This could be why I have trouble doing this myself!) There were times she was angry, but always kept her cool. 
COMMITMENT AND RESPONSIBILITY: She never spoke of commitment and responsibility directly, but I know I learned this from her. Actions truly do speak louder than words. However certain words have a way of sticking. One particular incident comes to mind: Where we lived I became eligible to get a driver’s license when I turned 15. In Louisiana at the time, it did not matter if you knew how to drive. On your fifteenth birthday you go down with your birth certificate and get your license. My mother prepared me for this day by taking me out for practice runs in the family car. As far as she was concerned birthday or no, I would get my license when she was satisfied that I could drive SAFELY. I can still hear her voice guiding me down the road. “Don’t ever forget, Betsy. The car is a KILLER.” This obviously made a big impression on me since I remember these words to this day–60 years later. 
COURAGE: I would never have thought of my mother as courageous–until she was torn from her roots, forced to leave her comfortable home surrounded by familiarity and family members. She had to endure relocating to a new environment and new culture. At the time I had no idea that this would be a difficult adjustment for anyone. When you are young you can move anywhere many times with ease. But this had to be an awful change of environment for her. I never heard one word of complaint. It was only a few years later that she became terminally ill. Her youngest child, my little sister, had to be sent away to boarding school because mom could not take care of her or the household or anyone else, herself included. Through a painful illness, surgeries, weakness, inability to eat, numerous hospitalizations my mother never complained. This takes courage.
STEADFASTNESS: My mother and I used to argue a lot when I was growing up. When I did grow up I stopped the nonsense. But as I was trying to assert my independence we often argued. She did have some very traditional ideas about things and I was a raging radical, like most teen agers. We did not raise our voices but would banter about with our conflicting ideas. At the end of the discussion she would always say, “I may not agree with you about this, but you stick to your guns.”
CONSIDERATION FOR OTHERS. Another very powerful lesson my mother taught me was to have consideration for others. “Even if you cannot thank Grandmother for that gift you do not want,” she said, “you MUST acknowledge her generosity and thoughtfulness in sending it.” This concept seems to be dying out altogether. I wonder if the problem is that I do not have texting capability. Those of my generation can always hope that when the youngsters have their own Facebook page, they will post acknowledgments on our walls. I really don’t care. Send a carrier pigeon! Let me hear from you even if you didn’t want that gift. I know my mom–my grandchildren’s great grandmother–would approve of any of these methods of communication, as would I. These valuable lessons so well taught should not be lost!
LOVE: I do believe my mother along with my father was instrumental in teaching me how to love another. Now, how do you teach something as important and powerful as loving another? I knew my mother loved me and I believe that is what it takes to teach this greatest lesson of all.


© November 2011

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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Mirror Image by Will Stanton

Back in the 1930s when millions of people were out of work, most people thought that it was OK, even wonderful, that the federal government would step in and help to provide good jobs for people, especially since there was so much work that needed to be done. Much of that needed work was fixing what previous generations of people had broken through lack of foresight, no sense of wise land use, and even from simple greed. That certainly was true in the rural areas of Ohio where I grew up. Forests had been stripped, top-soil had eroded away, mine tailings dumped near water sources, and streams had been polluted. Many poor homesteads and small villages were left to decay. Work was scarce, the economy poor.

So F.D.R., the President that some people chose to hate, created the Works Progress Administration and the Civilian Conservation Corps. Just in our area alone, hundreds upon hundreds of people were given useful jobs during the 1930s. Thousands of trees were planted to prevent further soil erosion and pollution of waterways. Roads were improved, and small concrete bridges replaced fords through streams.

Nature had created no natural lakes in the area; so to help control water-flow and to boost the local economy in the Zaleski Forest region, a small damn was built, creating a many-fingered lake. Workers built a swimming area with wooden docks and diving towers. They made places for boating and canoeing. They added a picnic area with benches and fireplaces along side of the shore. They built a road to a scenic overlook where, eventually, a rustic lodge was constructed. Nearby, they made several wooden cabins for campers. The Division of Forestry officially opened the Zaleski Forest Park in 1940. Once the Division of Parks and Recreation was created 1949, it was renamed Lake Hope State Park. The area has provided employment and recreation ever since.

