Security, by Will Stanton

A person’s sense of security or insecurity may be based upon realistic concerns, concerns such as feeling the need to minimize the possibility of home-break-in, avoiding dangerous locales within cities, or perhaps concerns about local terrorism. In many cases, there are some rational steps people possibly can take to provide a greater sense of security.

There is for me, however, a concern (and this is a concern that progressively has worried me over the years), about a more subtle and perhaps even more dangerous sense of insecurity that plagues certain kinds of people and, consequently, society as a whole. That chronic sense of insecurity may warp those people’s emotions and thinking, resulting in actions that are harmful to others and to the society in which they live.

As I have stated several times earlier, there are various ways that people feel, think, and behave, part of that being based upon what they may have learned from their life-experiences, plus part of that literally based upon how their brains are structured physically. For example, everyone is a mixture of rational thinking and emotions. Research shows, however, that there always has been a group of people who appear to be much more prone to emotional responses and less rational, open-minded thinking. As a potentially terrible consequence, such people are more easily manipulated by devious people with harmful intentions. Also, they become very tribal, work together, often with anger and “fire in the belly,” making them too often more politically effective than more cerebral, better informed people.

Manipulating people’s fear and sense of insecurity has been around ever since the creation of humankind, and I have seen much of that over the last several decades here in America, notably in politics. Whereas it appears to me that one of the major political parties contains a good percentage of people who are open-minded, search for facts, try to think rationally about them, and to form logical, constructive conclusions, there is another major party, with much evidence I might add, that contains a large percentage of people who are more prone to fear, hate, and anger. Consequently, some politicians have mastered the craft of manipulating these people to side with them, to support them, even to the extent that the people vote against their own best interests. These voters not only form opinions that are against what is good for them and society as a whole, but they do so with great emotion, even abject anger against other persons who have formed more rational opinions.

I always have been a student of history, which has taught me lessons about human thinking and behavior. One of the most striking lessons I have learned is from a very revealing quotation from one of the most notorious individuals of modern history, a quotation and lesson that certainly are a warning to what is occurring today here in America. What this person said, along with my comments about each part of it, should ring an alarm bell.

This monster of history was asked how he was able to so control the masses of people in his country. To start with, he maintained that most people are ignorant. Now immediately, some of us might respond that this assertion is an overstatement; yet I ask everyone to recall how ignorant people were shown to be when Jay Leno went on the street and asked simple questions of many people, including graduate students, teachers, businessmen, and even government officials. Need I also mention the recent Republican so-called debates?

Even more harshly, the political leader stated that most people are stupid. Now, I know that this term too frequently is used simply as a slur to denigrate people, yet I have noted for many years that certain people do seem to lack the ability to think rationally. I occasionally over thirty years have tested an acquaintance of mine to ascertain whether or not he can follow simple processes of logical thinking; and, truthfully, he never has. He always responds in irrational, emotional ways, so much so that his thinking is very distorted. I recall in the year 2000 during the Presidential election, this individual actually wrote a letter to the Republican National Committee stating, “If Al Gore steals this election, I volunteer to lead the first tanks into Washington.” In addition to his statement being dramatically irrational, it is quite ironic, now that there is strong evidence that the theft actually was the other way around.

The notorious quotation goes on to state that all the leader had to do was to employ (first of all) fear, and we have witnessed in the U.S. how effective fear-mongering by certain political leaders has been over several decades, stirring up the citizens and priming them for manipulation. “Let us political leaders, along with the top one percent, do whatever we want, and we will make you secure.”

Secondly, he also utilized hate by demonizing certain peoples based upon race, religion, sexual orientation, political beliefs, etc.; and those persons today who are easy prey to such manipulation increasingly express opinions and beliefs that can be quite shocking and unsettling to those of us who have more empathetic, civilized beliefs. In this way, the manipulators can misdirect the public’s attention away from the real problems and constructive solutions by blaming everything on other groups unlike themselves.

