Author: phoyle

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

In the spring I have counted one hundred and thirty-six different kinds of weather inside of four and twenty hours. 
– Mark Twain

And I thank you for that, Mr. Twain. Thanks for telling it like it is – that Springtime is a sneaky, unpredictable little critter full of unpleasant surprises. T. S. Eliot wrote of April being the cruelest month, but most poets wax lyrical over the ‘rebirth’ that is the Spring, but they tell only half the story. More reliable is the old adage that if March comes in like a lamb it goes out like a lion, or vice versa. The old folks, tied much more closely to the seasons than many of us today, knew just how unreliable Springtime can be. In the England of my childhood those April showers so romantically trilled about in song had a bad habit of coming in one long shower beginning shortly after the New Year and ending temporarily for a few days in late July.

Arriving in sunny Colorado in 1965, I was welcomed by a seemingly endless Fall of clear days under a deep blue sky. Then, suddenly, one day winter arrived and the weather remained pretty cold and snowy for a couple of months, then suddenly one day the temperatures shot well above seventy and stayed there. The birds sang, early daffodils and tulips poked out their heads, buds appeared on the trees. Spring, I believed, had arrived. Wrong! A huge cold front moved in, temperatures plummeted, blossoms froze, flowers struggled to breath under three feet of snow. Of course, I now know that that is standard Springtime procedure around here, but that first year of my Colorado life it sure did take me by surprise. That ‘Springtime in the Rockies’ that we sang about in grade-school was even more given to shock and trauma than that Springtime in England so beloved of poets.

Contained in the lyrics of the Simon and Garfunkel song, A Hazy Shade of Winter, is a reference to ‘the springtime of my life’. I somehow missed mine; at least the first time around. Not surprising; I was stuck in that hazy shade of winter. Not that I was unhappy in the first four decades of my life, before I came out to myself. I just wasn’t there, which hardly lends itself to happiness or unhappiness. There was someone playing my part, but I didn’t care whether she was happy or not. She was not me and so signified nothing. And so I continued in that hazy shade until suddenly, about midsummer to continue the seasonal metaphor, I burst out into the sunshine – and entered my Springtime. I guess because I flunked the first one by my complete absence, I was forced to do it over. And I did not flunk this one. I blossomed. I bloomed. I unfurled my petals and felt the sun enfold me in it’s warm caress. I felt no fear. I was free to discover my own true beauty and to display it to the world. Maybe there would be some cold rain, some damaging winds, maybe I would struggle to survive under a snow drift, but I would survive to thrive in the summertime of the new me.

And so I must apologize to all those poets and songwriters. They have it right. There really is a magic in the Springtime air. Ellis Peters writes that ‘every spring is the only spring – a perpetual astonishment.’ She describes, perfectly, my life since I came out; one of perpetual, breathtaking, astonishment at my joy in life.

Continuing in A Hazy Shade of Winter –

…. Look around
The grass is high
The fields are ripe
It’s the springtime of my life
Seasons change with the scenery
Weaving time in a tapestry ……

And it occurs to me that one of the many blessings of aging is the ability to look back and see so clearly the seasons of our lives, and that time does, indeed, weave a tapestry; a tapestry design which we cannot see as we live it. Only when we look back does the picture become clear. We are finally able to see, and to revel in, our own life’s tapestry.

© April 2018

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

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Will O’ the Wisp, by Betsy

Will o’ the wisp is a term I have never used—I have heard it, but never used it as I’ve never really in all honesty known what it means. I ponder. “Let’s see. What could it mean.” Maybe a wispy will, i.e., a wimpy will, or maybe, I’ m thinking, it just might be referring to fly-away wispy hair, you know, hair that has a will of its own.

Fortunately I have my trusty computer handy and I can go to wikipedia and look it up with no trouble at all and get an immediate answer to the question of the meaning of will o’ the wisp.

Then maybe I’ll have something to say about it. I’m not sure.

So I see that it refers to a ghostly, flickering light seen in bogs and swamps and marshes. It seems this ghostly light has an evil purpose; that is, to draw people from safe pathways.

When I think of swamps and bogs in relation to my life experiences, one thing comes immediately to mind. In 1950 when I was almost fifteen years old, my family was forced to make a major change in our living situation. We lived in New Jersey in a town called Mt Lakes, a rather idyllic place to live. Mt. Lakes had a small mountain and two lakes. I enjoyed a lake in my back yard and a woods in my front yard. I walked to school, played in my boat, rode my bike, skated on the frozen lake in the winter. Life was good in Mountain Lakes, New Jersey. My parents were happy there, too.