I recall with pleasure and a good amount of nostalgia visiting Lake Hope on many occasions from as young as age two. Sometimes it was just our family; at other times it was with family friends. During those first years, the three routes to the lake were gravel. The northern route was the shortest and passed by the remains of a stone structure resembling an oversize barbeque chimney. It was just one of several dozen 18th and 19th-century iron furnaces long abandoned since the charcoal and ore had been depleted in the area. The southern route took us through miles of hilly rural forest including many acres of pines planted by the C.C.C. And, the eastern route was the most primitive route of all, winding its way through the dense woods past abandoned and near-abandoned settlements and crossing the railroad tracks near the Moonville Tunnel, built in the mid-1800s. The tracks are long-gone, and the tunnel now is rumored to be haunted.

I recall how with excitement I would catch the first sight of the lake, eagerly looking forward to going to the man-made beach. We would wind our way to the parking lot and head for the wooden bathhouse. At age two, I was taken by my mother to the women’s side. (Yes, I can remember that young.) When older, my father took me to the men’s. When so young, I was required to stay near the beach, but I remember seeing my oldest brother going out to the wooden diving tower, climbing up so high, and diving in.

Vintage photo of
Lake Hope’s swimming area

My family and friends would bring along picnics, and afterwards we would find a picnic table near the water’s edge and lay out our food on one of the tables. Little stone fireplaces were provided in case we wished to grill hamburgers or hotdogs. We did not know in those days that potato chips were not so healthful, but we loved them and looked forward to our friends bringing them. They actually brought commercial-size bucketsful. Then there was desert.

Once sated with picnic-food, we would stroll along a path that closely followed the edge of the lake, listening for birds and watching for water foul. In the time of my childhood, the lake was surrounded by old-growth as well as reforested hills. Looking across the lake in any direction, I enjoyed seeing the wooded hills reflected, mirror-image, in the calm water.

Vintage photo of Lake Hope — a mirror image

On other occasions, we rented a small cabin up near the lodge. They had few real amenities, but at least there was a roof over our heads. We brought food and supplies with us, and the lodge was nearby in case we needed anything more.

Later, when my grandmother once came visiting, we took her with us to Lake Hope. It was my birthday, and she thought that I was old enough by then for me to have a Camp King jackknife. My mother did not; she was sure that I would cut myself. Of course, I did, but it was only a slight wound on my thumb.

And as we grew older, we made use of the beautiful stone and wood lodge for dinner. It was perched high on the ridge and had a fine view through the trees to the shimmering lake below. Near the entrance to the dining room, they had placed a Skittles game, and we kids enjoyed playing it when we had some time after our meal. I was sorry to learn that the lodge burned to the ground in 2006. I new one has been built to replace it.

More than seventy years have passed since Lake Hope was opened to the public. Generations of families, locals, and students from surrounding colleges, have enjoyed the facilities and the beauty of this lake. When I last visited there, my memories flowed. Looking across the lake and admiring the mirror-image reflections from the wooded hills, I felt a twinge of nostalgia. I knew that generations more of employees and visitors would continue to enjoy this little Eden. Those 1930s politicians who opposed such projects, those hard-nosed naysayers, were proved wrong. Thank you, you far-sighted individuals who made possible the many benefits from their proposed work projects. Thank you W.P.A. and C.C.C. for work well done.   

© 11 February 2013

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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Juvenile Crime by Ricky

The very first criminal act I can remember doing was when I was only 10; in the 5th grade and on my way home from school. I have a powerful attraction to ice cream. So strong it is that back then, you might have even seen me transform into an “ice cream-zombie”. For that matter, I still do occasionally.

So, one particular week previous to my act of criminality, I had been stopping by the local grocery store where my parents shopped. I had left over lunch money and my purpose for stopping there was to buy an ice cream sandwich at a cost of 10-cents; eating it on my way home.