And thirdly, he employed anger, and we have seen both verbal and physical violence as a result. This certainly was horrifyingly true in his time and his country. Here in the U.S. in the recent Republican debates and town-hall meetings, we have seen anger too often expressed among the candidates and audience. Several times now in Donald Trump rallies, we even saw violence against dissenters and journalists. One Trump supporter even shouted out, “Sieg heil!” Such violence can spread throughout society as a whole, rather like metastasized cancer. For example, at the beginning of the 20th century, one of the two most spoken languages in the U.S. was German, the language of a large portion of our emigres, along with it being the language of medicine and science. Yet, with the advent of the Great War, suddenly German-Americans were hated. The German language unthinkingly was banned in all schools. Shop-keepers of German heritage had their windows smashed, and others were physically beaten. During World War II, many innocent Japanese, Italian, and German families were sent to prison camps, the German families being the last to be released.

Now we see such fear, hate, and anger being directed toward Mexicans and Muslims, among others. (I suppose certain people always will fear and hate homosexuals). My belief is that the more knowledgeable one becomes, the more rational one’s thinking, the more empathetic and understanding of others, then the more secure one becomes in his own mind. A lack of a sense of security too often is within people’s minds, not necessarily within the real world.

© 02 March 2016

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

Terror, by Ricky

Not to “down-play” the feelings, but terror is nothing more than extreme fear. Fear caused by circumstances that are too horrible to even think about, like: being buried alive or being a passenger on an airliner that is falling to its doom from 40,000 feet or catching the Ebola virus or discovering too late that vampires, werewolves, and zombies are real. Since these thoughts really are too unsettling to think about, I will write about other forms of terror. (Those of you with weak hearts or stomachs may wish to skip reading this posting. Going to read on are you?? Well then, you have been warned.)

Among the less fearful terrors in the animal kingdom are the Wire Hair Fox Terror, the Boston Bull Terror, and the Scottish Terror.

Moving up the fear ladder, most of us can remember Dennis Mitchell, commonly known as Dennis the Menace. His neighbor, Mr. Wilson, considered Dennis to be a Holy Terror. Another such boy you may recall is Johnny Dorset who was made famous by O. Henry in his book, The Ransom of Red Chief. Johnny is such a Holy Terror that his kidnappers have to pay the boy’s father to take him back. Even “The Little Old Lady from Pasadena” is known as “The Terror of Colorado Boulevard”. Hmmmmm. Here’s a thought. Before their son was old enough to know right from wrong, would Joseph and Mary have described a mischievous Jesus as being a Holy Terror?

If you stop and think about it, we all have been a terror at one time or another. Most notably when we try to open a small letter or package where the instructions tell us, “To open, tear along the dotted line.” The act of doing so identifies us as a tearer. People who are very good at tearing are known as tearerists.

To paraphrase FDR, “The only thing we have to fear is…” in two years Republicans may again control Congress and the Presidency. Now that is a fear worthy of producing terror!

© 17 November 2014

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 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

Olden Times, by Ray S

Who makes this stuff up?

“With a Song in My Heart”

Being of aged mental capacity it is very difficult to recall any olden times, especially when, if I can recall the times, they not so worth dredging up.

But, the key word did ring a bell and sent me down memory lane to another time and place called “Tin Pan Alley.” You know the stereotype that claims many of us always love show tunes and some even know all of the words.
The key word is “olden” and with homage to one of my 20th century musical heroes, namely Mr. Cole Porter, I offer up this bit of rhyme:
“In Olden Days a glimpse of stocking

Was simply shocking, but heaven knows,
Anything Goes.

Good authors who once knew better words
Now only use four letter words writing prose,
Anything Goes.

If Mae West you like or me undressed you like
Why will nobody oppose—when every night
Anything Goes.”

Hope this has jostled your musical library enough to remember your own oldies but goodies,
For instance:

Remember Maurice Chevalier singing on the streets of Paris “Thank heaven for little boys.”

Or poor misguided Nelly Forbush singing “I’m in love with a wonderful guy.” When it really was a wonderful girl, and yes a wonderful guy, only he was singing about another he.

