Author: jnelson

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Fitness is a Piece of Cake, by Nicholas

Fitness is one of those things that you are better off having
than not having. But fitness is also something I love to ridicule and that is
because some people—gay men among them—take it to absurd extremes.
Fitness can be hard to define and has many meanings. One
man’s fitness can be another man’s piece of cake. The cake of course has to be
organic and with a carrot thrown in so it’s healthy. I find if you put enough
cream cheese in the frosting, however, you can overcome any health benefit from
the carrot. Health and fitness don’t necessarily go together. I was never so
fit as when years ago I used to dance all night after doing the right drugs,
the kind that make you dance all night. I had a waist so small, I could hardly
even measure it. But health wise—I don’t recommend it.
For me, true fitness is an elusive optimal state of health. Right
now, in mid-summer, I see myself as being in peak condition. I have for over a
month now been bicycling 50 miles each week and have reached a kind of plateau
in strength and endurance. My diet has shifted as well to a summer feast of
fresh fruits and vegetables, many of which I pick in my own backyard—basil, kale,
summer squashes, tomatoes. My summer weight is ten pounds less than my winter
weight. Summer means fitness.
Balance of course is key. So, I balance the fresh stuff with
a cold beer before dinner and ice cream after. I wouldn’t touch a health shake
or a protein bar unless I was starving. Fitness is one thing; health nut is
another and I am not a health nut. Optimal means somewhere between energetic
and relaxed. I’ll never be accused of overdoing it.
I know some guys who are into what is called cross-fit
training. Cross-fit is to fitness what sack cloth and self-flagellation are to
religion—a chance to be mean to yourself and feel self-righteous and brag about
it. It isn’t fitness or health, it is punishment. Cross fit is ruthless with its
extremes of running, jumping, doing push ups and pull ups, lifting weights, and
forcing your body to do things it doesn’t want to do and probably shouldn’t.
You might ask: What is all this fitness for? So, you can type
faster on your computer? So, you can look prettier on your computer? So you can
measure up to the high standards of Grindr. Since muscles have no intrinsic
health value, why all this body building? The desire for muscles seems to be in
inverse proportion to the need. Having no practical value, I guess that those built
up bodies must be for display purposes only.
Physical fitness is good for you but I think we should pay
more attention to mental fitness and on that scale our society is pretty
flabby. We don’t exercise our minds and feed it constant junk food. Showing
intelligence is regarded as just showing off. No wonder some Americans want to
get rid of access to health care. And others can’t figure out that that’s a bad
idea. Instead of intelligence—or mental fitness—we get the mental equivalent of
cross fit training—lots of training to navigate complicated computer programs,
for example. But no smarts.
Fitness is for those who have a lifestyle and I gave up a
lifestyle ages ago. Nevertheless, I try to stay fit.
© 30 Jul 2017 
About the Author 
 Nicholas grew up in Cleveland,
then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from
work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga,
writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.
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Collective Evil in Us Results in Evil Leaders, by Louis Brown

