Author: jnelson

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Limerick, by Louis Brown

In Honor of Brendan Fay
There was a gay libber from Gotham,
He was Irish from his top to his bottom,
They told him no parade,
He screamed, “What a charade!”
That Irish gay libber from Gotham.
For many years I
followed the radical career of Brendan Fay. We always seemed to be going to the
same protest marches. In fact, I knew him when he was quite young. He was
good-looking, somewhat short, his ears stuck out just enough to make him look
like a leprechaun. He was a great impassioned public speaker.
For many years the
Hibernian Society that was in charge of the St. Patrick’s Day Parade in New
York City refused to let any gay group march under their own banners. The Irish
Lesbian Gay Association went to federal court and claimed that since the St.
Pat’s day parade was a public accommodation, the Hibernian Society could not
exclude any group. ILGA lost the lawsuit. So, every year ILGA members and many
gay and Lesbian Irish stood on the sidewalks and protested.
Eventually the
local politicians became more supportive of the gay and Lesbian Irish people’s
cause, and the mayor and the governor stopped attending the St. Pat’s day
parade. Three or four years ago, the Hibernian Society permitted gay and
lesbian military veterans to march under their own banner. Though that was
progress, it was not good enough. “If we can march in Dublin and Cork, why
can’t we march right here in New York?” Brendan Fay made frequent visits to Ireland
especially when there were legal cases involving homophobia or legal
restrictions on abortion.
ILGA once
advocated interrupting Catholic masses to remind the faithful of the Catholic
Church’s homophobic policies. And in general, ILGA was too radical for Brendan
Fay so he set up a more liberal organization the Lavender and Green Alliance
which sponsored the setting up of an inclusive Saint Patrick’s Day parade in
Woodside, in Queens County. This parade has become extremely popular and
well-attended over the years.
Brendan Fay married Dr.
Thomas Moulton in Toronto, Canada, in 1995, and Brendan’s last name is Celtic
for “fairy.” At these many demonstrations over the years, I also met Ms.
Barbara Mohr, half Puerto Rican, half Irish. Ms. Mohr (née Hefernan) who also
worked hard for all of Brendan’s causes, including Dignity NY. Of course, she
is gone now.
Question: Are any gay or
Lesbian groups marching under their own banners in the annual Denver Saint
Patrick’s Day Parade? Did any gay group every try? Was it an issue?
Then there is Daniel
Dromm, another gay Irishman on the New York City scene. NYC Council Member
Daniel Dromm set up and still supports Queens Lesbian and Gay Democratic Club
which meets in Jackson Heights and also founded the Queens Lesbian and Gay
Pride March Committee. This annual march is very well attended and is followed
by a rally and entertainment.  
© 15 Mar 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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Piece O’Cake, by Lewis Thompson

Pope Francis recently
announced that his tenure in office might just be more brief than the world had
expected.  Not because of a health
issue–at least, not his physical health. 
No, it seems that Pope Francis is growing tired of the pomp, ceremony,
and public attention that goes with his office. 
More than power, more than influence, the man longs for the simple,
everyday ability to slip out for a pizza without drawing a crowd.
I suspect that Pope
Francis, much as I do, realizes that what nurtures his soul is not so much
rules and rituals designed to bring us closer to the Divine, however we define
that concept.  In the end, as our days
get short, we realize that it is the simple things in life that reach our heart
the most; the walk in a park, an intimate conversation with a friend, listening
to a favorite bit of music, an inspirational speech, an act of kindness, an
expression of love, a perfect pizza with a beloved friend–that elicits a tear,
sparks a squeal of delight, or makes us feel warm and fuzzy inside.
For me, these are the
kinds of things that make me glad to be alive. 
They put the icing on the cake.  I
think I’ll have another piece.
© 16 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 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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Public Places, by Gillian

Over
the fifteen years that Betsy and I had Brunhilda, our VW camper van, we made
great use of so many public parks I couldn’t begin to count them.
That’s
how I started this piece, not really knowing where it was going from here. But
a thought struck me. Why couldn’t I begin, and eventually succeed in,
counting them? Betsy and I, ever anal, kept logbook-type diaries of every trip
we ever took with ol’ Brunie. 

So.,
I lugged armfuls of dusty old, and some not so old, notebooks, up from the
basement.

I
began to count, using that age-old tried-and-true method (though admittedly
very low-tech) of four short strokes with a line through them counting five. I was
surprised to find it actually only took me an hour or so, but admit to the
somewhat loose totals at which I arrived.
We
have camped for about 125 total days in over 50 National Parks. Several of
these were a few days together, as we explored the Park.  

We
have camped for over 150 days in State Parks in almost every one of the lower
48. In fact, I believe we have camped in every single state, neither Betsy nor
I can think of one we’ve missed, but I’d have to check through all those old
books again, not to mention all that illegible handwriting, to be 100% sure and
I really don’t care that much right now; in fact, I doubt I ever will! Many of
these stops were just one-nighters; a useful, but also frequently very
beautiful and interesting, place to stay on the way to and from somewhere else.
Town
and county parks, often only discovered by chatting to the locals, also often
tended to be one-night stands but nonetheless are frequently undiscovered gems.
Often, they are centered on some feature of local fame: an old historic cabin,
a little one-room local museum, a unique geologic formation, or the old water
mill. We have spent about 60 nights in such locations, and it’s here you tend
to meet interesting locals looking for someone new to talk to, and invariably wanting
to have a good look inside Brunhilda. Some places we have camped while Betsy
pedaled her ass around this State or that, have not in fact been campground at
all; merely the local school ball field or the town park – facilities are
always made available to a bicycle group wanting to stay the night and perhaps
leave behind a few bucks when they leave.
We
have camped 12 times in National Historic or Geologic Sites, frequently well
off the beaten path and little utilized, and so, very quiet. These are also
usually places of great interest, occasionally enough to keep us there for a
second night.  