Last but not least I offer the old blues number “Love for Sale” which noted in fine print BOGO free.

Happy Olden Trails.
© 16 May 2016

About the Author

You’ll Never Know, by Gillian

No, I probably won’t, but I suspect that expression might soon need to be protected under the Endangered Species Act. It surely must be close to extinction. Extremely popular as recently as our younger days, attitudes have changed so much that people rarely say, or even think, these days, you’ll never know … whatever.

Not only people, but computer systems, know more about us than we do ourselves. King Soopers knows what I eat, Argonaut knows what I drink, Amazon knows what I read. A part of us seems to resent and fear this, yet we relentlessly feed the world endless information.

We shout everything from the rooftops. We tell everyone everything, from inane trivia to what would once have been deep dark secrets.

Take Facebook for instance. (Please, take it! I don’t want it.) So many people telling me so much more than I could ever need, or want, to know. Am I supposed to be enthralled by the final success of some friend of a friend’s grandchild’s potty training? Or someone whose name means nothing to me proclaiming that he, without fail, flosses his teeth six times every day? Or the myriad of lunatic responses to this claim from people I don’t know and don’t want to know?

I’d like to say that I hate Facebook, but in all honesty I simply stay away from it so I’m not involved enough to hate it. I do, however, regret the way in which it has created impersonal communication from the personal.

Once upon a time – and not so very long ago – cousin Fred would send a postcard when he visited New York. It would have the same tired photo of the Empire State Building on the front, and some version of wish you were here on the back. Nevertheless, how nice of him, you would say, to think of me. It was personal. It made you feel good.

Now, you look at Fred’s photo-journal on Facebook, detailing his trip to Bangkok. He recounts every event of every day, down to what he ate for dinner. You can imagine his trip much more vividly then you did from the old postcards, but what happened to that warm fuzzy you used to get from them? What happened to the personal touch? What happened to that oh how nice of you to think of me feeling? I haven’t a clue whether he ever gave me a thought or not. He sent this report out into the ether to be read by anyone who cared to do so. I would really get more out of a boring photo and a banal message; at least it was for ME.

A while back I heard via a mutual friend that a good friend of mine had just returned from New Zealand.

‘I didn’t even know she’d gone to New Zealand!’ I wailed.

‘It’s all been on Facebook,’ she replied, looking pitying and puzzled as if I’d just told her I couldn’t read.

A couple of weeks ago, a group of old lesbians Betsy and I belong to were joined for lunch by a few teenagers who shared with us their experiences with being …. um …. and here I shall begin to flounder because I am not too sure what they would consider the politically correct terminology. My apologies to any of you wonderful young people who happen ever to read this, which I think highly unlikely. I think their version of the alphabet soup was LGBTQIA+, the QIA being questioning, intersex, and asexual. What an education these kids are. They talk with assurance about identifying as gender-queer, gender-fluid, non-binary, and half the time I’m not sure even what they’re saying. It’s another language. And here we were, many of us in this room, when we were that age, ignorant of even one word to describe what we knew, at some level, ourselves to be. I recall that huge hurdle, as it appeared at the time, we had to leap in order simply to inform others that we were attracted to those of the same sex, or that we were trapped in the wrong body. Can you even begin to imagine trying to explain to your parents that you are never sure, at any given moment, whether you will feel that you are female or male, or to which sex you may feel attracted. Or that you chose not to identify as any gender. You just are.

For some of them, their preferred pronoun is ‘they’ rather than he or she, which is vaguely possible in the English language but when I try it I find it very confusing.

It was all starting to make my head hurt.

Don’t get me wrong though, I have every admiration for these young people: out to the world, apologizing for nothing, completely proactive on their own behalf. I’m not foolish enough to think it’s easy for them, but none of them is ever going to think, in some secret, inner, self, you’ll never know ….

Everyone knows, and I bet they’re all out, loud and proud, on Facebook.

Perhaps, if I used Facebook, I would be more familiar with the the language of today’s LGBTQIA etc. youth, though I am not ashamed to admit my deplorable ignorance face to face.