New Evil: to protest the
passage of the Trumpcare bill, call Senator Cory Gardner, 303-391-5777 or
202-224-5941 DC and Senator Michael Bennet, 303-455-7600 Colorado, or
202-224-5852 DC. I called the office for both of them.
I am the self-ordained
wannabe Presbyterian right reverend Louis Brown who would like to expatiate not
only on the evils of our current world leaders, but on the evils in our own
hearts. I point this out because “evil” is a heavy-duty theological term.
Many conservative leaders
constantly repeat that the U. S. government is evil. Well, since Donald Trump
is the government, Donald Trump is evil. This is “true” because of ipse dixit, he himself has said it. But
there are degrees of evil. Donald Trump is not the most evil world leader, he
is not even the most evil Republican.  If
Congress removes DT from office, we get Mike Pence who is worse than DT. If
Congress removes MP from office, we get Paul Ryan who is worse than MP. For
people who want to counter their evil intentions, we should remember first that
we should not be afraid of these people since they are paper tigers.
In other words, God is
punishing us for our sins by imposing evil pharaohs on us. Look at France’s new
president Emmanuel Macron, an anti-union banker. He promises to become quite
evil in the near future. Recep Tayyip Erdogan, the new president of Turkey, a
really bizarre medieval president. And of course the abusive Rodrigo Duterte of
the Phillipines. Evil, evil, evil.
When we read the Book of
Job in the Old Testament, Job has extremely bad luck in his life and asks God
what sin he had committed to deserve his wrath and punishment. God does not
answer Job so Job suffers without knowing why.
The other flamboyant evil
world leader is Vladimir Putin. What sin did the Russian people commit to
deserve President Putin? Another punishment from God?
Then we are subjected to
endless condescending lectures by graduates of the London School of Economics
on the inevitability of “globalization,” Think also of Mark Zuckerberg. I
always wondered why the London School of Economics boasts about its prestige.
Because, as an evil institution, it glorifies ignorance, profound ignorance. In
other words, I would like to know, if your version of the economy is failing, why
are you boasting and strutting about like a peacock?
I believe our collective
sin is not advocating more consistently and more vociferously for the rights
and interests of working people. Our world “Leaders” act as though the 20th
century never happened. Amen.
© 26 Jun 2017  
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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Clubs, by Lewis T

I was never a bridge
player.  My parents played bridge but
they never made an effort to teach me how (and I never asked).  Poker, yes, bridge, no.  I seem to remember that clubs were the runt
of the litter when it comes to suits. 
Maybe that’s why the symbol for clubs was the three-leaf clover,
something that constantly gets stepped on, unlike diamonds, hearts, and spades (the
latter of which can be used to uproot clover).
Clubs could also be a
weapon in the olden days.  In fact, they
were the weapon of choice of the cave man and were often used to find a
suitable mate — or, at least, a compliant one.
There used to be
something known as a “club foot”. 
I don’t hear much about them anymore. 
Perhaps they went away as spinach became more popular.
The GOP used to be a
party.  Now, they seem to me to be more
like a club.  Political parties used to
be fairly welcoming, as long as you were old enough to vote and have an opinion.  To join a club, you needed something more–a
characteristic that branded you as an “insider”.  My dad used to be something called a
Kiwanian–a member of the Kiwanis Club. 
Unlike Moose or Elk, Kiwanians did not have to drink a lot of beer and learn
to make strange noises in order to be accepted.
Judging from the list of
potential presidential candidates among Republicans these days, I would guess that
among those traits that make one a stalwart is the belief that conviction is
more important than knowledge.  Texas
Senator Ted Cruz demonstrated this marvelously recently when he made his
announcement as a candidate for President of the U.S.  Raising his right arm in the air and
gesturing toward heaven, much like the Nazi salute but without the starchy
uniform, he said, “Our rights do not come from man, they come from
God”.  I have no doubt that the God
he had in mind was the Old Testament God. 
I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Thomas Jefferson’s.  Cruz’s club would not be a safe place for
liberals, gays, scientists, non-believers, intellectuals, philosophers, people
born in the U.S., and members of the middle class.  All others would be luke-warmly welcomed.
© 26 Mar 2015 
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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Walls, by Ray S

It was a grey March morning in 2007, the view looking
south through my dining room window was one of frozen earth and the black
remains of last summer’s garden. The thought came to me in an instant. “No, I
can’t do this again.” “This” was in reference to the task of planting a new
garden, of battling weeds, and tending a too-large lawn. Then too, our little
1940’s spec-ranch style house had suddenly become too much house of one ageing
widower.
After engaging the service of a good family friend and
realtor, the end result was a sale that required new owner occupancy by April
first. “Goodbye” to forty-some years of suburbia and relocation to a small
ground-level apartment, replete with sufficient essential facilities and
surrounded by all white painted interior walls. It was all such a
welcome no brainer not to concern oneself with color, anything works with white
and, besides, this was the beginning of a new, colorful life.
The new life lasted until the bank chose to pursue the
condo’s owner for nonpayment of the bank’s loan. So goes the “white walls.” And
the search for more walls to hang my art stuff, memorabilia, and toothbrush. With
the miraculous touch on the computer apparatus my “darling daughter” phoned me
to say she had found a possible new home for the homeless and aged Pater.
Another phone call arranged a meeting with the owner
of a rental condo near Washington Park; all of this having been discovered by
daughter while browsing the internet and finding the listing on “Craig’s List.”
Here’s the kicker; daughter and I met the owner’s
representative at the prearranged hour. I noted that the front door key and
lock didn’t like each other, but it finally unlocked revealing an apartment
consisting of required living spaces, all six of them including a kitchen and a
bathroom replete with claw foot bath tub, and each room sported a different
color on their respective walls.
Ever since that day it has been one colorful day after
another within my painter’s “Somewhere over the Rainbow” palette walls.
© 24 January 2017 
About the Author 
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Hero – Heroine, by Phillip Hoyle