One day because of changes in my father’s business we had to leave Mt. Lakes and start living in Louisiana. I knew nothing about Louisiana at the time, but when I learned I would be living there I sought as much information as I could about the new place that would be my home.

One of the first things I learned was that Louisiana is a swampy place. I discovered that bit of information first because my father explained that some of the trees he would be cutting for his lumber mill would come from the swamps. He would be harvesting cypress trees and cypress trees grow in swamps.

I was not happy about going to such a place. I don’t like dark, dank, watery places that harbor slimy creatures such as snakes and alligators. I am especially afraid of snakes, poisonous or not. Never mind, I said, I’m not going into any swamps. I’ll just have to stay on the high ground in the town where we would be living.

I felt, on the one hand, a bit of excitement about moving to a completely different place. But on the other hand, I did feel I was being drawn from the safe, predictable pathway I had been on for the first fourteen years of my life. I was not happy about leaving my friends, my school, my lake, my woods, and all the things around me I had grown to love. No ice skating in Louisiana. It’s hot there and buggy too.

It turns out that my life in Louisiana was not so different from my life in New Jersey. I had many wonderful friends, I liked my school, and I never had to go wading through the swamp. Instead I enjoyed spending time with my friends in boats on the many rivers in our area and doing the kinds of things high school kids do. I had a fairly normal existence in my last three years of high school in Louisiana. However, immediately after high school I went back up north to attend college. I definitely did not want to stay in that part of the world.

That ghostly light actually did eventually draw our family from its safe pathway. My family consisted of my mother, my father, my older brother and younger sister. After 5 years in Louisiana, my mother developed cancer and succumbed at the age of 47 after 2 years of suffering. My brother stayed in Louisiana, married a local woman and had 3 children before he, too, developed brain cancer and died at the age of 29 a few months before his fourth child was born.

It is said that Louisiana is in the “cancer belt.” Perhaps because of the toxins in the wind that blows east from the Texas oil refineries. The area where we lived is located between Baton Rouge and New Orleans. This area on the Mississippi River formerly known as the “petrochemical corridor” is also known as “Cancer Alley.” Louisiana has the 2nd highest cancer rate in the U.S. Our home was not on the river, but located close to cancer alley

Fortunately my father who stay in the area, survived into his 70’s. My sister left after high school to live in Alabama. She is still living.

It turns out that the term will o’ the wisp does have meaning for me. Not a very joyful meaning even though living in Louisiana was not unpleasant for me. The experience opened my eyes and greatly expanded my view of the world. I learned about a culture and a way of life and attitudes that were totally different from what I knew in my closed, protected, homogeneous community of Mt. Lakes. I was exposed to the real world in Louisiana. Leaving the safe pathway it turns out had an enlightening effect. Although I only lived there for three years before I went off to college, those years were formative years and very important years. I am not totally ungrateful for being lured to the swamp by that will o the wisp.

© 26 February 2018

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading, writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Gym 3, by Ricky

(A tale of 3 “gyms”)

Gym1

It was in early June 1956, when I was banished (due to divorce proceedings) from California and sent to Minnesota to live with my grandparents on their farm. I had just turned 8 years old on the 9th. At the time, I expected to be gone for only the summer; but it turned into a 2 year “prison sentence” away from home and “loving” parents.

I shared a room and bed with my uncle, Dixon, who was 11 in December of 1955 and 11 ½ by June of ’56; and about to enter 6th grade, while I was looking at starting 3rd grade. Due to that traumatic spanking I received when only 4 or 5, I was extremely shy and reluctant to let anyone see me dressing, undressing, in my underwear, or bathing; and would “pitch a fit” if someone tried. Of course, I couldn’t do much when Grandma bathed me the first two times in the summer kitchen’s galvanized “wash tub” because I hadn’t washed all the dirt off by myself. I quickly learned to do that however. I was dirty because farm life is not soil free and baths were only on Saturday nights to be fresh for church on Sunday. I had to use my uncle’s used bathwater so perhaps I never really got clean.

When school began, my uncle, who by then knew from personal experience of my extreme reactions to any attempt to breach my “modesty”, began to tell me about having to take showers naked with other boys present after gym classes beginning in 6th grade. Daily school showers were a necessity back then as most farms did not have indoor plumbing and once a week bathing on the farm just wasn’t sufficient in a close social environment. Pubescent boys smell as they perspire during gym activities and recess playtime.

As a result of my uncle’s teasing about showering naked with other boys, I began to develop a fear of 6th grade, even though it was 3 school years away and I expected to return to California soon. The months of my exile passed and a new school year began and I realized that 6th grade was now closer than desired and my fear level increased but mostly ignored for the time being. Fortunately, I was given a reprieve and my “sentence” was commuted in late May of 1958 and I was taken back to California to live with my mother and her new husband.