Maybe I just have to accept that if I am to keep up with what is happening in the world in general, and with those nearest and dearest, I shall have to resort to Facebook. But I’d still rather receive a postcard.

© November 2015

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.

A Defining Word, by Will Stanton

OK, so I know that two words are a term, not a word; but that is what I have chosen to write about, a term: “sexual preference.” I have chosen those two words because, over the years, they have been used so much, yet they certainly are not defining words.

Yes, I know what people usually mean when they employ that term when asking, “What is your sexual preference?” Most likely, they mean “straight or gay.” I usually answer, “I’m not sure. It’s hard for me to choose between blond or brunette. One day, I lean toward blond; yet, on other days, I’m drawn to dark-brown hair, maybe even black.”
A person’s preference may have little to do with sexual identity. For one example, I can conceive of a person born homosexual whose preference would be to be heterosexual. And of course, someone’s preference might be to a person of the opposite gender.
In addition, a person’s preference may be a partner who is young, or old, same race or different race, very good-looking or, instead, a very good person, looks being of less importance. Many gay guys seem to be preoccupied with the size of male genitalia. Other people could not care less, placing far more importance on someone’s other attributes.
In order to avoid confusion or misinterpretation, I prefer communication to be as precise as possible. Therefore, because genetics and brain structure are major determinants of each person’s drives and attractions, I suggest that the more logical term should be “sexual orientation;” and this is what I use if the subject comes up in conversation. Even then, that term is not completely defining, for people are complex and of varied natures.
And, as long as we are talking about commonly used terms, a little bell goes off each time I hear the frequently used term “bisexual.” My having involved myself for several decades in human behavioral treatment, the term “bisexual” always connotes for me a possible biological influence in someone’s nature or physical structure. After all, human sexuality is not binary, that is, either heterosexual or homosexual. Someone’s nature or orientation lies somewhere on a linear graph. For those individuals who may engage in sexual relations with people of both heterosexual and homosexual orientation, perhaps a more accurate term would be “ambisexual,” rather like in baseball, a “switch-hitter.” Or, if you would enjoy something more humorous, you might use the term “heteroflexible.”
Finally, generally I avoid popular, overused labels when describing people. People are far too varied and complex. Labeling people hinders the process of getting to know and truly understand someone. Besides, for those persons fortunate enough to have become self-actualized and broad in their interests, sexual orientation is only one part of a human, complex personality.
© 02 February 2016

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

True Colors, by Ricky

Oh say, what is truth? Can you describe for me what color is? Is it true that we all see the same color when looking at an object? Can colors lie? In normal daylight my car looks to be colored either burgundy or brown depending upon what angle one is looking at the vehicle. In twilight, it looks black. So what is the color of my car? Is it burgundy, brown, or black? Officially the manufacturer states the color is burgundy. Thus under different lighting conditions and angles the color shifts, in essence, lying about itself.

Electromagnetic radiation has many frequencies. Visible light is but a small range of those frequencies. The cone structures in our eyes perceive those frequencies and pass the information on to one’s brain where we “see” images containing what we call color. If you and I both could see just one specific Ångström of light, would our brains interpret it as the same shade of whatever color the frequency represents? Or, because of differences in our brains, do we each “see” slightly different colors?
What is true about colors? In my youth, the color red was for firetrucks, stop signs, and anger. Now firetrucks are safety-green or yellow. Back then, yellow was for cowardice, warning, and jaundice. Nonetheless, I Am Curious Yellow made it into the movies. Green is for: go, money, cheese on the moon, grass on the other side of the fence, and envy. Blue has always been for: eyes, the sky, depression, music, and calm. Violet is used to name little girls, a flower, and as a young female character in Ronald Dahl’s book, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Brown is used for dirt, a comic character named Charlie, and of course—yummy chocolate.
One place where colors are “true” is when they are lined up in a rainbow. The colors are always lined up the same each time. They are dependable and bring me a feeling of happiness whenever I see one. 
Colors are very useful. English has many “colorful” words, if they are used correctly. Two such words are Crayola Crayons. When used as nouns, they bring children and adults some joy when making colorful pictures on paper or walls or floors or white shirts.
Before you think up some other colorful words for this lame piece of fluff. I’ll quit writing about it. See ya’ll later.

