phoyle – Page 15 – Sage Telling Your Story

November 10, 2017February 26, 2019

Plumage, by Nicholas

I like scarves. I like to wear them and I like seeing them worn by other people. Scarves are both fashionable and practical. They can provide warmth and protection against the elements on a cold, blustery day. They can also provide an elegant touch of color, a bit of flair with a swath of fabric flung around your neck and over a shoulder. And they can make statements about who you are and even what side you take.

I’m always surprised how much warmth a scarf can provide when wrapped around my neck on a winter’s day. It’s an extra layer of protection against the wind. It feels cozy and snuggly and shelters some exposed skin. The winter scarves I have are light wool and are burgundy and purple. They’re long enough to completely wrap them around me. I have another yellow scarf that my mother knitted for me years ago but I rarely wear it because I keep it more as a memento of her.

Scarves can also make statements—fashion statements and political statements. Scarves can be gay when a man wears one that is colorful and elegant. It can bring a feminine touch to your wardrobe. I wear a blue and gold silk scarf sometimes and I have a fuchsia and black scarf that I wear just for decoration. The secret to always being fashionable, they say, is to accessorize. Scarves can be so gay.

Political statements are also made through scarves. Certain scarves in certain colors on certain days often convey symbolic political sentiments. I own a scarf that is checkered red and black which might be taken for a Middle Eastern keffiyeh, the checkered headdress worn by many Palestinians and adopted by some non-Palestinians as a gesture of solidarity. I didn’t buy it for that. In fact, the resemblance didn’t occur to me until much later when I realized there could be political overtones to my new fashion accessory. But then I doubt a Palestinian warrior would wear my pinkish-red scarf anywhere. It’s not their style.

My favorite scarves are not actually scarves at all but can be worn as such. They are these bright pieces of plumage from Renaissance Italy. These are actually flags or banners representing the different neighborhoods of Siena. Each banner—with different colors, animals (both mythical and real), wild patterns of stripes and daggers of color, and patron saints displayed—symbolically represents one of the 17 districts of the old medieval city.

These banners are used by neighborhood teams competing in the annual horse race, called the Palio, held since the 15th century (and still held) each summer in the huge piazza in the center of town. Of course, the three-day event is more than one horse race. Much pageantry and pomp goes along with it, including parades with these banners carried by people in equally flamboyant Renaissance costumes of tight leotards, puffy sleeves and very bright colors.

So, wearing a scarf can be more than putting on an accessory to highlight a color, more than showing your support for a sports team, and more than just bundling up against the cold. Scarves have become yet another way humans have concocted to say something in a world that might not be paying much attention anyway. A scarf is a flag to wave.

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.

November 9, 2017February 26, 2019

Hooves by Louis Brown

(1) The Mongol hordes: their great skill with horses made them successful conquerors.

(2) The four horsemen of the Apocalypse: death, famine, war and conquest. (Emily Dickinson: “Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me.) in a horse-drawn carriage.

Because I could not stop for Death —
He kindly stopped for me —
The Carriage held but just Ourselves —
And Immortality.

We slowly drove — He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility —

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess — in the Ring —
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain —
We passed the Setting Sun —

Or rather — He passed Us —
The Dews drew quivering and Chill —
For only Gossamer, my Gown —
My Tippet — only Tulle —

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground —
The Roof was scarcely visible —
The Cornice — in the Ground —

Since then — ’tis Centuries — and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity —

Theme: Do not be afraid of death. (“A Narrow Fellow in the Grass”)

(3) The age of chivalry in medieval Europe: Lancelot, King Arthur, Perceval, Sir Galahad and Ivanhoe, all rode horses to their glory.

(4) My Presbyterian friend has a daughter who raises horses in Kentucky.

(5) Pegasus and the Roman Centaurs.

(6) Mr. Ed (talking horse on TV).

(7) The Denver Broncos.

(8) Mustang is the name of gay porno company. Don’t know if it is still in business.

[For Halloween]

A narrow Fellow in the Grass Occasionally rides – You may have met Him? Did you not His notice instant is- The Grass divides as with a Comb – A spotted shaft is seen, And then it closes at your Feet And opens further on – He likes a Boggy Acre – A Floor too cool for Corn – But when a Boy and Barefoot I more than once at Noon Have passed I thought a Whip Lash Unbraiding in the Sun When stooping to secure it It wrinkled And was gone – Several of Nature’s People

I know, and they know me I feel for them a transport Of cordiality But never met this Fellow, Attended or alone Without a tighter Breathing And Zero at the Bone.

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.