Our
very favorites are probably the BLM or National Forest campgrounds. They are
inexpensive, quiet, and usually well away from any freeway. They are in deserts
and forests, on beaches and lakes, beside major rivers and tiny trickling
streams. Humans are the minority of their visitors. We share them with animals
and birds. We share them, sometimes not so gladly, with snakes and bugs. But,
despite the latter, we have returned several times to some of the 50 or so we
have used, often staying more than one night.
Our
public spaces are great gifts to us, some from the present but mostly from
previous generations. I am ever grateful to those with the foresight to create
these places, and to the avid campers of the early years of cross-country
motoring who engendered the need for established campground amid the beauty of
the wild, such as we enjoy today.
© 6 Jun 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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Pestilent Pustules, by Carlos

I stand in front of the mirror,
taking a good hard look at myself and feel compelled to ponder on that which is
reflected back. I think I see a man in the prime of life, a successful
professor, a husband, a gay man, a painter of ideas, and a tiller of the earth.
In spite of the private shapes I forge, I grapple with those tenuous childhood
terrors that have haunted me throughout the decades as I submit to what I am in
the eyes of others. Of course, I recognize that what others see is not reality
and that the private me is just that, private, inked on paper indecipherable to
anyone but me. Unfortunately, all-too-often the world insists on categorizing
what is unfathomable to anyone but me. I am weary of appraisals that turn human
beings, ideas, me, into potential evil monsters. Most of my life I have lived
with the gun in the back of my head, recognizing, denying, fearing those moments
when I hear the click of the hammer, and today as so many other days of my
life, I await the silence.
A few weekends ago my husband Ron and
I drove up to Boulder, a day trip meant to celebrate having survived another
week of toiling to color within the lines. As we walked through the farmer’s
market an all-encompassing, gentile life swarmed around us like honey bees
intoxicated on the ethers of bright red poppies. We smiled at the precision of a
silver-painted street performer who mimicked life, appearing at one moment to
be a pewter statue, only to startle audiences as he awoke to movement, to life.
Around us gravitated goat cheese, gelato and herb vendors in a Turkish-like
bazaar. Bicyclists strolled lazily down the streets, while families gathered
around the banks of Boulder Creek, its rushing icy water inviting people to sit
on the grassy shores and by lulled by the cascading water’s sloshing toward the
sea. I told Ron it was like being transported back to a simpler, less hectic
time when people found pleasure under the spreading maples and kinder ways of
Pollyanna’s Harrington.
Our time travel scenario was abruptly
interrupted when we noted a crowd in front of city hall on the Pearl Street
Mall. A group of politically right-wing men and women were cordoned off by a
line of police officers like rats in a cage and separated from humanity. Having
crawled out from under their rocks and holding court, they used megaphones, and
bolstered by the freedom of speech and right to assemble, they delivered biting
tirades about building walls and closing our borders. Their intent was
obviously to incite the crowd. I thought it was ironic that while I had shed my
blood for my country and for our citizens to enjoy our Constitutional rights,
these pustules in need of laceration had draped themselves in the American flag
for which I had fought, claiming that they were true patriots defending the
homeland. The audience for the most part appeared bewildered that evil had come
to nest within their idyllic sanctuary. Many, however, found their voices and
fired back exchanges in an attempt to diffuse the vitriolic words crafted by
poisoned little minds. As I stood in front of the barricades, the speaker eyed
me with special interest. Of course, I could only surmise that since I was an
anomaly in the essentially white audience, I became an emblem of every
Trump-fabricated Mexican rapist and murder, best contained behind his
xenophobic wall. At the moment that he eye-balled and pointed at me, mouthing
something I could not understand, I felt a need to stand with the drag queens
of Stonewall and the lettuce pickers of California. When he pursed his lips and
blew me a kiss in derision, I instinctively turned to Ron and kissed him in an
effort to demonstrate that being gay and Latino was my badge of honor.
Nonetheless, although I had vindicated myself, I left feeling violated.
Being a man of color in America
requires courage to survive. Some people love to brand others by the outer
trappings of our personas. I so desperately long to be accepted as me; however,
I live in a society that often demands to know what I am, Hispanic, Latino,
Chicano, Mexican-American, homosexual, queer, faggot. Because I was raised
embracing the best of all worlds, loving the rich tapestry of diversity billowing
around us, I have always thwarted society’s attempts to cubbyhole me. It is not
easy. Though I am an American by birth and culture, so much of my life I’ve
been labeled as a dubious American, viewed by many in mainstream American society
as perhaps alien and exotic, perhaps inferior, definitely different; viewed by
just as many Mexicans with mistrust. Their eyes say, “Aunque tienes el apellido, y hablas nuestro
idioma, no eres más que un pocho; realmente no eres como nosotros.” “Although you have the Spanish
surname and speak our language, you are but an American who has lost his
culture; in truth you are not like us.” Thus, I slide back and forth between
the fringes of two worlds by smiling, my masking the discomfort of being
prejudged in a multi-layered world.
Of course, being a man of color in
America is also a wondrous adventure. Last week, I was in Kansas City at the
Nelson-Adkins Museum of Art with a friend I’ve known for decades. I surprised
my friend when I approached a museum docent and asked her in Spanish where to
find the bookstore, feigning to speak no English.  I can only hope my friend forgives me for my
whimsical, wicked ways; however, I love demonstrating to the world around us
that although we are one people and one America, there are many rooms in the
house of humanity. We are a wondrous banquet of peoples from all walks of life
celebrating our individual as well as our collective journeys, but only when we
stop being afraid.
Intellectually, I have often
questioned whether evil truly exists, yet my soul’s instincts leave no doubt
but to its existence.  Of course, I understand
the psychology that can goad a mind into a maelstrom of malignancy. I comprehend
Lucifer’s battle with sibling rivalry after having been the favorite only to be
compelled to kneel before man. I have even pondered whether he, Lucifer, aligns
himself with banished humanity rather than continuing to claim allegiance to a
capricious being, who surrounds itself with sycophants who feed their emotional
void. On the other hand, I suspect that Lucifer is the tool by which humanity
approaches Spirit, not as child-like innocents, but as full-fledge adults, well
aware that faith is possible only when we act on our free will. Yet, no amount
of intellectual rationalizing can justify humanity’s perpetual forays into the systematic
carnage and conflagrations that litter our history whether in Syria, South
Sudan, Washington, D.C., or Boulder. This being the case, I confess, that when I
am confronted by evil deeds and evil people, I have never been one to turn the
other cheek of forbearance. It may be spiritually preferable to change an enemy
by hating the sin while loving the sinner, but the reality is that sometimes
the enemy is transformed only when tension is applied. After all, evil
neighbors, tyrants, and bullies rarely pull back their claws until the blood
spilling upon the earth is their own. I believe that if people of conscience do
not stand up to evil doers and refuse to prostrate ourselves before their
blood-soaked sandals, humanity never ascends above our bestial, primordial
state. Although it may feel at times as though we are but one standing up
against a mighty force, I believe that opposition to evil does not require much
more than following the path that leads to ultimate manifestation of fair play
and open doors for all, as demonstrated by those rare evolved souls throughout
history who serve as bastions against the darkness.
© 22 Jun
2017 
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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Moving, by Betsy