© 29 February 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 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

What I Did for Love, by Ray S

As far back as memory reaches the euphemism “passed away” was a familiar phrase in polite society. As a little child I was expected to attend the services, another euphemism, of family and those who had passed on. At that age I just accepted the story my parents told me, and just understood I was included among the mourners as an act of respect and/or love. That kind of death and funerals were to say the least, remote in the perception of a six year old. It was a time of observation and learning, not a sense of loss.

Of course, with the passage of time the reality of what all of this meant to the adults and me as well, became evident. In retrospect I see it as preparation emotionally and intellectually for dealing with custom and the loss of a loved one. The loss of parents you loved and family members, too, have been peaceful or tragic, but the inevitable had to be accepted and one could only rely on the everlasting love that memories held.

Nothing seems to compare in what I did for love as the experience of having to decide that it was time to take our dying family cat to the vet for his final rites. I had never sat by anyone’s deathbed, but this was as close to it as I had been. I could guess you might feel this is quite trivial in light of the beginning of this story, but it is a different kind of personal tragedy; only to be followed by a second trip to the vet’s a couple of years later for the euthanasia of our good buddy and constant buddy and would-be guardian, Harvey the cat. This time my wife chose to remain in our car after saying goodbye to Harvey; she just couldn’t make the trip into the doctor’s office. As the saying goes, “You have to do what you have to do.” And that is what we did for love.

Denver, © 16 November 2015

About the Author

Still Learning after All These Years, by Phillip Hoyle

My artist and poet friend Sue keeps learning. She has studied art with teachers and has produced art in several mediums for years. She has managed co-op art galleries, displayed her works in solo and group shows, and taught art to youngsters. But now Sue has extremely limited money resources. For awhile she kept up her learning about art processes by watching arts and crafts shows on TV. When she got a PC, she switched to following art blogs and watching tutorials. Still she is learning. Still she keeps experimenting. Still.

I likewise keep learning bolstered in my resolve to do so by watching Sue’s creative efforts and by recalling the concept of lifelong learning I promoted during my long career as a minister. I try to practice what I preached. For instance, I have long participated in a writers group that, although it does not critique pieces, affords me a constant source of response and learning. When I read something to that group of writers, I hear my words differently and pick up problems I’ve missed in my own reading and editing. I also get positive feedback.

When possible I have attended art workshops. One of the most helpful processes I learned in a week-long event with Houston artist Polly Hammett in 1998 was a process of self-criticism. She recommended the process that continues to teach me about my work and its direction. Her SELF-CRITIQUE is this:

Select from your current work several of the pieces. Set them up as a gallery. Decide three things you like about each piece.

1. See them. As you look at each piece see what you like.

2. Say them. Aloud say what it is that you like. Say aloud all three things.

3. Write them. Write down those things you have decided. If you are working on paper, write them on the back of the piece itself. If not, write them in a notebook. Write them.

Then choose your favorite piece. Decide, say, and write why it is your favorite, how it is related to the other pieces, and how it is different. “Do this,” she said, “so you keep affirming what you like. You will do again such things if you repeat them verbally.” She also stressed not to spend any time on the things you don’t like or you’ll end up doing them again and again! I have applied her advice to my work over the past fifteen years.

When I worked at a spa clients would sometimes ask, “How long have you been doing massage?”

I told them, “I’ve given massages professionally for eight years.”

“What did you do before that?” they almost always responded.

“I was a minister,” I said. That stopped the conversation almost as effectively as being introduced as a minister to a group of people drinking heavily in a bar.

“That’s really different,” many of them would eventually respond.

“No,” I answered with a chuckle. “My clients still tell me their problems.”

We’d laugh together. Then I’d clarify. “Actually it is different. In the massage context they edit their stories much less.”