November 8, 2017February 26, 2019

What Makes Homophobes Tick? by Lewis Thompson

The easy answer to this query would be that “homophobe” means “a person with an irrational or obsessive fear of homosexuals”, according to Wikipedia. But it would be important to dig a little beneath the surface to examine not only where the “irrational or obsessive fear” arises from but also why it seems to persist over many years.

Any American born in the last century almost certainly spent their formative years being inculcated with certain “inalienable truths”. Among these were–

* To be white is better than to be a person of color;

* To be male is better than to be female;

* To be a female is better than to be a male who wants to become a female (if a female wants to become a male, well, who can blame them?);

* To be rich is better than to be poor;

* To be rich and a crook is also better than being poor;

* To be a Christian is better than to be a non-Christian;

* To be a non-Christian is better than to be an atheist;

* To be an atheist is better than being a homosexual because, at least usually, you’re not an embarrassment to your relatives;

* To be conservative is better than being liberal (because all of the Founding Fathers were conservative, otherwise, they would never have written the Second Amendment);

* To be black, female, liberal, a non-believer, and gay is the worst thing that can possibly happen to a person and they surely should be imprisoned at birth and executed as soon as their politics, non-believer status, and sexual orientation become manifest.

So, we can readily comprehend that homophobia is the natural outgrowth of a society based upon gender, race, religious and countless other biases. It is endemic, almost akin to fluoridated water, which, as we all know, was responsible for the rise of the John Birch Society.

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.

November 7, 2017February 26, 2019

The Eyes of Love, by Gillian

The only living creature who actually looks upon a human through the eyes of love surely has to be the dog. The first time I was married we had a dog who gazed at me with what I saw, anyway, as pure adoration. His eyes glowed, his mouth smiled and his long wet tongue lolled down below his chin.

‘How come you never look at me like that?’ I asked my husband one day.

From that day on I would occasionally glance towards him only to find him staring at me in a weird glassy- and bug-eyed way, his head on one side and his mouth half open and his tongue hanging out but far from reaching his chin. He did it from hands and knees on the floor to rolling around on the lawn. ‘A’ for effort but it was no good. It fell way short of canine idolatry. I have never asked Betsy to give it a try.

Of course, the expressions we see in animals’ faces are purely our interpretations. Maybe that doggie worship that we see simply means something like, where the hell’s my dinner? Maybe when the cat who owns you reduces your ego to the size of a pea with that look of pure disdain, she is really thinking how very wonderful you are; but I seriously doubt it!

In many parts of the world we humans put great stock in eye contact. How good we are at interpreting what we see in another’s eyes, though, is questionable. On occasion I really am seeing my Beautiful Betsy through the eyes of love, simply enjoying watching her every move as she plants the petunias, and she will suddenly say, very suspiciously,

‘What? Why are you staring at me like that? Did you want me to plant these somewhere else?’

Not long ago I read a story about a young man who, I was convinced, kept looking at me with the eyes of love – well, maybe not quite, perhaps infatuation or at least lust – until he confessed that my fascination for him was simply that I reminded him so much of his mother!

But seriously, being regarded through the eyes of love is a truly beautiful thing; one of the greatest gifts in life. A longtime friend of mine, a woman without a partner in life and no children or siblings, said, when her mother died not long after her father,

‘Now there’s no-one left to look at me with love.’

I thought it one of the saddest things I have ever heard. We all need to be looked upon through the eyes of love. I was going to continue, in fact we all, down to the meanest of us, deserve it.

Perhaps Eva Braun even looked at Hitler that way. But visions of the Orange Ogre leapt into my head and no, I’m sorry, everyone does not deserve it.

The best of all, though, is looking out through your own eyes with love. I cannot, or I choose not to, imagine a world in which I have no-one and nothing on whom or which to gaze with love. And you know the best thing about that? It is one of very few things that are completely within my own control. No-one can take it from me. I cannot force anyone to look upon me through the eyes of love, but how I look out through my own eyes is completely up to me. Should I ever be left alone, bereft of anyone I perceive as loving me, as my friend felt herself to be, I hope I can continue to see many of those around me through my own eyes of love. And failing that, surely I can still fall back upon the love for all things, both animate and inanimate, that I so valuably learned from my family as a child. There is always a flower, a rock, raindrops and snowflakes. When I can no longer look through the eyes of love, I guess it will be time to go.

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.