Fernwood
Place, Mt. Lakes, N. J. to Charles St, Hammond, La. to Wells College, Aurora,
N.Y. to St. Rochester, N.Y., to University Apt., Rochester, N.Y. to Scottsville
Apt to Quaker Rd, Scottsville, N.Y. to 3 different places in Leyden, The
Netherlands, to Glick Place, Ft. Detrick, Frederick, Md. to 2025 Ash St.,
Denver, CO, to Glencoe St. to Dahlia St. to Lakewood Green, Lakewood, CO.  Over my lifetime of 80 years I have moved 14
times. That means I have moved on the average every 5.7 years of my life.  That would not be too bad for a nomadic
tribe, but I am not a nomad—at least, I didn’t think I was. This seems like too
many moves to me.
The
longest stay in one place, 15 years, was the Fernwood Place home in New
Jersey.  This is where we lived when I was
born. We left this home for Louisiana when I was 15.
So
there followed many moves. After that it would be only two or three years of
being established in one place.  Funny. I
never realized that my home had been disrupted so often until I started writing
this piece about moving.  It doesn’t feel
like I moved a lot but it turns out I did.
There
are some benefits to our moving a lot. One is that my birth family at the time
became very close. When I was young and we moved to the deep south we all had a
huge adjustment to make.  Being with my
siblings and/or my parents made me feel secure. For my brother and sister and
me during that period of adjustment, there were no life-long friends present to
distract us from the familiarity of each other and the rest of the family.  While everything was new, I appreciated more
that which was familiar to me; namely, my siblings and my parents.
The
same situation existed when I was a mother. My children were quite young when
we moved to a very unfamiliar place with an unfamiliar language.  At first, they had to stick with each other
and with us their parents just to get through the day.  They appreciated the familiarity of each
other.
There
is another up-side to all the moving. When you move you tend to throw things
out that you don’t need. You can move them, but that can be expensive and if
you haven’t used something in the past five years, why keep it?
Books
are an item neither Gill nor I have ever thrown out over the years and so
between us we accumulated lots and lots of books. The last time we moved, the
moving guys remarked that they had never seen so many books. ‘Though we have
been in our current home for over 5 years and plan to stay here, we have gotten
rid of about 1/2 of our books just in the last year.  It wasn’t that hard, really.
I
have talked with people who have lived in the same house all their lives. They
seem very calm and settled which is understandable. However, universally they
say they dread ever having to clean it out. 
They don’t even know what they have. Well maybe they won’t have to clean
it out, but someone will.
Gill
and I have been in our Lakewood home now for 5 years. If I am still upright 10
years from now, I will have been here 15 years. Hey! I lived in my birth home
for 15 years. I will have gone full circle. Is that an omen for the future?
After 15 years in the same place, if I am still alive will I have to go to
assisted living?  Maybe my time will come
and I will leave in a box. Good thing I’m not superstitious. Any of those things
could happen, but I do not believe it is pre-destined. It does give me a goal.
Be in one home for more than 15 years.
© 3 Nov 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), 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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Fond Memories, by Ricky