My dad deeply respected two ministers who pastored the
church I grew up in: Brother W.F. Lown and Brother Charles Cook. Both highly
educated men were skillful preachers, fine administrators, and dedicated
ministers. Brother Lown baptized me at a rather early age because I insisted on
it. Several years later he spoke to me about becoming a minister. I was eight
years old when he planted that seed. I started paying attention to what was
being said around the church—sermons, lessons, conversations, and discussions.
When Lown left to become the president of a nearby church-related college, I
got to know Brother Cook, our new minister. I watched him carefully and was
surprised (and probably disappointed) one weekday afternoon at junior high
choir rehearsal when some girls were paying no attention and talking mindlessly
while we were practicing. He yelled, “What in the Sam Hill do you think you are
doing?” He made it clear he wanted us to work not gab. Although I was mildly
shocked, I realized that ministers were people with a full range of emotions.
That was probably the main experience that made it possible for me to actually
become a minister. That day I realized that ministers are human beings not
heroes, well all but one of them.
My hero a minister I started hearing about when I was
a few years older: The Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King, Junior. I paid
attention to his career, preaching, and activism. He eclipsed my attraction to
Billy Graham whom I also greatly respected. King’s power as a speaker got my attention,
but mostly his message of equality for all people made great sense out of the
old gospel message of salvation I had heard since the first Sunday after my
birth. And his message of racial equality filled a void made in my life by our
family’s move from the Army town where I was born to a small county seat town
where there were no African Americans, no persons of Asian descent, and only
two Hispanic people—a mother and her daughter. I missed people who looked,
thought, and lived differently. I missed people who were recent immigrants from
Germany, Japan or Puerto Rico. I missed many friends and neighbors who, thanks
to Kings preaching, I realized weren’t getting a fair shake in America. I liked
the practical, daily, living, moral message of his preaching. And of course I
liked his oratory and forceful leadership. I had a real hero—one who was a
warrior, a leader, a strategist, a public figure who served his people—the
whole people of the United States of America—and who paid the ultimate price
for his courage and leadership.
Years later, when my African Son whom I was visiting
in Memphis, Tennessee took me to the MLK Memorial at the place King was
murdered, I realized this man, unlike activists I met in the late 1970s, was
not living high on the hog. He was staying in an old motel in downtown Memphis.
Nothing fancy. He lived with the least of these his brothers and sisters. And
he was a real human being with the full range of human emotions and experience.
King became my first hero and to date my only one.
© 30 January 2017 
About the Author 
Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his
time writing, painting, and socializing. In general, he keeps busy with groups
of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen
in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He
volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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Sorting it Out, by Louis Brown