November 6, 2017February 26, 2019

Bicycle Memories, by Betys

I now know I had a trike. I have a photo of it. But I don’t recall it. The first bicycle I can remember that was mine was a blue probably Schwinn with big old fat tires. When I grew to be old enough to ride out of my neighborhood, I went everywhere on that vehicle: to school, to the store, on “bike hikes” on the week ends with my friends. One day I was riding down a small hill on Morris Avenue. I got going very fast—too fast really— the handlebar began to shake back and forth Before I knew it I was out of control. At the bottom of the hill was a roundabout—right in front of my dentist’s office. I hit the curb of the roundabout and flew into the shrubbery in the middle. Next thing I knew I was in my mother’s car on the way to the surgeon’s office. My dentist, Dr. Bienville, had seen the accident from his window and went running to save me. He carried me into his office and called my mother who took me to the doctor. I suppose he checked my teeth first. I only suffered a nasty cut on my face which the surgeon did a great job of stitching up. I still have a scar which is barely discernible now 70 years later. I sure loved that blue bike, but it was never again ridable.

When my children were 2,4, and 6, we went to the Netherlands to live for two and a half years. As is the case for the Dutch people, bicycles were our main mode of transportation in the crowded streets of that country. In the 1960’s I had never seen child carriers for bicycles in the United States. But they were as prevalent as tulips in Holland. All kinds. Between the two of us my husband and I could easily carry our 3 children about on bikes with no problem. Safety was not so much of a consideration back then. No one wore a helmet, not even did we put them on our children’s heads. I suppose some heads had to be sacrificed before anyone thought of using helmets. One of our favorite weekend activities was riding our bicycles on the ever present paved paths through the Dutch sand dunes, one of the few undeveloped natural places in the Netherlands.

Back in the U.S. in the 70’s and in Denver, I didn’t own a bicycle. But we were able to remain a one car family for many years because Bill, my husband, used his bicycle to commute the two or so miles to work every day rain or shine.

It was not until the late 1980’s that I started cycling again—riding to work and around town on errands.

In 1986 I took my first long distance bicycle trip with my daughter and her boy friend both in college at the time. Still no helmets to be seen. There were bicycle shops but they only housed bicycles and parts—no paraphernalia of any kind—no spandex cycling shorts with padded crotch, no handlebar mounted computers to tell you how fast you were going, how far you had gone, all meteorological info you could possibly need, what day and time it was, and your location coordinates—none of the accessories we see in the shops today.

But that cycling trip around western New York state, and the Allegheny Mountains in Pennsylvania was a wonderful and memorable adventure for me. I think that’s when I became hooked on cycling.

In the 1990’s now an out and proud lesbian, I bought a blue Fuji and rode the MS 150, a 150 mile ride from Denver to Pueblo and back to raise funds for the MS Foundation. This ride is not a race, but many riders joined teams for the purpose of training, socializing, and supporting each other on the ride. Early on I found myself joining the “Motley Spokes team.” The competition was about raising money, not riding fast.

During these years I pedaled several charitable rides in various parts of the country and met many wonderful people. I have been very lucky as well as I have many times been able to bring my own personal sag support with me. Gill has always been willing— actually she has mostly wanted to come along (not on a bicycle) to satisfy her wanderlust. Unfortunately sometimes she becomes engrossed in her own bird watching, wildlife viewing, picture taking activities and is distracted from her duties as a sag support. She tends to turn her phone off so as not to disturb the wildlife—not helpful to a stranded cyclist. Once riding in North Dakota in a vast open area with no one in sight, the sky turned black and looked ominous. “I wonder where Gill is, I said to myself.” “This looks like tornado weather.” Two hours later I arrived at the town that was our destination for the day, but I was a bit scared, I must admit. And there she was. No bad weather where she had been. Just tons of birds.

My best cycling experience and most memorable was across the southern tier of the United States from Pacific to Atlantic. This was a two month, 3800 mile fully supported tour with a company called Womantours. That was in 2005. This trip has provided me with endless material for story time. Most of you have heard some of my ramblings about this particular adventure. And I suppose I will continue to refer to it as long as I am telling stories.

I have loved my bicycling experiences and the memories they have provided. I guess that’s why I love a bicycle trip. It’s always an adventure. And I love adventure.

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.

November 3, 2017February 26, 2019

Elder Words, by Ricky

I believe that everyone would agree what the word “Words” means. I don’t guess that there is another meaning. But the word “Elder” has several possible meanings depending upon spelling and the context in which it is used. So, that being said, lets explore this topic of “Elder Words”.

In general, “elder” implies age, but in the Mormon church capital “E” Elder denotes a male 19 years of age or above who holds the Melchizedek Priesthood. So, their words could convey mundane meanings or specific religious messages as in, “I baptize you in the name of . . .,” etc. The title is used in other religions as well for similar or the same purpose.