About 14-years ago, my
youngest daughter, Verity, and I went on a father/daughter bonding trip.  We had a wonderful time together.  From 10 thru 20 September, Donald and I
retraced part of that previous trip. 
Time and finances dictated that we could not complete the entire trip
that my daughter and I did, but the shorter distance could neither prevent the
recall of those past fond memories nor prevent the creation of new ones.
As I write this “story”, I
am attempting not to make it a travelogue but to restrict myself to writing
about the experiences and feelings involved. 
First, I will start with the summary; 10-days and 3,160 miles driving a
car (no matter how comfortable) is way too much butt time in said car.  Having dispensed with that memory, I am
passing around a few of the many photographs I took on the trip.  It has been said many times that a photograph
is worth a thousand words, so by passing these around I am saving myself
thousands of words and many pages of paper.
The trip beginning was
delayed several hours when Donald’s cat, Parker, noticed the cat carrier and
hid from us.  Once we finally got her
into the carrier and to the cat “hotel”, it was time for a late lunch.  We managed to get to Douglas, Wyoming the
first night.  At this point, Donald and I
were still excited to be on our way.  For
me traveling is no fun unless one is sharing it with another.
When we arrived at the
Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument, the weather had turned cool and
windy.  Donald was excited as he had
never been there.  The wind dampened his
enthusiasm.  I did not know that the
entire battlefield was a National Cemetery. 
Many improvements had been made since the last time I was there.  For Donald, it was his first time and he was
moved emotionally.  I have long ago
recovered from feeling the great sadness that the battle created in its
aftermath.  However, I moved from sadness
to little feeling to happiness when I discovered that not only were there
markers to show where the soldiers fell but markers showing where the Indian
warriors fell.  There is also a marker to
show where the cavalry horses are all buried. 
The best feeling of happiness came to me when I saw the monument erected
commemorating the Indian’s side of the story.
EBR-1 is a historic site
that relatively few people visit because it is out of the way for past and
present security and safety purposes. 
This is the site of the world’s first nuclear power plant.  Verity and I took the tour when we were
there.  Donald and I got there on the 12th
and tours were stopped for the season on September 1st.  I was very disappointed because I wanted to
“show” Donald something most people will not get to see.  Donald appeared unimpressed with the building
façade which dampened my joy in being there. 
Except for the wind, we enjoyed looking at the two prototype nuclear
powered jet engines on display outside the EBR-1 building for obvious reasons.
At Craters of the Moon, we
did not go walking along any of the trails into the lava beds.  The last time I did that, I tripped on an
outcropping and cut my palm on some lava I grabbed to prevent a fall.  We also did not climb the Inferno Cinder
Cone.  The last time I did, I got
volcanic dust in my throat which took three months to heal.  I did not want either Donald or I to go
through that.  Donald did spot Mickey
Mouse at a different roadside stop.
At Twin Falls, Idaho, we
spotted a golf course with an ominous looking hole inside the Snake River
canyon.  It was awesome to see in situ.
Continuing on to Nevada, we
spent about an hour in historic Virginia City. 
I have been enamored of the Tahoe, Carson City, Virginia City area since
I moved there in 1958.  Donald not so
much.  He mostly liked the old
architecture of the buildings and streets, but did not appreciate going in some
of the famous saloons such as: The Silver Queen or the Bucket of Blood.
The Silver Queen saloon is
famous for the floor to ceiling portrait of a lady whose formal gown is inlaid
with silver dollars and her jewelry is composed of small gold coins.  She is a very impressive sight.
After leaving Virginia City,
I began to get more excited as we approached Lake Tahoe.  First, we had to complete our symbolic trip
across the Great Basin by stopping at Mormon Station in Genoa located at the
foot of the Sierra Nevada mountains. 
There is a statue there to “Snowshoe” Thompson.  He carried the mail over Carson Pass to Placerville,
California from 1856 to 1876 in the winter.  Contrary to his nickname “snowshoe”, he did
not use the American version.  Instead,
he used the Norwegian version which we call cross-country “skis”. 
Donald and I finally arrived
in the Tahoe Basin via the Kingsbury Grade, a pioneer toll-road.  We passed between several casinos, which
thrilled Donald but I was used to the sight. 
I was mostly excited to attend my 50th high school reunion.
Over the next 4-days, Donald
and I attended four reunion events: the meet and greet, class dinner, a tour of
our old high school and the new South Tahoe High School.  You can see about the school by watching an 8
½ minute segment of the Larry King show (16 Jan 2016) at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ki-_4fYpANg
The same week we were there
it was announced that the high school was named 7th most beautiful
campus in California.  My sense of pride
did go up.  I am pretty sure Donald
agreed with the evaluation. 
During the tour, another
member of our class of ’66, was inducted to the Wall of Fame.  Bob Regan composes songs and lyrics for the
Nashville crowd.  The other member of the
wall from our class is one of my two high school friends, Ray Hoff, whom I
refer to as the rocket scientist.  He
worked in the space program building satellites until he retired.
I was not shy in high
school, but I did keep a low profile, or so I thought.  I was amazed at just how many of my
classmates actually remembered me.  That
was another ego boost.  At the class
dinner, I learned that some of my classmates were up to quite a few
hijinks.  I guess that is why our class
was given the moniker “The Rebels”.
I know Donald had a great
time, when not confined to a car seat, and now he has many new happy
memories.  I also have happy memories of
traveling with Donald and the reunion.  I
only hope we can keep them for a long time into the future.
© 10 Sep 2016 

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.
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Eavesdropping, by Gillian