The week following I had no left over lunch money but the attraction to ice cream was still as powerful as ever and I stopped by the store. I searched everywhere in my pockets and book binder while walking up and down the aisles but try as I might, I just could not find the money that was not there. So I turned into a criminal. Carefully scanning for potential witnesses and hoping no one could hear my pounding heart, I quickly opened the ice cream cooler, removed one ice cream sandwich, placed it into my book binder and left the store.

I waited until I crossed the highway before I removed the thing, unwrapped, and ate it. On the bright side, I did throw the wrapper into a trash bin I was walking by; after all I wasn’t a despicable litter-bug. The next four days found me doing the same thing before guilt overcame attraction. I learned from these experiences that males (especially boys) can hear the “siren call” of inanimate objects quite clearly, objects such as ice cream sandwiches, or firearms, or fast cars, or any baseball/football games in their vicinity or on a TV, or the call of a video game console.

Once back from my grandparent’s farm and again living with my mother, I went by myself trick or treating until my little brother and sister were old enough to go, and then I took them. The last year I ever went, my friend and I did pull a couple of “tricks” on two homes we got candy from (interpret that as vandalism). Both people we met at the door said that we were too old to be “trick-or-treating”; I was 15 and my friend was 13. I replied that no one is too old to want free candy. Since they had challenged our “right” to beg for candy, we used ski wax to write four letter words on their car windows. Ski wax doesn’t come off by washing; it must be scrapped off.

Like Peter Pan, I also had a dark side. I wasn’t always a nice kid.

Pan’s Dark Side

© 2 February 2013

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 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com


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Second Honeymoon by Ray S

Over a cup of coffee (1/2 regular and 1/2 decaf) In the kitchen of Marcella Norton’s Victorian home in Georgetown, Colorado she casually suggested Pat and I visit her the coming August in Escanaba, MI. Of course, she added, I’ll put you to work when you get there–adding “It is a beautiful time of the year in the UP–upper peninsula to us non Michiganders.

We thanked her for the invitation and wondered to ourselves how, when, and where, and maybe why? Out came the maps and discovery of the best route. to that part of Michigan, our northernmost venture in that part of the mid west having been Green Bay.

But look it is not too much further to our old stomping grounds–Chicago land. Maybe we should stretch this trip to a few days in the Windy City–well, maybe.

I digress to a blustery March day in 1951 when the two of us departed the site of our nuptials, headed for the first act of our 55-year marriage drama. We spent that night at a vintage 1920’s Hotel Baker in Aurora, Illinois. I mention this memorable occasion only because on this road trip to the UP, it was a close as we got to Chicago. For old time sake, as they say, we returned to the scene of the crime and checked out to Baker to see how much it had changed, if at all. And yes there were some marked but few changes. The dining room had been transformed from a glamorous 1940’s glass block dance floor illuminated from below by colored lights to something more acceptably 1970’s Neo-Mediterranean villa. Again giving into a bit of nostalgia we had lunch suitably spiked with the waitress’s story of her times at the Baker as well as ours.

As if that were not sufficient time spent in Memory Lane, we headed for the little historic Illinois City named Galen. The name means “tin” for which it at one time was a financial center and port, since the days the river silted up and the city has slept quietly, except for its other claim-to-fame. It is the home of General U.S. Grant. We had reserved a room at a B and B perched on the side of the hill that sloped down to city center and what had been the tin boats docks on the Fever River, a tributary of the Mississippi.

Galena has grown into a tourist haven and a very charming historic old place, if you happen to be a history buff. We enjoyed scoping out the museum, post office of Civil War note, appropriate restaurants and bars. But the real highlight of our pre-work/vacation in Escanaba was that first morning at the bit of Victorian splendor when we made it downstairs in time for breakfast.

Our hostess inquired if we had rested well as she served us a very nice breakfast of fresh fruit, coffee, and quiche Lorraine. Our reply was positive, and exclaiming that the bed could have been one of Mr. Lincoln’s but much more comfortable. She smiled and returned to the kitchen.

As a matter of fact we finished our breakfast, went upstairs and back to bed.

So much for Escanaba.

© 3 February 2014

About the Author