When I began 5th grade at So. Lake Tahoe, I discovered that there were no showers after recess or any P.E. classes in elementary school, those being reserved and mandatory in high school only. I was able to put my fear and stress level on hold for 4 more years, while I got to “enjoy” the beginnings of puberty.

In September of 1962 I finally had to face my fear as I had finally arrived at high school and the dreaded after P.E. mandatory naked showers with other boys. By now, due to my well-established desire to see any boy naked, I no longer feared being naked among boys (or girls for that matter). What I was afraid of was having a spontaneous erection while showering, because at 14, I was still having random ones.

At school, they mostly struck when I was sitting in front of my 9th grade English teacher, Mrs. Joyce Holmstad. She wore low cut blouses and sat on the front edge of her desk (directly in front of me) and would often lean forward revealing to me (or maybe exposing to me) some bra and more than sufficient for erection purposes, cleavage. I always had to hide my crotch with books when I left at the end of the class period. But I digress from the gym. In all the four years of mandatory PE showers, no one ever got an erection that I could tell, and I certainly took every opportunity to look for one.

Gym2

Actually, gym2 is really Jim #1. I met Jim Robertson when he was 11 and I was 13. We became friends and he asked me to go to church with him one Sunday and we went for about one month until the pastor and his baby were killed in a car crash. I invited Jim to join Boy Scouts with me and he did. We were two of seven boys who ended up starting a new troop at So. Lake Tahoe. I taught him about sex and we became sex-playmates on sleep over nights but never did anything together during scout campouts. He ended up going to live with his aunt and, according to him, began to really enjoy sex with his female cousin.

Gym3

As you may have guessed, gym3 is really Jim #2. Jim Dunn was the son of a California highway patrolman and joined my scout troop when he was 12 and I was 14. He was taller than most boys his age and matched my height of 5′ 11”. His hair was blondish and eyes a very nice shade of blue. I liked him for his looks and gentle personality. Strangely, I was never sexually attracted to him probably because he did not look “interested”. I was so naïve about that stuff.

As we aged and moved into Explorer Scouts, we shared a couple of experiences that should have tipped me off that he was interested in boy sex play but I never caught on. As an adult, I learned that he died early from AIDS.

That’s all of my “gym” memories.

© 24 Oct 2011

About the Author

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Empathy, by Phillip Hoyle

As a college student I learned a distinction between sympathy and empathy. The contrast arises from the two different Greek words. It also is influenced by psychoanalytic theory and practice. In most discussions empathy is considered to be more finely tuned than sympathy. As a minister I was called upon to do many tasks including hospital and care-home calls on members of the church. I did this work thoughtfully and, I believe, with sympathy, and on good days a measure of empathy! People liked my visits and humor. We laughed and prayed together.

In the church work I was motivated as much by duty as by sympathy and empathy. And I was appropriately trained to be helpful with patients and shut-ins. Apparently I provided sufficient care in my communications and mainly in the fact I showed up at all. Perhaps that is the way of it when one has too many people to serve.

The caring emotion for me occurred most clearly when I was in a hospital room with someone having a difficult time. I also noticed how my empathy was amplified when I liked the person, occasions in which other emotions and feelings added to what I was experiencing, for instance, the time an elder woman introduced me to her nephew when she and I were the only persons present made me wonder at the drugs the medics had given her for pain and the need to suppress a feeling of humor at the situation. (I was fine; she got better.)

I visited a good looking single young man who had a stubborn bone infection. I know that a sexual attraction increased my sense of his pathos. It alerted me to how others might prize him emotionally and their sense of fear surrounding his illness. My empathy extended to his family and friends. He eventually did recover after receiving loads of highly potent antibiotics.

Several times I visited an elder woman, very worldly and professional, with a bright personality and deep determination to recover from a major stroke. One day several weeks into treatment she appeared to have made a turn for the better. I was excited on her behalf and expressed how much better she looked. She tempered my enthusiasm, though, by saying, “Phillip, I finally felt up to putting on my makeup.” We laughed together. I said, “You are getting better.”

My empathy was sincere in all these cases yet certainly amplified by other emotions. And in all these visits I was present because I was a minister from their church.

One inactive church member, a real sot, was driving home from the VFW on an icy night and being rather drunk, crashed his car into the west entry to the church building. I didn’t see the car but did see the damage to the steps and more. The Sr. Minister, Jack, wasn’t sure what to do. I volunteered, “I’ll go to the hospital and see how he is.” I’d never met the man and really didn’t know much about alcohol or alcoholism. I went in simply as a visiting minister. “So they sent you,” he said eyes twinkling.