I say the days of
eavesdropping are over. Like so many other things, it is obsolete; extinct.
Voices yell intimacies into smartphones, while people’s every thought, word,
and deed, flood from Facebook and Twitter. We have entered an era more of anti-eavesdropping;
of trying not to hear the intimate details of everyone’s life; their
every opinion. Not long after the last Superbowl a friend and I met for lunch.
The business- men at the next table were so raucous in their analysis of the
game that we had to move to another table. Next to that one, two women talked
incessantly, almost as loud as those men, not to each other but into their
phones. Eavesdropping, if you can even use the term, has become obligatory.
As a kid, especially
being an only child, I loved to eavesdrop. I recall clearly one conversation on
a bus. The young couple in the seat in front of me had a very emotional, if
whispered, argument over whose fault it was that the girl was pregnant. I got
quite an education. The last time I rode a bus, which actually was to get to
Cheesman Park for the start of this year’s Pride Parade, a young guy yelled
abuse into his iPhone the entire trip. Apparently, his girlfriend was pregnant,
and, very apparently, he was displeased. He repeatedly called her a ‘fucking
stupid bitch’, occasionally switching to ‘stupid fucking bitch’, which seemed
to exhaust his vocabulary. I really didn’t want to hear it. I hurriedly shoved
in my earbuds and turned on my iPod. Definitely we are in the
anti-eavesdropping era.
I was first taught to
eavesdrop by my parents. They listened constantly to Mother Nature, who never
stops talking. Through them, I learned to relish birdsong, which of course is
eavesdropping. They aren’t singing to me – they sing to each other, or perhaps to
themselves simply for the glory of the welcome light of morning. Mum and Dad
taught me to listen to the whispers of the wind in the trees, or the howling of
it against the window panes, and to know what it meant for tomorrow’s weather.
From my aunt, and later from a wonderful teacher in high school, I learned to
listen to the whispers of the rocks. They also never stop talking, but oh so
quietly. If you can manage to hear them, they tell the amazing history of our
planet, and they tattle-tale on Mother Nature herself. They give away her age.
As far as our planet is concerned, at least, she is middle-aged; half way
between birth and her life-expectancy of nine billion years. The rocks tell us
that dinosaurs once roamed right here, where we sit this Monday afternoon. (Not
exactly here, on the second floor, but you get my drift!)
But there’s something up
with old Ma Nature. She’s not as quiet as she used to be. Her whispers became
louder. Over the more recent decades she has begun not only to talk out loud but
even to shout. She knows something. She wants us to know. But we don’t listen.
We are well into the
anti-eavesdropping era.
We really don’t want to
hear it.
We put on our headphones
and turn up the music.
Mother Nature is
desperate. We must hear her. She will be OK, as will the planet, at
least for another five billion or so years, but we must save ourselves.
She tosses tumultuous tornado swarms at us to wake us up, and hurls humongous
hurricanes to get our attention. We ignore her. In 2003 as many as 70,000
deaths in Europe were attributed to record heat. In June last year London hit
it’s highest temperature on record, at 103. TV shots showed train tracks
buckling in the heat. But this July as I tried to watch the tennis at
Wimbledon, (I say ‘tried’ because it was rained out day after day) London was
treated to the wettest month on record. Last year’s heat waves in India,
Pakistan, and parts of South America broke all records. Australia has had to
add new colors to weather maps to accommodate temperatures never experienced
before. Climate craziness.
2015 also brought heat
records to Alaska and parts of the American southwest. Meanwhile we recently
had record rainfall in China, and across this country from Texas to Washington
D.C.
And still we hear nothing.
Mother Nature might as
well be silent for all the attention we pay.
Flames roar from the
forests on every continent. Even as I write this, sitting on the patio, I smell
in the air the smoke from the Boulder County fire. Another fire blazes on
Hayden Pass, Colorado, which they do not expect to contain before October.
Mother nature absolutely
screams.
Still we do nothing.
A few years ago,
residents of several Polynesian nations banded together in a desperate attempt
to get the world to care about their islands, which were, and of course still
are, disappearing into the Pacific. In their traditional hand-hewn wooden
boats, they temporarily were able to block the mouth of the Australian harbor
from which a huge coal-ship was ready to leave. The coal was destined for the
huge hungry mouths of the Chinese coal-fired energy plants, whose energy goes
to fill the huge hungry mouths of the endless factories producing goods for the
endless huge hungry mouths  of the world’s
insatiable consumer appetites. Don’t blame Australia. Don’t blame China.
There’s plenty of guilt to go round. We are all guilty. I still drive my car,
and occasionally I fly on a plane which is exponentially worse for the
environment. Those south-sea islanders get it. It’s in your face down there;
quite literally. When that beautiful blue ocean which once lapped at your feet,
starts to slap you in the face, you get it.
Hopeful-sounding treaties
are signed every now and then, after endless wrangling, but always making
agreements for future goals, not demanding big decisive action now. It
all smacks, to me, of the alcoholic who intends to quit drinking once he’s
finished this last bottle of whisky. No! He has to quit now. Poor out
the rest. We are all addicts, hooked on our lifestyles and standards of living.
We need to quit now, not when we’ve smoked that last carton of
cigarettes. If we don’t start hearing Mother Nature’s cries right now,
it will be too late.
What if that man on the
bus was not shouting abuse at his girlfriend, but yelling to me; to all the
passengers? ‘Fire! Fire! The bus is on fire. Get out now. Fire! Fire!’
I ignore him. I do
nothing. All the people on the bus do nothing.
I don my noise-canceling
headphones, turn up the music and go into anti-eavesdropping mode, breathing in
the billowing smoke.
We would all say, that is
just insane, suicidal, behavior.
Wouldn’t we?
© July 2016 
About
the Author 
I was born and
raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S.
and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder
area since 1965, working for 30-years at IBM. I married, raised four
stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself
as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years.
We have been married since 2013.
Posted on