Even in this last year of massage I have been learning new processes, new applications of things I learned in school, and sometimes a realization of what my teachers were trying to communicate about the work all those years ago.

In 2013 I am still learning not only about my art and massage, but also about personal relationships, things I never before could have imagined. The things people have told me about their lives probably were just details I couldn’t imagine about folk in churches when they told me their troubles. I have learned about life and about people, including many things about the varieties of GLBT folk!

Enough of these stories. Here’s my elder advice:

* In learning and work, both go it alone and collaborate with others.

* Adopt a rookie attitude about your life, skills, and learning even if you are ancient.

* Like Sue, find novel ways to learn.

* Keep your eyes open, your ideas transportable, and your attitudes creatively engaged.

And let me tell you; I hope to keep learning right up to my last breath.

Denver, © 2013

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

The Men in My Life, by Lewis

Preamble 

I have lain awake at night more than once this past week thinking about what I might write on this subject, trying to find some common theme amidst the tenuous and sparse connections I have had with two of the three men with whom I have lived. Perhaps it was the place, perchance the time. Whatever the reason, I can honestly say that when it comes to the masculine persona, “Yay, verily, I have barely known ye.”

What are men afraid of? Is it a part of being “macho”? It seems to me that it is not related to sexual orientation. I see it even in this Storytellers group—men are reluctant to share their vulnerability, their pain. Perhaps it is because we are all Baby-Boomers or older. Perhaps it was growing up in the decades of seemingly endless wars, whether hot or cold. It could have been our heroes on TV and movie screens—Charlton Heston, Humphrey Bogart, Marlon Brando, Clint Eastwood, John Wayne. Perhaps it was ubiquitous homophobia, insinuating into our lives the scandalousness of showing tenderness or warm affection toward any man. Whatever the source, it is a theme that has run throughout my associations with men from my earliest days. And that has left a hole in my soul that remains unfilled to this day.

In recalling the men in my life and writing about them, wounds have been opened that never healed but were only glazed over by time and circumstance. They are the neglected infrastructure of my life and I have run into a deep pothole. Perhaps in writing this, I can throw some “cold patch” into it and smooth out some of the pain.

Homer

Homer E. Wright was my maternal grandfather, the only grandparent I ever knew. My mother was the oldest of six children growing up on the outskirts of Pratt, Kansas, in the nineteen-teens and –twenties. A couple of cows and a few chickens shared the yard. Granddad worked his entire life for the Rock Island RR. His wife, Alma, died in 1943 of colon cancer. He continued living in Pratt until he retired in 1952. It was then that he moved to Hutchinson to live with my parents and six-year-old “Lewis the Third” in a newer, larger house on which he made the down payment on the $12,500 mortgage. The house had three small bedrooms, one bath, a single-car attached garage, a large yard, and no basement. Because Dad used one of the bedrooms as an office, Granddad and I shared a bedroom. He got the bed and I slept on a wire-frame divan with removable cushions. (I can remember that I liked to sleep on my stomach and let one leg drop down into the cradle formed by the tucked in sheets.)

Granddad was very generous with his money. He bought us our first TV that same year—even before there was a broadcast station within range. He also paid for my first bicycle and only pet dog.

In 1955, we all piled into Granddad’s ‘52 Packard and headed for Washington, D.C., New York City, Boston, and Newport, Connecticut, to see the sights and visit aunts and uncles on my mother’s side. While climbing the Statue of Liberty, I left Granddad’s Kodak box camera on a bench at a rest stop halfway up the long, long staircase. It was gone by the time we came back down. I feared his wrath but, as with other emotions, it was missing in action.

When he died in November of 1955, he left each of his six children $15,000. My parents used the money to pay off the mortgage. We burned it in the fireplace.

As generous as Granddad was with his money, he was every bit as parsimonious with his personal attention. I have no memory of having a conversation with him or any physical touching. Even when he gave me a gift, it was not because he handed it to me. It just “appeared”. With a tip of the bowler to Winston Churchill, he was “a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma”.