“Sorting it Out” for me,
means tying up some loose strings.
Some other final thoughts
on The Red Tent by Anita Diamant:
(1)           
Circumcision:
the whole ritual becomes a symbol or precursor of mass murder or genocide.
Three of Dinah’s brothers – Simon, Levy, and Reuben – hire a small army of
goons and invade the walled city of Shechem at night and kill almost all of the
Egyptian men by slitting their throats. To please their king, Hamor, all the male
inhabitants of Shechem had been circumcised and had agreed to this because King
Hamor’s son Shalem wanted to marry Dinah, the Jewish Isaac’s granddaughter.
Hamor and Shalem were also circumcised, which they agreed to as a peace gesture
and soon after were murdered by Simon, Levy, and Reuben and their goons.
I think the author’s intent was to portray
men as having a bad killing instinct whereas women are life-givers and
nurturers. Men have it in their DNA to kill and, if able, to commit genocide. I
think the author was being a little too pessimistic. Although I note the
popularity of boxing and that of the John Wayne style of Western in which it
was perfectly OK for white people to plan the extermination of the native
American population, and earlier the Pilgrims doing pretty much the same thing.
(2)           
The once-a-month menstrual cycle explains
why all the ancient moon deities were women: Innana, Diana, Luna, etc. The
monthly cycle of the moon includes: no moon, crescent moon, half-moon, ¾-moon,
full moon, and it takes one month.   
(3)           
In the ancient tribe of Jacob in the tents
of Mamre, children with birth defects were left in the desert to die.
(4)           
I asked the Librarian, Della, at the
Lakewood Library if they had a gay and Lesbian book section. Della said not
exactly but gay and Lesbian literature, fiction, and non-fiction, has its own
Dewey decimal number so can be researched. I said most of gay literature that I
had read so far was either extremely politically polemic or just plain gossipy.
Della recommended:
(a)     I left it on the Mountain by Kevin
Sessums (2015) – the psychological and spiritual journey of an AIDS patient.
(b)           
“And the Band played on.” Starring Matthew
Modine. In a word, The French (Institute Pasteur) discovered the AIDS virus
first. Dr. Gallo of the American CDC claimed otherwise.
(c)     Sarah Waters who wrote the novel The
Paying Guests (published 2014). This is a Lesbian murder mystery. 
© 8 May 2017  
About
the Author  
I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City,
Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker
for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally
impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s.
I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few
interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I
graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.
Posted on

Queer as a $3 Bill, by Lewis Thompson

I see little in common
between being “queer” (in so far as that term is used in reference to someone’s
sexual orientation) and a “$3 bill”. 
This room at the GBLT Center of Denver is filled with individuals of a
sexual orientation that has been and still is often self-described as “queer”, that
term having lost its pejorative connotation not so long ago.  As for the $3 bill, can I see by a show of
hands how many of us have ever seen one? [pause]
A much more apropos
expression would be “queer as a $2 bill”. 
By this I do not mean to further devalue gays but simply to recognize
the fact that $2 bills exist.  I enjoy
carrying them in my wallet.  For one
thing they are handy for tipping.
This topic begs the
question as to how many of us there are—queer folk, that is.  And are there degrees of queerness?  It is related to flamboyance?  Affect? 
Appearance?  Lifestyle?  In my experience, I would have to say that
the long-tenured belief that queers comprised 10% of the population has long
been discredited, unless you want to include men and women who admire their own
bodies, in which case the number would likely be much, much higher.  Based upon my personal observations, I would
have to estimate the fraction of humans who indentify as queer to be in the
order of 1-2%.  I have attended every one
of Hutchinson, Kansas, High School’s Class of 1964 reunions.  Out of a class of 450, to my knowledge, I am
the only alumnus who is “out of the closet”. 
There are a few “suspicious” characters among the lot but nothing
definitive.  Based upon that unscientific
observation, I would have to conclude that queers comprise about 0.4% of the
general population—roughly equivalent to my estimate of the fraction of $2
bills within the wallets and purses of the American populace.
If it weren’t for our
straight allies, I think we would be much worse off, both spiritually and
physically.  So, allow me to raise a
toast to all those “$1 bills” that have kept us safe and allowed us the freedom
to show our true colors.
© 14 Mar 2016 
About
the Author 
I came to the
beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the
state where I married and 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.
Posted on