Connections, by Gail Klock

This is an extremely
difficult topic for me to write about because it reaches into the deepest
places of pain within my psyche. There have been many times in my life when I
have felt extremely isolated, lacking a connection to anyone. I was the little
child in kindergarten who chose to work on jigsaw puzzles during chose time
because it was the only activity which involved no interaction with others, all
the time hearing the other kids laughing and playing and wanting to be with
them. In college, when on a camping trip with a class, I laid awake all night
feeling totally isolated with others all around me, I felt like I was losing my
mind. It was one of the longest nights in my life. The terror I was feeling was
due to the fact I felt isolated, but I was too afraid to admit it. In both
instances, and others like them, if I had only been able to reach out and say
help me, I would have been okay. But I had learned to lock my fears away, I
knew they were not to be hung out like dirty laundry. I came from a very stoic
German family which mistakenly didn’t ask for help, even when it was needed.
There was instead a false sense of pride in handling, or appearing to handle,
all life’s trauma’s by ourselves. The reality was we all needed help,
especially when Karl died at the age of two. Of course back in the fifties this
type of help was not advocated or available. My dad’s yelling at my mom not to
cry on the way to Karl’s funeral was not because he was a heartless bastard, it
was because he was such a sensitive man, who loved this little child so much
and his wife and his other children and he couldn’t deal with his own pain,
much less take on and help the rest of us deal with ours, which he felt was his
responsibility because he was the man of the house. These feelings never left
him, they choked him until the day he died. When he was in hospice, a few weeks
after my mother had unexpectedly died, he lamented to me he felt so guilty and
helpless because he wasn’t there for her when she passed away. He was referring
to the evening of the night when she died in her sleep. She had collapsed in
the bathroom and he didn’t have the physical strength to help her up so he had
to call the neighbors to help him get her up and to bed. He didn’t realize he
had been there for her; he had nearly died the day after Christmas, just a
month before, but after a week stay in the hospital he unexpectedly made it
home. She had told all of us that she was not going to let my dad die first,
she couldn’t handle the death of another person she loved so much. She prayed
nightly, and I think quit taking her heart meds, for this to be the case. She
died precisely as she prayed for, in her own bed, in her own home, next to her
husband. My dad was there for her, by making the call for help to the
neighbors, he provided the means to her prayers.
It was as this four year
old child that I began to surmise that when in pain you don’t cry and you don’t
ask for help. This was solidified further by my mother’s inability to provide
emotional support to me or my brother due to her own debilitating grief. This
was the point in my life when I began to experience a lack of connection with
others. This was triggered once again when I was in college and became aware of
my homosexuality. I instinctively knew, as did my girlfriend, not to reveal our
relationship to anyone else. And in the hiding of who I was I was once again
isolated from society, I could sense the darkness beginning to overtake me but
I didn’t want to ask for help and I doubted there was any to be found. After
all I had learned in my psychology class that homosexuality was a mental
illness and I couldn’t face the label of being mentally ill. This was further
exacerbated by the fact my grandmother had been in the state mental hospital in
Pueblo and no one in the family understood why. None of us ever knew the
diagnoses – but I did know from my visits to the hospital with my mom that I
didn’t want to be sent there. It was very frightening to me as a child to
realize my grandmother was locked up. So to avoid a similar fate, I ironically
locked myself up, tighter and tighter. The longer I stayed in the closet the
more I felt disconnected from mainstream society.
When I experience this
feeling of disconnect I am unable to feel, it is as though I am locked away
from everything, including myself. It is sometimes difficult to access the key
which frees me from my emotional shackles and allows me to deal with the
feelings which I am blocking. I have learned through years of therapy that I
need to let myself feel the underlying feelings, which are either sadness or
fear. It has taken me years to learn this and also to learn these negative
feelings are not permanent and that it is normal to experience them.  I know this and most of the time I can do it,
but I wish I could do it all the time and more quickly.
I have also learned that
life presents us with lots of self-fulfilling moments, that is to say if I go
into a situation expecting it to be enjoyable and thinking people will like me
and want to connect with me, they do. And likewise if I anticipate the opposite
I generally leave thinking I had been right, I was going to have an unenjoyable
time, I wasn’t going to connect with others, and I didn’t. It’s that old bit of
seeing a group of people laughing and looking at you. You might think, “They’re
all looking at me and think I look fat in my outfit”, or you might think “They
look like a fun group of people who like to laugh, I think I’ll join them.”
Sunday mornings for the
past twelve years, minus a few months here and there, and Monday afternoons for
the past two and a half years, have been an immensely important source of
connection for me. I know when I walk into the Golden Recreation Center on Sundays
and the Center on Monday afternoons I will feel connected with whomever I
encounter there, be it a woman with a basketball or a fellow storyteller with a
story. Feeling a sense of connection and the inherent sense of acceptance by my
friends is what makes life worth living.
© 17 April 2017 
About
the Author 
I grew up in Pueblo, CO with my two brothers and parents.
Upon completion of high school, I attended Colorado State University majoring
in Physical Education. My first teaching job was at a high school in Madison,
Wisconsin. After three years of teaching I moved to North Carolina to attend
graduate school at UNC-Greensboro. After obtaining my MSPE I coached
basketball, volleyball, and softball at the college level starting with Wake
Forest University and moving on to Springfield College, Brown University, and
Colorado School of Mines.
While coaching at Mines my long-term partner and I had two daughters
through artificial insemination. Due to the time away from home required by
coaching, I resigned from this position and got my elementary education
certification. I taught in the gifted/talented program in Jefferson County
Schools for ten years. As a retiree, I enjoy helping take care of my
granddaughter, playing senior basketball, writing/listening to stories in the
storytelling group, gardening, reading, and attending OLOC and other GLBT
organizations.
As a retiree, I enjoy helping take care of my granddaughter,
playing senior basketball, writing/listening to stories in the storytelling
group, gardening, reading, and attending OLOC and other GLBT organizations.
Posted on