So, perhaps it boils down to the degree of “age” in which the term “elder” is appropriate within different cultures. For example, in the book Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, the word is used to designate the most senior (as in most powerful) magic wand, the Elder Wand. The word “senior” is a synonym for “elder” which category would include: old, ancient, adult, and grownup. Another thing about this word is that it can also be used as a proper noun as a “stand alone” name or even part of a name; as in the John Wayne movie, “The Sons of Katy Elder” and “Elderberry” as in bushes and wine.

As we are not met this day to discuss the merits of movies or to relax with a glass of Elderberry wine or listen to sermons by Elder Berry, I will present for your enjoyment, boredom, or discomfort my take on the topic of Elder Words. Be forewarned, this topic is sometimes rather depressing so I will pause briefly so anyone can take an anti-depressant or you can tough it out without one. I guarantee there will be a happy ending, however sad the journey to get there.

As one moves through life from younger to not so younger and thereby gain a life time collection of experiences speaking with those persons who either preceded or are following down the path of destiny, we have the opportunity to reflect on, ponder, skim through, or try to remember those conversations and what they may have meant or done to us.

As a potential elder everyone has one or more embarrassing words moments that parents like to recall at family gatherings. Words like, “Mom, my urine is runny.” Embarrassing words may not become embarrassing words until after the fact, as in, “I don’t want to go get it because I might break it.”, then after 4-minutes a loud crash is heard in the school hallway.

And then there are words spoken by children before they become self-sufficient: “I want. . .”; “Can I have. . .”; “Will you buy this for me?”. Sadly, sometimes these words are re-spoken by those same children after they become senior citizens. At that time, the now elder is often told by his now grownup children: “You can’t watch TV until you eat all your dinner.”; “No, it’s too dangerous for someone your age.”; “It costs too much.”; “You don’t need that.”; “You can’t have ice cream. Have some yogurt instead.”; “It’s your bedtime.”; “I don’t have time to drive you everywhere you want to go.”; “I’m not made of money you know.”; “You want to have a party while we’re gone for the weekend! Do you think we’re crazy?” Those are the moments that make an elder think weird thoughts of the type, “Oh crap! My children have become me! Now I’m in real trouble.”

Sometimes parents deliberately create “embarrassing words” moments for their children, as in these words said over an external CB loud speaker while stopped at a large intersection in Salt Lake City; “Don’t touch me there Ricky, until we get home.”

Potential elders also get elder words of advice as they grow: “Don’t eat that from the floor.”; “Just say ‘NO’!”; “Do yourself a favor and . . .”; “You get what you pay for.”; “When you go to the chicken coop, just kick the rooster away like I do.”; “Please do me a favor, when you visit grand-elder, don’t be noisy or demanding because grand-elder tires easily.”; and the ever popular, “Don’t lie to me again.”

Then there are elder work-related words. Some of which we never wanted to hear: “You’re fired!”; “Get me your supervisor.”; “All you public servants are ass holes!”; “Touch your finger tips to your nose.”; “Assume the position.”; “You have the right to remain silent and I suggest you use it. You long-hair hippie freak.”

Of course there are also hateful elder words like: “I’ll make a man out of you.”; “It’s my way or the highway.”; “You’re no son of mine.”; and “I want no homos in my house. Get out and don’t come back!”

Now let us consider the words of the Eldest of all. His guidance to us is to “Honor thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.” Over time this Elder’s advice is often quoted as, “Honor your father and mother” but the reason is seldom given. Now in our time it has been shortened again to the simple but less powerful, “respect your elders” or “respect your parents.” These smacks of a dictatorial demand of parents but again lacking any explanation as to why that should be done. It often boils down to those famous but unsatisfying elder words, “Because I told you so.”

Now as most parents and other observant elders know by either personal or sad experience, requests, demands, or procedures that don’t have logical, reasonable, or plausible explanations as to the “why” something is a procedure, request, or demand will cause different levels of irritation in children. Irritation leads to frustration. Frustration leads to resentment. Resentment leads to suppressed anger. Suppressed anger leads to a rebellious attitude. A rebellious attitude leads to a conflict of words (if you are lucky and violence if you are not). A conflict of words results in elder words like: “Are you stupid or something?”; “Don’t sass me.”; “Don’t talk back to me.”; “If you say that word again I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”; (Mother to son, “Don’t talk to me like that. You just wait ’til you father comes home.”); (Father to son—after coming home, “Never talk to your mother like that again.”); (Father to son—double standard, “Don’t talk to me like that you little shit. Go get my belt!”)