Perhaps it is not a coincidence that his offspring scattered to the four winds, Harold to a farm in the far southeast corner of Kansas; Carl to Alaska and Mossy Rock, WA; Merle to Stone Mountain, GA; Ruth to New London, CT; and Verna to somewhere in Texas. Perhaps it wasn’t Granddad. Maybe it was only escaping Kansas that was important.

Dad

Dad was the oldest of four boys born on a farm near Cheney, Kansas. I never knew either of his parents but he told the story of their losing their farm during the Depression. It was the only time he ever saw either of them cry. It moved him so deeply that he resolved to spend his working life helping farmers get the loans they needed to prosper.

My dad was much more approachable than Granddad. Before I was old enough for kindergarten, on Sunday mornings I would sit on his lap while he read the comics to me. I would ask him to “point” so I could follow along. It gave me a great “leg up” on learning to read myself.

His relationship with my mother was almost like a business partnership. If it weren’t for the Sunday evening every month that their bridge club met, there would have been hardly any socializing at all. My ex-wife remembers my mother criticizing my dad’s driving while vacationing. (My dad drove as part of his business. He put 30,000 miles per year on his company car without ever causing an accident.) They slept in twin beds–like Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz but without the bickering—and even dressed in separate rooms. Dad was a “soft touch”. Everybody liked him. I think Mom resented him for being that way but her latent lesbianism meant she couldn’t stand intimacy, either.

Dad had no idea how to parent. Mother handled all the disciplining, including spanking. He didn’t know how to be truly tender, either. When he found the dog Homer had given me dead in the street—I’m not sure it wasn’t his car that did it—he was annoyed at having to find a spot in the backyard to bury him. The only “heart-to-heart” talk I can ever remember having with him was when I was entering middle school and he felt obligated to tell me what a jock strap was for. I think he was more uncomfortable that I was.

Still, I felt I understood Dad more than I ever did Mom. I think I adopted many of his ways, especially the way he took care of business in his office at home, sort of like being there but not being there. That was true of me much of the time while my kids were growing up. It is the biggest regret of my life.

Laurin

There’s a neat kind of symmetry to having been in love with one woman and one man. It would have been even more remarkable were I able to say that I was single for the first 26 years of my life (true), married to a woman for the second 26 years (also true) and then married to a man for the final 26-year installment of my life. I only got to live with Laurin for half that long. Had he not been twenty years older than I, we might have made it to that milestone.

Laurin and I filed for divorce from our wives when it became apparent that we had something truly special going on between us. He had been married for nearly fifty years and he and his wife had five children, all grown. Laurin had the “hots” for me from the moment we first met. He was not shy about expressing it. The way he looked me in the eyes without saying a word embarrassed me in the extreme. His directness was something I had never encountered before in a man.

I was at that time in the process of getting in touch with my innate sexuality. I was seeing a gay therapist in Ann Arbor. He was urging me to go slow. The fact that Laurin lived 55 miles away in Flint, where he taught high school social studies, gave me the space I needed to sort things out. It took a lot of sorting—seven years in fact. We stayed in touch through letters—the snail-mail kind. By 1998, I was openly investigating the gay culture.

That May, I attended a weekend financial seminar for gay men and women over 50. The keynote speaker was Quentin Crisp, author of The Naked Civil Servant. Laurin was there also. We picked up where we had left off. Laurin’s wife had been living for many years in Hylton Head, South Carolina, where they owned a condominium. Although we still lived 55 miles apart, we met on a few occasions for dinner or to attend the monthly meetings of Body Electric in Detroit.

I wrote Laurin a letter to inform him that I thought I was ready to take our friendship to a deeper level. I had been reading books by men who were gay but living a closeted existence within a heterosexual marriage. In the car one day that May, I told my wife, Janet, about a case I had read about involving a Mormon couple who took annual vacations to New York City with their children. She would spend the week taking the children to museums, concerts, and the theater while Dad would check out the gay bars. At the end of the week, they would resume their “normal” existence back in Utah.