A Caveat Should Not Precede an Essay, by Cecil Bethea

A caveat should not precede an essay,
but I should like the gentle reader to know my memory is not only fragile but
also forgetful.  Too these events too
between fifty and sixty years ago. 
During that length of time a man could easily be conceived, born, reach
adulthood, marry, become a father and even a grandfather.  Also you are dealing a fairly normal and
average human being not the third law of thermodynamics which always acts as
expected.
My first adventure unfolded when I
was not even a practicing much less an adept homosexual.  I had gotten out of the Air Force and went
down to the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa to see my long time friend Van
who was working on his Master’s in history.
At that time Tuscaloosa had not been wet very long.  True the city had never been dry more like
very damp what with the Northport Fruit Stand being open to all hours and quite
willing to supply a list of potables. 
Nothing too fancy.  I didn’t know
anybody who drank Scotch, never heard of tequila, couldn’t afford Piper Heidsieck.  My needs had also been
supplied by rum runs to Birmingham. 
There were few bars in Tuscaloosa,
but Van knew one out on the outskirts.  I
remember little about the place because it had little to remember.  We sat a table, drank beer, reminisced, told
unshared experiences.  The clientele was
college students being college students. 
Talking sincerely the problems of the world.  Proving that all their profs were
dullards.  Showing off their knowledge of
German, French, or Spanish/ No Russian or Chinese in those distant days.  Of course every one who disagreed with them
was an idiot.  I know this because I’ve
heard college students talk since then. 
The tables were small about 18 inches across with just enough room to
hold an ashtray and several beer bottles. 
The circumstances meant that you could easily hear or partake in your
neighbors’ conversation.
Having not seen each other for two
years, Van and I had much to discuss, so we ignored our neighbors.  Somehow or another two unknown men younger
than we started talking with us.  One
look at the two told me that they were probably from the football team.  Why they wanted to talk with us was beyond me
because we had such dissimilar interests. 
In fact, I wondered why ever did he want to talk to me. 
He didn’t.  Van saw some people he knew and went over to
their table leaving me alone with the two football players.  This was to be my one and only conversation
with football players.  Somewhere in that
night, I learned their sport and that one was the quarterback.  Hereinafter, he’ll be known as the QB.  Also, he was a mediocre QB at least by
Alabama’s standards.  They were much
weightier than I, who was about the same size then as now which meant that I
was heavily outmatched by one much less two. 
Of course, I can chatter away like crazy to anybody; whether they can
understand me is another matter. 
Finally, the QB said he wanted to
have sex with me.  I did not answer with
shouts of “What kind of man do you think I am?” 
It wasn’t necessary; I knew exactly what sort of man he thought I was.  Of course, I demurred to no avail.  Without my acquiesce, he said he’d knock me
to the floor and tell everybody that I’d propositioned him.  Had the case gone to court, the QB could have
pled rage induced by a homosexual.  Fifty
years ago, it probably would have stood up in court especially when used by the
quarter back of the Crimson Tide. 
Pleadings did no good; possibly he enjoyed them. 
He said to go to the men’s room and
followed me across the floor outside.  I
cannot remember why, but you had to go outside to reach the comfort station.  The QB had locked the door but had yet to unzip.
 Before anything could happen, Van came
running out.  He yelled through the door
that he had to leave immediately.  The
quarterback said to tell him to go away, I did, Van said he couldn’t leave me
out there in the middle of nowhere and started beating on the door and
yelling.  I was freed.  Van and I ran to the car, sped off with
squealing tires, and returned to his place by a tortuous route.
My next experience took place years
[later] in Denver out at Vivian’s Den out at 17th and Federal.  Although it fronted onto Federal, nobody
entered that way, we all came through the back door from the parking lot.  Just inside the door was a level about twenty-five
feet long with a jagged bar to the right. 
Beyond that was a step down to the area that contained a pool
table.  Next was a step up which led to
the front door with the two rest rooms on either side.
One night, probably a Tuesday because
only four or five of us were sitting at the bar with Leo as bartender.  He was the best gay bartender I’ve ever known:
very outgoing, always talking with the customers, knew when your drink needed
replenishing, never ignoring the paying customers while chatting up a possible
trick.  We were sitting strung out along
the bar talking about all sorts of things about the way we do at the Tuesday
concave.  Four young men entered the bar,
bought drinks, and went to playing pool. 
Never have seen the quartet before, I ignored them.  Besides I was enjoying the conversation.
Eventually I had to go.  I went to the pool area where I waited for
the shooter to shoot and for his ball to stop rolling as good manners
dictated.  Then with no acknowledgment of
the players, I went to the restroom and without locking the door, probably
didn’t even close it.  There I stood with
the seat down and me unzipped and doing my business before the commode.  Suddenly somebody came into the room.  Without stopping I turned to see one of the
pool players.  He immediately said either
“You God damned queer!” or “You fucking Queer!” but he certainly used the noun
queer.  All this time he was pounding on
my face with his fists.  Meanwhile I got
through the door unzipped, wetting myself, bleeding from what was a split lip
and what would be a blackened eye, pass the other three pool players to the
safety of my own kind.  Leo made motions
of calling the police but didn’t.
The young people today might wonder
why we like Socrates stoically accepted our fate.  That was another time, another clime.  That was the way life was for Gays.  Knowing this, we made adjustments to our
lives knowing that we never called the police, knowing that if our names were
in a newspaper article our jobs were forfeit, knowing that we could be kicked
out of the military in a full-dress parade. 
Our leases could be abrogated for our felonious conduct.  Picking up a man could result in jail
time.  But being young was very heaven
and salved our souls.
© 31 Oct
2010 
About the Author  
 Although
I have done other things, my fame now rests upon the durability of my
partnership with Carl Shepherd; we have been together for forty-two years and
nine months as of today, August 18th, 2012.
Although
I was born in Macon, Georgia in 1928, I was raised in Birmingham during the
Great Depression.  No doubt I still carry
invisible scars caused by that era.  No
matter we survived.  I am talking about
my sister, brother, and I.  There are two
things that set me apart from people. 
From about the third-grade I was a voracious reader of books on almost
any subject.  Had I concentrated, I would
have been an authority by now; but I didn’t with no regrets.
After
the University of Alabama and the Air Force, I came to Denver.  Here I met Carl, who picked me up in Mary’s
Bar.  Through our early life, we traveled
extensively in the mountain West.  Carl
is from Helena, Montana, and is a Blackfoot Indian.  Our being from nearly opposite ends of the
country made “going to see the folks” a broadening experience.  We went so many times that we finally had
“must see” places on each route like the Quilt Museum in Paducah, Kentucky and
the polo games in Sheridan, Wyoming.  Now
those happy travels are only memories.
I was
amongst the first members of the memory writing class.  While it doesn’t offer criticism, it does
offer feedback.  Also, just trying to
improve your writing helps no end.
Carl
is now in a nursing home; I don’t drive any more.  We totter on.
Posted on