There are elder words that are not generally spoken out loud but, nonetheless, pass through the consciousness of elder and younger minds. “Can I afford it?” “I can’t afford it, but I’m buying it anyway.” “Does he/she like/love me?” “How will I survive on only social security.” “Oh crap, I don’t remember his/her name.” “I think I’m losing my mind.” “Am I bi or gay?” Etc.

Taken as a whole, all these elder words paint a rather dismal portrait of the language of elders. I believe that over our life-time we elders have learned too many of the wrong words and not enough of the right words and how to use them.

In my experience, all grandparents have a special brand of English elder words for their grandchildren. I’ve even used this language myself recently and will again this week. I will now show you how I use it to communicate with my grandchild. “Schmooch, Schmooch, do you have a kiss for grandpa?” (With finger rubbing closed lips) “Blubb, blubb, blubb.” “Open wide. Yum, yum.” “Yea! (clap, clap, clap).” “Pppppst on the tummy.” “Psssst with tongue.” “Putt, putt, putt” with lips. “(blow a kiss).” “No, you can’t eat my cell phone.” And, “Don’t eat that from the floor.” That one seems to be universally contained within all cultures.

When the time comes I’ll add these elder words also: “Hi. Grandpa is here. I brought you a present.”; “Here is a cookie, but don’t let your mom see it or tell her I gave it to you.”; “Your bedtime is 9:00 but I’ll let you stay up until 10:00 as long as you don’t tell anyone.”; and “Let’s sneak out and go get ice cream.”

Elder words that are relatively rarely spoken: “Let me show you a better way to do this.”; “Wow. You did that really well.”; “Am I doing it right?”; “How can I do it better?”; “Let’s go play catch.”; “Why don’t you invite 2 or 3 friends and we’ll go to a movie.”; “Yes, I’m busy but I will always make time for you.”; “Do you want to talk about it?”; “Hey, I’ve got this extra $5 bill you can have with your allowance this week.”; “Where do you want to go on vacation this summer?”; “Yes dear. I’d love for your mother to come visit.”; “Yes, you can invite your friends over for a party. What do you want for snacks?”; “How do you feel about . . .?”; “You’re so smart.”; “You’re so bright, I’m gonna change your name to Sunny.”; “Can I help you with your chores?”; and, “No dear. Nothing you wear makes you look fat.”

The topic of elder words would not be complete without the words that are never ever said enough to anyone, “I love you.”

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

November 2, 2017February 26, 2019

School, by Ray S

Stories like this have been told endlessly by endless numbers of people just like you and me. But my story is unique because it is my very own.
I don’t know if the Riverside Central School still stands as I remember it. Then it seemed a monumental structure in the late 19th Century style known as Richardson Romanesque. A flight of wide stairs led up to what seemed like a huge semicircular arched doorway. The spaces within were dedicated to 4th and 5th grades and the auditorium where they held Friday all-school assemblies.
A later date addition housed the primary grades and the most wondrous fantasy world (depending on your age; I was 5) called “Kindergarten”.
We lived just up the block, but I imagine I was accompanied by my mother to get to school, for as many times to get my confidence established enough so that I could make the morning journeys on my own. Armed with my half pint of orange juice in a little canvas bag lovingly sewn by mother we walked. She even put my name in cross stitch embroidery on the tote bag.
Kindergarten was truly a marvelous adventure for everyone. There were two nice ladies there to help us find the right things to play/work with. I later learned that they had the titles of teacher. If there was any sort of rudimentary instruction going on, I cannot recall because I was having too much fun.
The real learning experience was the process of what is now called “socialization”. Put 14 or 20 four to five year olds together and there’s got to be some kicking, screaming, and tears as well as happy laughter.
Mid-morning was orange juice time and a short lie down quiet period.
Then it was back to activities of one sort or another. When I discovered oversized wooden building blocks, I was well on the road to becoming an architect. This was so wonderful until the teacher introduced us to the make-believe grocery store. So much for an introduction to our capitalist consumer centered economy. (Get them started early!)
There probably is a lot more to tell you about my kindergarten days, but honestly I’ve let you take a peek at the best part and I can’t remember any more anyway. Besides all of this transpired some 85 or 86 year ago and we have to allow as how foggy nostalgia can be given to time, source, and age of that tiny tot with his little canvas orange juice bag.

About the Author

September 29, 2017February 26, 2019

Men and Women, by Gillian

Sometimes I wonder if men and women really suit each other. Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then.

Katharine Hepburn

If I remember rightly, which seems increasingly unlikely these days, we went through a phase a few decades ago when we were supposed to believe that men and woman were really not so different. It was probably a ’70’s thing. Then in the early 1990’s along came John Gray’s best-seller, Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus, and accepting our differences became OK again. He wrote a sequel, Why Mars and Venus Collide, in 2008, so clearly he sees no reason to back down! And for all that George Carlin responded with,

“Men are from Earth, women are from Earth. Deal with it.”