Smoking,by Gillian

“I
quit smoking when I was in college”,  I
say, righteously; but that is a huge distortion of the truth!
It’s
not exactly a lie. I have probably not smoked more than ten cigarettes since
the late 1950’s. But I didn’t quit in the sense of the huge conscious
effort of concentrated willpower the word implies. I just kind of drifted away
from it and never really missed it; rather in the same way I had drifted into
it. It was attractive, for a while, in the way of all forbidden things,
especially to the young. We smuggled ill-gotten packs of cigarettes onto the
school bus, puffing away at them huddled on the back seat while the driver
turned a blind eye. He chain-smoked so why should he care if we took a few
inexpert drags?
I
didn’t quite get the attraction, but of course did not say so. There’s a limit to how much of an odd-ball one
is willing to become, and holding a cigarette between my fingers for a few
seconds every now and then was a cheap price to pay for belonging: not being an
outcast. (Being the child of a local teacher offers many challenges.)  Nobody seemed to notice whether I ever
actually placed the cigarette between my lips, much less inhaled. Life was
easy.
In
college, at any social gathering, I always had a drink in my hand. So did my
fellow party-goers. Most of them also held a smoldering cigarette. But the
drink was my membership card, so few, if any, noticed the lack of burning
embers.
A
few years later, at a party with several twenty-something co-workers, my husband
and I both had the obligatory drink-in-the-hand when the joint came by. We both
passed it on, untouched by human lips; untouched by ours, anyway. We both knew
that we had enough of a challenge controlling the attractions of alcohol and
had no need of another.
So,
in a very strange way, booze has saved me.
But
the attitude of the medical profession towards drinking and smoking which I
find rather strange.
“Yes”,
I acknowledge, “I probably drink more than is good for me.”
“Do
you smoke?” is the inevitable response.
I
think if I said, “There’s a huge pink elephant in the corner of your office,” the
reply would probably be, “How many packs do you average a day?’”
© August 2016 
About the Author 
I was born and
raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S.
and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder
area since 1965, working for 30-years at IBM. I married, raised four
stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself
as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years.
We have been married since 2013.
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The Gayest Person I Have Ever Known, by Betsy

What does it mean to be
the gayest?  Using the word gay in its
generic sense and being a woman myself, I will discuss the term gayest in
relation to the only woman I know about whom I can make that judgement. And that
would be yours truly.  Now that I think
about it I find that I do not know how to apply the adjective to anyone except
myself.  How do I know how gay someone
is? How do I know how straight someone is? 
Are we talking about their libido? 
I don’t think so.  I have heard of
lesbians with very strong libidos, but I don’t consider them to be gayer than
others.  On the other end of the scale I
have known a few women who have a dislike and distrust of men in general,
suggesting that they may have been abused in the past. These women avoid men,
prefer not to associate with men, gay or straight, relate only to women and are
considered by themselves and others to be lesbians. Yet they are not interested
in sex with a woman either.  They are
basically asexual.
 Or perhaps we’re talking about
a gay person who never associates with straight people. Does this make a person
gayer than one who has a more diverse group of friends and associates.
Certainly not.  Could it mean a person
who is more secure in his/her gayness. 
Possibly.  But I reject that as well.  That just means the person is more secure,
not GAYER. 
And so, I repeat. The
only person whose degree of gayness I might have any idea about–has to be
myself.  And to compare my degree gayness
with that of others, I have to be able to measure the degree of gayness of
others.  And I have just made the case
that such a measurement is impossible. Hmm..This presents a problem.
But wait!  Enter the queerometer.  Just when the problem seems impossible to
solve, I remember the queerometer.  I
discussed this very issue once before in a piece called “Queer, Just How Queer.”  Could we not just as well have called it “Gay,
Just How Gay.”  I’m going to revisit what
I wrote then.
Imagine that we could
measure an individual’s degree of sexual orientation by taking, say, a blood
test.   This would be an ugly world
indeed with a rigid caste system.  The
most heterosexual would be on top and the most homosexual on the bottom. 
Newborns would be
immediately tested at birth.  Here’s one
scenario.
“Congratulations, Mr. and
Mrs. Jones.  You have a healthy baby boy
measuring only two on the queerometer.  He will be your pride and joy.” 
Or, the dreaded scenario:  “You have a healthy baby boy, Mr. and Mrs.
Jones.  He has 10 fingers and 10 toes and
all his parts.  I’m sorry to tell you
that he tests positive on the queerometer. 
He’s a 9.6″
“Oh,” says Mrs. Jones,
gasping for breath.   “A 9.6 !  Does that mean, does that mean?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” says
the attendant.  “At the age of eight years
you will be required to turn him over to the Department of Corrections.  He will be yours until then.  Enjoy!”
Or the following
close-call:
“Congratulations, Mr. and
Mrs. Jones.  You have a beautiful baby
girl.  She appears to be in perfect
health and all her parts are in the right place.  However, she does measure a five on the
queerometer, which, as you know, is high. 
The state will provide you with all the materials you need to guide her
in the right direction.  If you use the
manual wisely and stick to it, she will turn out just fine and I’m sure she
will live a normal life and give you many grandchildren.”  
Or imagine a world in
which LGBT people took on a particular hue at puberty.  Say, a shade of purple.  The really dark purple ones would be the
really, really, queer ones, and the light violets would be only slightly
inclined to be homosexual or transgender, or bisexual, or queer.  I can see the pride parade right now.  A massive multi-shaded purple blob oozing
down Colfax.
Alas, this does not
answer the question at hand: who is the gayest person I have ever known. The
queerometer fortunately does not exist and we hope it never will. So, the
question “Who is the gayest person I have ever known” remains unanswered.   As I write, an appropriate answer comes to
me.   WHO CARES!  And the more people who don’t care, the
better off we will be.
© 28 Jul 2014 
About
the Author 
 Betsy has been active in
the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old
Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been
retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major
activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a
volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading,
writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage.
She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren.
Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her
life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.
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Where I Was When Kennedy Was Shot, by Ricky