“Yeah. It’s my day to make the rounds,” I said to underplay the situation. I asked how he was doing. He said, “Fine,” and seemed totally sober at that point, perhaps from the trauma. I realized he might even feel ill at ease and said, “You just rest and recover.” I shook his hand, smiled saying, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, and don’t worry about the church stuff.” I may have visited him later, I have no recollection. I never saw him outside the hospital, certainly not in church. His collision with the front steps was no conversion.

Was I sympathetic or empathetic? I have no real idea. Years later as a massage therapist I felt empathy with most of my clients in their pains and diseases but not always in their gripes and in some of their expressed needs. I did smile often and sometimes cried. I mostly tried to deliver an effective massage and must have done that pretty well. Many of my clients came to me for over fourteen years. Perhaps I was sufficiently empathetic. And my real hope is that I was never just plain old pathetic in these contacts.

© 27 November 2017

About the Author

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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The Truth Is, by Pat Gourley

The truth is I am a very lazy writer when it comes to putting fingers to keyboard and coming up with something for our weekly SAGE topics. I genuinely feel that my story, at least from a historical perspective, has pretty much been shared with the group. The format we use though has been very stimulating for remembering many past events and antics from my past particularly it seems from the 1960’s and 1970’s.

The truth is though I have much less to write about particularly from the mid 1980’s to the present. I seem to have experienced a diminution of involvement even in activities that seem to land right in front of me and ask for active participation on my part.

The truth is I am not exactly sure why this has happened but I can speculate I suppose. Maybe it is just a matter of getting older. I am getting older like it or not. As I rapidly approach my 70th birthday the truth is … that seems quite amazing to me. I know I am speaking to many folks here quite a bit older and am perceived by some of you as just a youngster. However, I do appreciate how remarkable it is really for someone infected with HIV in the early 1980’s to still be around and often griping about what are really first world problems. An example of a very vexing first world problem for me would be my bemoaning the fact that my neighborhood Whole Foods Market closed last fall and moved to LoDo. I mean really how I suffer so having only a King Soopers, a Safeway, a Trader Joe’s and a Natural Grocers all within easy walking distance.

The truth is I have been infected with HIV for at least 33 years, having tested positive in the summer of 1985. I strongly suspect though I came in contact with the virus and it set up shop in early 1981 making it 37 years, more than half of my life on Earth.

What is my secret to this longevity you may ask? Well the truth is I have no fucking idea. Beyond just maybe being one lucky son-of-a–bitch I can quickly rule out a few reasons right off the bat. It was most certainly not any sort of strong religious faith or conviction. I am an atheist and a half-assed Buddhist practitioner on my best days. Diet and exercise have always been important to me at least on an intellectual and philosophical level if not in my daily eating habits. Saturated fat and high dose sugar input in the form of gourmet ice creams indulged in freakishly often have done little I suspect in keeping my immune system in tip-top shape.

There is no doubt the HIV meds are the main reason I am still here and I do take them religiously. The truth is though that they are slowly accelerating many of the health problems driven by the dietary-fueled metabolic derangement so endemic in American life today with diabetes, stroke, dementia and heart disease being several prominent ones.

One possible current saving grace when it comes to my many dietary indiscretions is that the grocer closest to me is Trader Joe’s and their absolutely crappy ice cream selection. Talk about a first world problem, hey?

The truth is really when looking at my long-term HIV/AIDS survival that it is clearly related to my privilege. I am a white guy in a part of the world where the problems I face are really first world ones. I have been the beneficiary of many forms of privilege that have allowed me to coast for much of the past 37 years with relatively easy access to cutting edge HIV treatments and medications. That white privilege does unfortunately still play a huge role in HIV disease even today in the United States as reflected by the disproportional rate of new HIV infections. African American gay and bisexual men face a one–in-two chance of being infected in their lifetime. The same risk for white gay men is one in eleven. 

https://www.nytimes.com/2017/06/06/magazine/americas-hidden-hiv-epidemic.html

The truth is I am skating on pretty thin ice needing to continue toxic but necessary HIV chemotherapies and having numerous metabolic derangements undoubtedly accelerating my inevitable demise. So what keeps me going? Well not to in any way be pandering this group has been one. I find great solace in participating in a group whose existence is facilitated by the same organization I became involved with in 1976. The truth is where would I be without you?