I must confess, I’m with Gray.

Now don’t get me wrong. I have loved, and do love, a number of women and men; some family, some not. I always worked with a lot of men, but when I retired, long out as a lesbian, I entered an essentially female world. I found myself actively searching out ways to be around men. I had always had men in my life. I missed them. But missing men and loving men in no way suggests that I see them as some alternate version of women. Men are different. They make me different. I interact differently with them, I feel differently about them, I expect and want different things from them. Indeed, if women and men are in fact NOT very different from each other, I will make them so; at least in my own mind.

But to me the differences are glaringly, blaringly, obvious. You only have to watch groups of little girls playing, versus little boys. Surely most of us have seen it in our own families. Mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, are different not only because they each have unique personalities, but simply by virtue of their gender. Sure, some of it is nurture, the established norms of society, but I believe it is also, overwhelmingly, nature. If we are all basically the same, why do transgender people feel so compelling a need to be ‘the other’?

Years ago, our neighbors had two little pre-school girls. Being extremely liberal parents, they determined not to channel their daughters along any pre-established gender lines. They bought them toy bulldozers and trucks to play with in the sandbox. And there they lay, rusting and abandoned while the girls played happily indoors with dolls and tea-sets.

Take one, admittedly very negative, example. Violence. Of the 12.996 murders in this country in 2010, over 90% were committed by men. Over 90% of ISIS member are men. Almost 90% of the domestic violence cases in this country are committed by men. Looking back, just in my own lifetime, at violent leaders: Hitler, Lenin, Stalin, Pot Pol and the Khmer Rouge, those responsible for the Rwanda genocide, Jim Jones and his Temple, Timothy McVeigh. All men. Not one of all our horrific school shootings was done by a woman. Nearly 90% of victims of domestic violence in this country are women. A statistic on this issue which I find truly horrifying – the number of American troops killed in Afghanistan and Iraq between 2001 and 2012 was 6,488. The number of American women who were murdered by current or ex male partners during that time was 11,766. That’s nearly double the amount of casualties lost during war. And of course it’s not just women who suffer. Just look at our history of male violence against people of color and native peoples. Surely there is something other than nurture responsible here?

Testosterone springs to mind as the easy answer. But that begs another question. There is little evidence that gay men have less testosterone than straight men, so why are gay men, on the whole, not so given to violence? At least, I believe they are not, although statistics are hard to come by. Gay men, indeed, are much more likely to be the victims than the perpetrators. Dictators historically have consistently destroyed their gay populations. ISIS tosses them off roofs and stones them to death so I doubt gays are flocking to join their cause.

I have never in my life been abused personally. I have never been a victim of any kind of violence. But, tragically, that leaves me one of few outside of the straight white male population of this country, and most of the rest of the world, who can say that. I look forward to a world led predominantly by women and gay men. I truly believe it would be a better place. Unfortunately, I don’t see it coming any time soon.

About the Author

September 28, 2017February 26, 2019

Dancing with the Stars, by Betsy

For what reason I do not know, but this topic brings to mind images from my childhood. We can all remember being outside in the dark of night, lying on the ground on our backs looking up at the stars. If you look at a group of stars long enough, they start to dance. At least they look as if they are dancing-jumping from here to there in a very lively fashion. Of course we know the stars are not dancing, rather our eyes or brains are playing tricks on us. But I felt that vision from the past deserved space on this page.

Another image from childhood relates to dancing, but certainly not with any stars. In about the 6th grade in my homogeneous, non-diversified community of Mt Lakes, New Jersey, a suburban very small enclave within commuting distance of New York City, most of the boys and girls in my class at school were enrolled into dancing classes at the local community church.

The dances that were taught were the fox trot, the waltz, the rhumba, and the jitterbug. This was about 1946. Perhaps our parents’ motivation for sending us to dancing school included their belief that young children should be distracted from the news reports coming out of Europe in the aftermath of the 2nd world war revealing the horrors and the reality of the conflict.

More likely our parents sent us to dancing school not so much to learn to dance well, but to prepare us to enter the social world and to learn the proper decorum and social graces needed for high school years and beyond. Anyway, it was the thing to do and all my friends attended with me on those Saturday afternoons.