Birthdays, by Betsy

The following is an imaginary voice from the Universe heard
inside a woman’s uterus by a viable life preparing for its day of birth.
“Now is the time for you to make your choice.  You may choose from these two options: gay or
straight.  In other terms—homosexual or
heterosexual.  Before you decide, let me
explain the consequences of your choice.
“If you select the gay option you will have many obstacles
in your life that you otherwise would not have. You will be considered abnormal
by many people from the start, you could very easily find yourself being
discriminated against by employers, landlords, merchants, and service
providers. The law may possibly not offer any recourse for you if and when you
are discovered depending on how the movement goes and the state of civil
rights.  You could actually be put in
jail if you are found out.
“You may feel constrained to stay in the closet for a long,
long time, maybe forever. That means denying your truth to yourself and to
others. This could have a serious impact on your emotional and mental health—possibly
on your physical health as well.
“If you try to express your sexuality and live as the
person you are; i.e. live as an openly gay person, you risk your safety,
security, and wellbeing. You will keep your self-esteem and self-respect
however. But there may be a price to pay for that.
“If you select the straight option life should be easier
for you.  You will derive benefits from
marrying a person of the opposite sex. As a woman, you will be safe if you serve
him well.  You will be secure if you do
his bidding.  You will have no difficult
choices to make because they will all be made for you and to your advantage if
you stay in line.  The only risk for you
is that you might screw up because you don’t realize that you have all the
advantages. 
“As I said, it’s your choice.”
The above scenario is, of course, absurd. None of this would
happen because this choice is not available to us. This choice is never given
to any of us before birth. We are born LGBTQ or heterosexual or gender fluid or
whatever else yet to be defined—whatever else exists on the sexuality
spectrum. 
The choice is made when we become aware, conscious, of
ourselves—our feelings, what drives us, with whom we fall in love. We make the choices
later in life when we understand that there IS a choice— and that choice, as we
all know, is not who we ARE by birth, but whether or not we choose to LIVE as
an expression of who we are.
Personally, I understand very well the consequences of
denying who I am and living as someone I am not. Once I became aware of my
sexual orientation I was able to make that choice, respect myself, and be happy
and fulfilled. 
Those who wish to change us LGBTQ’s, punish us, put us
away, or whatever, seem to imagine that we all experience the above in-utero
scenario and we should be punished or, at least, forced to change because we
made the wrong choice.  We made the
choice in-utero and were born gay yes on our first birthday, because we chose
to. REALLY!  Or, if they do not accept
that absurdity, they want to punish us for expressing our real selves—for
living as gay people.
I choose to live in a world which accepts every newborn
baby for exactly what it is—everything that it is.  I choose to welcome every life into this
world as perfect as I did one week ago my first great grandchild.
You know, I’m convinced he’s gay because of the way he
waved when he was born. Then when he started primping his bald head his mother
and grandmother and Auntie Gill were convinced too.  He’s lucky. He knows he is loved by us all—gay
or straight.
© 14 Nov 2016 
About the Author 
Betsy has been active in
the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old
Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been
retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major
activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a
volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading,
writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage.
She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren.
Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her
life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.