Janet’s response was to ask me, “Is that what you want?” I said, “No”. She asked what it was I did want. I told her that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with a man. That night, I slept in our son’s former bedroom and we began the process of getting a divorce.

Three weeks later, I participated in a workshop for gay men seeking deeper same-sex relationships. I waited for a response to my letter from Laurin. Nothing came. A couple of months went by; still no response. Finally, one of us called the other. I don’t remember who was which. I asked Laurin about the letter. He said, “What letter?” Turns out, I had typed the letter but never mailed it. Freud lives!

The die had been cast, nevertheless, and the two of us began to plan a vacation tryst in a place with sand, palm trees, and privacy. But first, we needed a trial run. We arranged to rendezvous at the very cabin in Lakelands Trail State Park, MI, where we first met. I was there to greet Laurin as he drove up. He got out of his second-hand Cadillac and immediately removed his toupee and flung it across the trunk. For both of us, the moment marked the end of pretending to be who we were not.

Laurin was unlike any man I had ever met. He delighted in his body and in mine. He was spontaneous, direct, and completely devoted to my happiness. His favorite movie was The Unsinkable Molly Brown (he was a Colorado native). Early in the movie there is a scene where Harve Presnell and Debby Reynolds are laying in the grass under a tree. He sings to his love, Molly, “I’ll Never Say ‘No’”. Laurin vowed that he would never say “No” to me—and he kept that promise for the fourteen years we were together. (This is not to say that he never did things I would not have approved, if given a chance.)

That’s what made Laurin so precious to me. He went wherever I went and vice versa. We couldn’t get enough of each other. I had finally found a man who truly enjoyed my company, who wanted nothing more than to wake up next to me in the morning. For the first time in my life, I felt that I truly mattered to another man. It was like heaven.

© 28 March 2016


About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and 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.

Sad but True, by Gillian

It is undeniably true, and equally undeniably sad, that selfish, inconsiderate, people keep insisting upon dying; often at very inconvenient times and in equally inconvenient places. Often they don’t even bother giving me any warning; which actually is of no consequence because, when I do have some presentiment of bad behavior on their part and sternly insist that they mend their ways, do they pay attention? No! They just pop their clogs, topple off their perches, in total disregard of my needs and wants.

Now, most of these people are old enough to know better. They must know that I, at a similar age, am too old to deal with emotional upheavals. Bad things just keep getting harder to deal with. So, do they cease and desist from such things? Far from it. In fact old friends insist on dying with ever-increasing frequency.

Take just last week. Nancy, the chef from Betsy’s cross-country bike trip, died unexpectedly. She was not only cook and bottle-washer, but she also rode her bike, along with the others. So her death was almost a double whammy: the loss of Nan the cook, and Nancy, the co-rider. She was also the first of the group to die, so that hit everyone very hard. I mean, just how inconsiderate is that? She was a perfectionist, and very competitive, so I guess she just had to be #1. (Actually, that whole group was made up of some very competitive people, so in a way it would not have been surprising if they’d chased each other right into the arms of that old Grim Reaper, like lemmings going over the cliffs.) But no, in the event, Nancy had to be first.

On top of that she was only 68, abandoning ship early, leaving old souls like Betsy to pedal on.

In a final act of selfishness, she had to go and die in some remote half-a-horse Wyoming town in the middle of winter. Whoa! How’s that for heaping it on? Just because she fell in love with this Wyoming rancher, just because she wanted to live on his remote ranch, just because she adored the midst of nowhere, we had to traverse the sleet and snow of Windy Wyoming on bitterly cold February days. Huh!

—————–

With that, I guess my attempt at some kind of dark humor has fizzled out. I suppose I had to try it as the only way, at this particular moment, to deal with the sad but true fact that as we age we lose so many friends; faster and faster they fall. All the tired old platitudes, such as death is just a part of life, offer me nothing, though I do try to remind myself constantly that in fact I am very fortunate: in order to lose so many friends you first have to have so many friends. Still, I hate that feeling of always waiting for another shoe to drop, dreading who will be next. Then, one day, I shall be the one who is next. Sad but true.

© February 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.