© April 2018

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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Dark, by Gillian

I grew up in the dark. Quite literally. And yes, here we go again, back to the England of World War Two. (Pause for communal groan.) Born in 1942, I was three when the war ended and, along with it, the blackout regulations. So for the first three years of my life I truly had no experience, nor even concept, of artificial lights shining through the darkness outside. Every window of every single building, no matter it’s use, had to be completely covered in thick, black, material. If the tiniest chink of light showed through, one of the blackout wardens who roamed the dark streets would very shortly be banging on the door. For many people it was almost impossible to go through this entire process every evening as darkness began to descend, so they simply didn’t bother. Their windows remained covered, 24/7 as we’d say these days, for the duration of the war. I certainly don’t remember any of our upstairs windows ever being uncovered, though we had one window in the living-room which my dad relieved of it’s burden every morning before he left for work.

Equally needing to save their energy for all the other things demanded of them, shopkeepers often failed to remove much of the blackout covers when they opened their shops in the morning. They frequently had very little to sell anyway, so what did it matter? My very early memories of shopping with my mother provide vague glimpses of standing in line for what seemed to me to be the entire day, frequently – of course – in the rain. Finally gaining access beyond the dark doorway, we were encompassed in a cold gray gloom not much different from that outside. At least it was out of the rain, but as everyone in the crowded room was dripping water down onto the little toddler me, my environment seemed to have changed remarkably little. I would peer about me as my mother did, though I’m sure I had no idea what I was looking for.

“No bread today?” Mum gazed longingly at the rows of empty shelves behind the counter.

The exhausted-looking woman at the till shook her head.

“Just sold the last one Luv, sorry. Out of flour now so God knows when I’ll have more.

And so the dark days days went by.

Because of Dad’s war work we lived fairly close to London at that time, but London was as dark, or probably from necessity even darker, than our nearby town. There was very little civilian traffic at the time, but all vehicles – military or not – was made to have all lights covered or painted black. This made what traffic there was, and the streets and roads themselves, extremely hazardous. In fact, at first more people were dying from traffic accidents than were being killed by the enemy. In the first month of The War alone, there had been 1130 road deaths attributed to the blackout.* The whole of Britain, at that time, was a very, very, dark place.

The War over, we were free to move as needed. My father felt obligated to move us in with his aging parents to help care for them, and so we landed in a remote sheep-farming part of the west of England. All national improvements had been delayed for years by The War, the preceding years of preparation for it, and the recovery from it. Our new home, like all those for many miles around it, had no running water and no gas or electricity. Artificial light came in the form of candles and ancient oil lamps. We had flashlights but batteries were strictly rationed and hard to come by so mostly they were useless. We might as well have remained in the blackout. Inside, the house was cold and dark and silent. Outside after dark there were no lights from neighboring windows to help guide your footsteps, and certainly no street lights. Well, there were no streets, just a quiet winding country road. I fell quite often while scurrying to the little shed at the far end of the garden in the middle of the night, especially if I had waited a little too long and was really having to hurry.

This darkness never bothered me. I loved living there. I don’t remember exactly but I think I was in high-school by the time we got indoor plumbing and electricity. My dad never once as far as I know, deigned to use the new indoor toilet. Neither of them liked the electric lights, which Mum described as “much too harsh and glaring”. She, an avid reader, was quickly seduced, however, by the length of time her tired eyes could pour over a book under this new glaring light versus peering shortsightedly at the pages in the dim gray/yellow light of the oil lamp. I certainly found it much easier to do my homework!

When I went off to Sheffield to college, I couldn’t sleep at first. The curtains of my little dorm room were thin and beige, doing little to keep out the light: light from street lights, light from houses and businesses, light from passing cars and trucks and buses. Of course the hustle and bustle and bright lights of a city still recovering from The War were nothing compared to that of cities today, but I found it overwhelming.

Of course I got used to it; learned to love it. Yet occasionally, still, I long for the silent darkness of my childhood. But I know that’s nothing but nostalgia, which can fool us all. If I were to return to that darkness, I would also be returning to the other, metaphorical, darkness. The darkness of ignorance. The darkness of not even knowing there were homosexuals in this world, and far, far, from the acceptance that I was one of them. No thanks, I’ll stay here in that “harsh and glaring” light and be grateful for it.

*https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2009/nov/01/blackout-britain-wartime

© November 2017

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

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Bumper Stickers, by Betsy

So, why do people put stickers on their bumpers? The reasons probably vary from person to person. In my opinion most do it for identity reasons. They want the rest of the world to know who they are. Rather than putting a sticker on their chest or bum they put it on their bumper. After all, signs are specifically made for car bumpers and are readily available for purchase or for making a donation or showing support.