This was strictly ballroom dancing of course. So equal numbers of girls and boys were needed. My partners usually were Tom Brackin and Mousey MacMillan. STARS—they were not. I preferred Tom to Mousey, but somehow I always ended up with Mousey. I never did know what his real name was……

During college and early adulthood I mostly danced with the man I eventually married and who was the father of my three children. I can’t call it dancing as I think back on it, however. It was more like a shuffling of the feet, in place, more or less, or not at all, in time with the slow, dreamy music while in a bear hug type embrace. As for the jitterbug neither one of us ever felt confident enough to do it in public in spite of the dancing lessons of earlier years.

During the two decades of raising my children, I don’t think I danced much at all. I probably didn’t even think about it. So there was a huge gap of time between the pre marriage dancing and entering the world of dancing that the lesbian bars presented.

When I came out, never mind I was middle aged, dancing became very important. I was looking for some stars. If the dance floor was the place to find my star, then on the dance floor was the place to be. In the excitement of finding myself and my new life it seems at first I was somewhat blinded —not by the stars I danced with but by the ones that were in my eyes.

As the next several years raced by I learned a lot, stuff that I had been rather sheltered from in my youth. As a fledgling lesbian, dancing was an important part of my life. This is one of the few places where, I learned, we go to meet women—places where you dance—the Three Sisters, Divine Madness, Ms. C’s.

It was at Divine Madness one night that I did in fact meet the love of my life, the one with whom I would spend the rest of my life. It was not so much the dancing. She had other qualities and characteristics that attracted me. But dancing with her was fun. Thanks to the Mt. Lakes Community Church dance classes and Mousey McMillan, I could be waltzed around the dance floor as long as she was leading and she didn’t mind that I counted under my breath—1,2,3,1,2,3— rather than trying to converse. The conversation could come later after the dance. “This woman is very special,” I thought.

“Can you do the Two-Step?” she asked one Saturday night. She, being a lover of country music was a fan of this lively jig. The only two step I had ever known or heard of was the Aztec Two Step, some unpleasant digestive ailment I picked up while traveling in Mexico one summer.

“I’m not familiar with it,” I said, “but I’m game to try if you lead and don’t mind counting aloud for me if I need help.” Yes, I did need lots of help, but somehow it didn’t matter. I was dancing with a STAR—my star— and we’ve been dancing ever since.

About the Author

September 27, 2017February 26, 2019

Music, by Ricky

I like music. I like music from before the 30’s, 40’s, 50’s, and 60’s. I like certain pieces of popular music after the 50’s. I haven’t heard any thing DJ’s play from the 90’s and beyond that sounds like music; all I hear is yelling, screeching, and eardrum shattering noise. I recently learned to appreciate opera although I’ve enjoyed classical and Baroque music for decades. I’ve always enjoyed many types of music from my earliest days; here’s why.

When I was about 3 or 4 years old living in Redondo Beach, CA (a bedroom community west of Los Angeles), my parents bought me my own record-player for children. It was about 10-inches wide by 8-inches long, 6-inches tall with the lid closed, and weighed about 7 pounds. The lid was white and the base was bright red. The player only played 78’s. My parents also supplied me with 18 double-sided children size records, thus giving me 36 songs or stories to listen to and sing the songs while the record was playing.

While visiting my brother and sister at Lake Tahoe this past summer, I found my old record album containing a few of my childhood records. I am passing it around so you not only can see the music that started my enjoyment but also to perhaps stimulate some “ancient” memories of your childhood. I had not seen these in over 55-years so it was quite a memory shock to see, hold, and listen to them all again scratchy and juvenile as they are. Many happy hours in that album.

At the age of 5 my parents enrolled me in accordion lessons. They even got me a “loaner” child size accordion and later bought me a much larger adolescent size one. I chose to play the accordion because of watching Myron Florin play one every week on the Lawrence Welk TV show. Naturally, I had to learn to read music but my inherent laziness kicked in and I found all available opportunities not to practice. I had to be fairly sneaky about not practicing because getting caught always resulted in a spanking. I guess my parents didn’t like the idea of paying for lessons that were not being productive enough; how perfectly parental that was.

At 6-years old I started 1st grade, attending the Hawthorne Christian School, I somehow ended up in a band class part of each day. They did not teach accordion there, so I switched to learning how to play the trumpet. The best I could do was making real musical type notes come out and not the amplified breathless “ppppppptttt” sounds that novice beginners make. The accordion had actual keys, one for each note, while the trumpet had three valves that had to be open or closed in cahoots with one another to make the proper note. I never did really get the hang of it so I was very grateful when the trumpet had to be returned to its rightful owner.

When I was seven, the first song by the Chipmunks came out and soon thereafter (or maybe before) came Andy Griffith’s, What It Was, Football and I learned I liked humorous songs and stories on the radio.