I was in a theater watching a movie. 
I think it was a western, but I don’t remember for sure.  When he was shot, I wasn’t sad at all because
he was a bad man.  I went home feeling
rather good about the movie as John Wayne triumphed again.  Later on in his career, Kennedy won an Oscar
for Best Supporting Actor for his role in the movie Cool Hand Luke.  George Kennedy 18 Feb 1925 to 28 Feb 2016.
Joseph Kennedy Sr. was not shot but died in 1969 8-years after suffering
a stroke less than one year after his son was elected president.  I was in the Air Force at the time and really
didn’t care.
Joe Kennedy Jr. was killed in a bomber explosion during WWII.  I wasn’t even born at that time so I don’t
know where I was at the time.
Robert F. Kennedy was shot dead on 5 June 1968.  I was in an Air Force tech school in Texas
studying to become a Radio Intercept Analysist. 
I was sad because his brother was also shot.  I learned later that Robert’s young son was
upstairs in their hotel room watching the events on television and saw his
father get shot and die.  I can only
imagine the trauma that inflicted upon him.
Edward M. Kennedy died 25 August 2009 of complications from a malignant
brain tumor and was not shot.  I was living
at my current home in Lakewood, Colorado, but once again, I didn’t care very
much.
John F. Kennedy Jr. was born 25 November 1960 and died in a plane crash
16 July 1999.  I did grieve for him as I
still remembered him as the little boy who saluted his father’s caisson as it
passed him on its way to Arlington National Cemetery.  As I noted above, he was not shot.
John F. Kennedy was shot 22 November 1963 while I was taking a biology
test as a sophomore in high school.  I
had not studied for the test and was struggling with the answers.  I was about half way through the exam when
Mr. Al Hilldinger opened the door and shouted, “Kennedy’s been shot.”  The next day, our biology teacher, Mr. Harold
Mapes, gave us all a revised test because we had all done so poorly on the
previous day’s exam.  He blamed it on the
Kennedy assassination.  I wish he had
told us about the second text so I could have studied for it, but he didn’t and
I did better but not up to my normal performance on that test.
This “story” would have been much shorter if the topic would have been
just a bit more specific when referring to people.  There are way too many people named Kennedy
to just be so generic by using last names only.
© 3 Apr 2017 
About the Author 
 I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale
and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I was sent to live with my grandparents on their
farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents
divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.