Another reason I think some people sport bumper stickers is that they think it will help to bring about that which they are promoting For example, the election of a particular candidate, or a more peaceful society (War is Not the Answer, Life is Short, Pray Hard, Close Guantanamo, better gun control, etc. ) You name it, there is a bumper sticker for just about any cause. But again, I think a cause soon becomes a part of one’s identity. And if you have a bumper sticker promoting your cause, you better stick with it because it ain’t comin’ off any time soon

Traveling in the northwest many years ago I saw this one: an image of an erupting volcano inside a circle with a line through it. I wondered who put this out. Could there be a movement starting dedicated to stopping volcanoes from erupting? Another one I saw in our travels also on the west coast somewhere. This one is even better than the one that addresses the volcano problem: STOP PLATE TECTONICS. That one was hysterical. I assume the people driving those vehicles want to be funny. I don’t suppose they actually think they can stop……..hmmm, I wonder. No, surely they don’t think they can…………….?? Now wouldn’t that be the ultimate in arrogance. I think they just have a good sense of humor.

Personally, I don’t like bumper stickers because they are impossible to take off the bumper once you put it on. There are solvents that will take off the residual adhesive. The down side is they also remove the paint. So I think twice before sticking the thing on there. One day you feel strongly about a cause. The next day you change your mind about whatever you are promoting. Or let’s say you want to change your image. It’s very hard to get rid of the old labels be they in people’s minds and perceptions or on your bumper. I would like some of the adhesive that is used to stick on bumper stickers; that is, I would like to have a supply of it at home. It’s stronger and longer lasting than super glue.

I guess the lesson of the bumper sticker is: be sure who you want to be or at least who you want to appear to be before you take on a label.

© 5 January 2015

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading, writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Writing, by Ricky

Last year I documented how I write my stories for this group under the title of Writing My Story. So this time, I choose to write about someone else’s writing, Tyler Myers’.

Tyler Myers
STHS Class of 2013

“From the US, Tyler Myers!” The head of the Russian Forest Service intones these words as the stage coordinator escorts me to center stage. The Forest Service director speaks with a language unfamiliar to me; however, I understand one phrase: my name. The crowd cheers, for they understand every remark the host exclaims. The noise makes the situation more difficult because—now—I can’t hear a word he says. A man approaches me, handing me a certificate and a medal. The medal has the Roman numeral “III” engraved on the face of it. Now I get it.

Standing on the stage, I remember the comments: “You really think you’ll go?” “Your project isn’t that amazing,” and “Do you even understand the statistics?” The remarks don’t matter now. As I stand in Moscow, I receive confirmation that the summer I spent working on the study deserved recognition, regardless of what others told me. My reminiscing changes to a rant as the rest of the top projects receive recognition. Why isn’t anything good enough for them? Why must they criticize everything I do? My friends are starting to think I’m insane for taking on so many challenges, so why can’t my family see it? My understanding deepens as the spot light widens to display the top three contestants.

My questioning of the past leads me to remember why I try so hard to begin with. Even when I mentioned an opportunity to work with the Forest Service’s Regional Ecologist to develop a project, my mom remained unaffected. She laughed when I told her of the deadline for the project, claiming that I should use my time to work this summer and make some money. Much to her surprise, I landed a job with the Forest Service as a Botanist and Aquatics crew member and, in my free time, completed the project. Ultimately, I wished for any positive reaction from her, any type of motivation or encouragement besides her posting pictures of me on Facebook, boasting to her friends. Regardless of my actions, she remains uninterested. From the AP classes to the varsity letters to the clubs I ran on a weekly basis, she remains distant. As I stand on stage, my disposition changes as I realize I wouldn’t have taken on some of the early challenges and developed my habit to get involved if it wasn’t for my family’s harsh comments. I begin to appreciate the high standard I hold myself to; however, now I can’t resist getting involved. This time—this project—and the accomplishments to come, they start, and end, simply with my impulse to achieve.

Now there’s an idea, my life as an extended metaphor. Ok then, now what should I be? How about a diamond—under pressure, showing perfection—Nah, that’s too cliché. Oh, I got it; a calculator—a useful object with a nerdy connotation—on second thought, I can do more than just math. Well how about something abstract? I am the derivative of x3 and my slope is always positive—except when x=0—only becoming greater as time progresses. Well, lets be honest; if I plan to go that route, I might as well be the calculator. What if I am the Earth and each of my friends and family members feed off of my resources causing me to become drained? Well, I can see that being more creative but I don’t think everyone necessarily feeds on me; they aren’t all parasites.