Only a few days before my 8th birthday, I was sent to live with my grandparents on their farm in central Minnesota. My musical preferences expanded as the birth of rock-n-roll previously had taken place. On the farm also lived my 3 ½ year older than me uncle. About 6-months after my arrival, he purchased and brought home a 45-rpm record with a song by Jimmie Rogers titled Honeycomb (my first rock song and I remember it to this day). Enamored by the song, I kept pestering my uncle to let me play it. I have no idea what song was on the flip side. Soon after, the DJ’s of the day began playing Johnny Horton’s Sink the Bismarck and The Battle of New Orleans and I was hooked on those styles of music.

In my school at Minnesota, 3rd and 4th grade classes had to (I mean got to) take music lessons. (We also got to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, which set me up for patriotism.) The whole class learned to play the Flute-a-Phone (now called a Recorder). We would practice different pieces of music and every year at Christmas time; all the classes sat together in the auditorium and at the appropriate place in the program, played the same piece of music, Flute-a-Phones on Parade. Do any of you remember the sound a recorder makes? A sort of high-pitched teakettle whistle which changes pitch according to which holes are covered or uncovered by the player. Back then, it sounded nice to me, but in recent performances, I have been to, it just sounded like wounded teakettles sounding off, each with a slightly different pitch and definitely without harmony, but I clapped and applauded anyway—not so much to reward the children, but because I was glad, it was finished. I guess the performance was a type of payback for what I put my grandparents through when I played.

The Christmas holiday period always filled the air and airwaves with beautiful carols and holiday music. The idea of receiving gifts of toys and other fun things (not clothes, socks, or underwear) made it easy to like the music that emphasized that Christmas Eve and day were near; using the same principle of “guilty by association”, Christmas holiday is good therefore holiday music is good. I was in a restaurant last Friday night and I began to tear-up and had a warm-fuzzy feeling all over when two of my favorite carols began to play; one was Oh Holy Night and I do not recall the other.

When the school would allow boys and girls out an hour early, IF they were going to sing in the local Lutheran Church’s Christmas Pageant, I went to sing there. That’s were I really learned to like Christmas songs. Of course, I already knew Frosty the Snowman and Rudolph the Red-nose Reindeer and Jingle Bells, but they were not the songs on the program, so I fell in love with all the religious carols. During practice sessions though, we were allowed to sing the fun songs they just were not on the program.

Just as I turned 10, my mother and new stepfather came to Minnesota and retrieved me. We went to live in California at South Lake Tahoe. Because I spent the majority of my time babysitting my brother and sister, I increased my reading of books to soften the boredom. Once I found my mother’s record collection, and had some spending money to buy my own albums, my taste in music further expanded. My mother had a multiple record Nat King Cole album and a multiple record Bing Crosby album of Christmas songs; both were 78-rpm “platters.” My favorite was White Christmas, the song that nearly did not get sung in the movie Holiday Inn because the producers did not think it worthy but, they needed a little “filler” so, in it went and the rest is history. That particular song by Bing always brings tears to my eyes now as I look back across the years into my past.

When not reading books and magazines or playing outside with my siblings, I would be playing music. Mother had some classical stuff I liked to listen to because it was so beautiful, melodic, and organized. I also bought Vaughn Meader’s First Family albums, both 1 and 2. Other favorites were Johnny Horton’s greatest hits album and my patriotic nirvana music; an album of John Phillip Sousa marches of which Stars and Stripes Forever is my favorite. If you ever see me playing it, you would also see me conducting it, even if I am walking down the street listening to it on my iPod. More albums I had: The Planets, The Nutcracker, Pictures at an Exhibition, Goldfinger, Thunderball, Songs of the North & South, The War of 1812, Handel’s Messiah, and one with the overture to William Tell.

Living at Lake Tahoe kept me in a sheltered environment musically speaking. The one radio station only played non-rock-n-roll music; show tunes from performers at the casinos, or movie soundtracks, or music by Bing Crosby, Pat Boone, Doris Day, Dean Martin, and the like; so, no Beatles music for me. My wife grew up a military brat so she was in love with Beatles music and owned all of their albums. I only learned to enjoy and like a limited number of their songs after we married AND as music deteriorated into the present cacophony of noise. I still like certain pieces beyond the 50’s like the long version of Inna-Gadda-da-Vida and nearly all of the Beach Boys with Johnny Cash, Marty Robbins, The Righteous Brothers, and Simon & Garfunkel thrown into the mix.

As time progressed and music deteriorated, I realized that much of the 60’s and 70’s music I hated began to sound pretty good after all. In any case, that is how and why I ended up enjoying music of different types and quality.

About the Author

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