Ok, so now that I know metaphors aren’t my thing, what else can I do? If I think back to second grade, I do remember stories being quite enjoyable, so maybe an anecdote is my ticket to writing a witty personal statement. I’ll start by introducing my alien nature amongst generally everyone. Now let me introduce my low-income family: with my video gaming brother, assumed to be gangster brother, non-existent father and PTSD mom. Or, I can describe how I struggle to fit in at home, where intelligence is labeled as disrespect, and at school, where people treat me like I’m too far out there; ultimately I’ll describe my situation in which there isn’t a niche for a person with an interest for sports, music, school, and the environment. Ok, so I am alienated. Aren’t I supposed to come out victorious or something?

All right, Tyler—BAM!—Problem solved. I can get over it—all of it. My mom was in abusive relationships and that led to psychotic people sabotaging our house by rerouting the ventilation system.

From that, I don’t trust many people—if any at all. Now I’m independent. My mom drags the past into the future constantly and doesn’t trust my friends or me. She also insists on criticizing anything I do. From her, I can deal with the most paranoid people and rely on myself for motivation. Now I’m compassionate and self-motivated. My father abandoned my mother, brother, and I, forcing us to live without a father figure or another parent for support. His absence led to me working to help my family and working alone to learn due to the lack of education on my mother’s behalf. Now I can shop for a family, budget money, and learn skills like playing the guitar, playing the bass, math, and English independently.

Through the persistence of time, memories such as these, and many others, dissipate leaving only the shape of the character they molded. Their significance doesn’t exist in the fact that the event took place; rather, the importance of my memories—the persistence of my memories—exists in the dents the occurrence left on my character.

Well, I guess I don’t need an extended metaphor after all.

In the inland of South America, a co-worker approaches me to describe the nature of the situation; of course, to my liking, he replies in Spanish. He explains how the deforestation of the local forests has decreased due to our implemented regulations on the removal of trees and we are now in a state of soil and forest restoration. He continues to explain that we can now retreat to my engineering firm’s headquarters to finish our work on the other various environmental issues involving deforestation and energy consumption. As I hear the update, the news causes me to appreciate the reality of the situation…oh wait; I guess I am ten years ahead of myself.

As far as my goals go, I figure I have set myself up for a rigorous path, yet, I know I wouldn’t want my life aspirations to be any different. I see that, when I look as my past, I could have earned higher grades if I cut Cross Country Running, Cross Country Skiing, and Track and Field out of my life, but most of my friends come from my extracurricular activities; I also see how my GPA could have improved if I dropped Orchestra for another AP class. Still, I feel uneasy at the thought of dropping things like Generation Green and Glee Club. It is stressful being the president of both of the clubs, but the involvement with the environment and the students who love to sing is irreplaceable.

Recently, I have reached the point in the high school student’s life where the college financial reality hits—and it isn’t gentle. Even with the help of FAFSA, various colleges cost $40,000 to attend and, honestly, that is an expensive price for to pay. Sincerely, I believe any scholarship can help me complete college.

Tyler Myers

Tyler’s photo and writings included with his permission.

My high school class of 1966 established a modest scholarship fund a few years ago. The past two years I have been one of 18 classmates who review the final list of applicants and vote on who should receive the modest funds. In the past, we have awarded one student a $200 scholarship. This year, due to a “last minute” donation of $25,000, we elected to give a $2,000 scholarship to each of three students.

We evaluated seven finalists that one of my best friends in high school culled from all the applicants. A week ago Saturday afternoon, I received an email listing the three selectees along with a table showing how each of the evaluators gave out the points used for voting. Two of my three picks won. All the applicants have excellent grade point averages so I based my selection primarily, but not exclusively, upon the writing samples on the student’s application. One of my choices, Tyler, actually would have won even if we had awarded only one scholarship.

The week before the release of the winner’s names, I had wanted to email Tyler and comment on his writing sample after I submitted my choices; but I never did. After reading his name as a scholarship winner, I could not contain myself and did email him around midnight Saturday night Sunday morning.

My email said in part, “… Upon reading your “Student Summary” section, I concluded that I have no idea what kind of an Environmental Engineer you would become. However, I do believe you could have a career in writing or journalism. I really enjoyed the creativity and the way you expressed your ideas. I hope you continue to develop your skill in this area. Congratulations and best of luck in your future.”

Surprisingly, within a few minutes, Tyler replied to my email. “Thank you so much for the compliment! I am actually pretty excited to hear that my creative writing skills come off as impressive rather than corny 🙂

So does this email mean I am a recipient of the scholarship?

And thank you again for the delightful email. It was a brightening addition to my night.”

I responded to his question with the following. “I am sure I am not supposed to have emailed you at this point (but no one said not to either and I’ve pretty much been a rule breaker most of my life) and I wanted to do it last week
right after I reviewed your application and before results were sent out to all the reviewers, but did not. I just received the results today. Your counselors know of course, and I just could not wait any longer than now to make my comments.

You are shortly to be an STHS grad and I know you already have figured out what “congratulations” implies. Tell your family of course, but keep the secret from others until the results are officially announced. (If you are like I was at your age, you won’t keep the secret. Just be considerate of those who also applied but are still waiting to hear since you probably don’t know exactly who else applied.)

Another thing, this year we are giving out 3 scholarships instead of just one. Contact me again after the official announcement and I’ll tell you one more thing you might want to know.

Now just one last thing…it’s 1:18 AM in Denver so it is 12:18 AM in South Lake Tahoe…go to bed and get some sleep. I lived on 4 hours of sleep all through high school and nothing good came of it.”

You may have noticed that I did not tell Tyler of the amount of the award. It is likely that when he applied, he knew we only give out $200. He probably does not know of the increase, so I left him and the others to be surprised.

I want to believe that my few words of encouragement may lead to Tyler writing the “great American environmental engineer novel” someday and perhaps being recognized as the 21st Century’s equivalent of Mark Twain. Maybe I should write him again and remind him that our farming economy thrives on corn and so he should keep writing what he termed “corny” stories.

© 13 May 2013

About the Author

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Springtime, by Phillip Hoyle

I knew the childhood chant, “April showers bring May flowers” long before I learned, “In Time of Silver Rain.” Langston Hughes wrote the poem; I learned it as a song when I was twenty-one and newly-married, an undergraduate studying theology and music. It seemed the springtime of my life. The Poet said it this way: “In time of silver rain/The earth/Puts forth new life again.”

For years I was amazed that the church’s celebration of its main stories—the death and resurrection—were so attached to geography. I’m not thinking of Jerusalem in Israel but rather of Earth’s northern hemisphere. Easter symbols were springtime symbols. Lenten preparation took place at the time of lengthening days. Easter symbols sported flowers and eggs and sunrises. Of course, that made a kind of sense to me, but what would religious life in the southern hemisphere make of the shortening of days leading up to the same events preached and celebrated in the north? What effect would Easter in the fall have on its meaning down there? (I saw a postcard from Brazil of Santa Clause riding a surfboard.) The questions seemed real to me.

In springtime I now appreciate most the warming trend, the eventual return to wearing shorts and sandals, eating out of doors, and playing in longer daylight hours. I don’t look forward to the rebirth of weeds I’ll have to pull or Japanese beetles that will go to war in the vines, flowers and garden, or the squirrels that will eat the tomatoes and winter squash. But still there is a kind of positive magic in longer days, green grass, shade trees, even suntans.

Yesterday I was trimming back some bushes that had barely begun to leaf out and raking up leaves deposited in hard-to-manage corners of the yard. Jim has been at it for weeks. I don’t do much yard work but do have my specialties, and I’m back to work—applying sunscreen, getting out summer clothes, packing away the flannels, corduroys, and sweaters. It’s spring. Enjoy the great out of doors or just the backyard. Clean it up. Invite over the neighbors for grilled specialties. Talk over the fence where it’s not too high. Socialize. Bring things alive. Yes.

Yesterday I walked in my Birkenstock Arizona sandals, ones I had not worn for months. They began irritating my feet and I remembered I hadn’t worn them long last fall. They weren’t really broken in. Then my left knee—the better one—started screaming at me like the right one often does. I realized here in spring I am deteriorating. And we need more, much more silver rain and soon. I wondered if when my knee quits, will I get one of those electric buggies. (One friend called his the electric chair.) If so, I’m sure I’ll decorate it with flowers and carry my rainbow colored umbrella holding onto the hope for silver rain and new life.

© 16 April 2018

About the Author

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

 
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Mothers Day, by Ray S

On Mothers Day
We lock all children far away,
It’s only fair for us to say,
So all those mothers can go out to play.

Do you know what is a limerick?
It must have four linking lines,
And they all have to rhyme,
So if you take the thymes, you have a limerick.

What is hot and certainly arousing?
Many a lass 
And boys with that kind of class
That’s what leads to intimate carousing. 

There is a cute fellow from Pawtuckit,
Who believes he can always luck it
’Til along came Ella, 
Who said “No,” to our fella 
Not without a raincoat and umbrella.

Until today we were limerick ignorant
To know what that is or why could it be signiforant?
So you find it’s a four line thing that rhymes on its ends
And is a county in Eire where they all talk different.

© 15 May 2017

About the Author