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
Posted on

Scarves by Gillian

I know those of you who’ve been in this group for some time are just tired of hearing me whine about poor battered Britain in the years immediately after WW11. Well, too bad! It happens to be the environment I grew up in and so the time and place which generated many of my childhood memories and so my stories.

And here we go again!

In the U.K., children began (and still do begin) elementary school at the age of five, not six as we do here. So in 1947 I began the daily walk to and from the same little two-room school where my mother taught. That winter has gone down in history as one of the worst U.K.winters ever, with snow on the ground for over two months and bitter cold. I developed a bad cough and what appears in my memory as a constant cold, but then most kids were sick, as I’m sure were many adults. Most of our houses were cold and damp, without central heating – for which there would have been no fuel anyway – and few people had adequate clothing and food which were still severely rationed, as were most things until well into the 1950’s. Frequently, even if you had saved enough coupons, whatever you wanted was simply unavailable anyway.

My mother decided that to survive the bitter cold, we needed scarves. But we had no clothing coupons as my growing feet had gobbled them all up in a new pair of boots. So she would knit them. Now, I doubt that wool was actually rationed, but it was not to be had. If you had old knitted garments that were simply beyond further darning, you unravelled them and saved the worn and kinky wool for future use. My mother had a cardboard box, which probably should have been sacrificed, as just about everything had been, to the War Effort, always spoken of in capitals. Somehow this tatty old thing had survived and Mum used it for storing various balls of recycled wool. We took them out reverently, handling them like cut glass. The cats had been banished from the room lest they decide that wool is a perfect plaything. I recognized some scarlet wool which I knew came from an old sweater I had had when I was little, (I now considered myself quite grown. I had started school for goodness’ sake!) and which I had worn until it threatened to inhibit my breathing. Some very ratty gray wool I recalled came from out-at-heel socks of my dad’s. Where the rest of the bits and bobs came from I had no idea. It didn’t matter anyway, they were moving on!

Perhaps a more skilled needlewoman than my mother would have been able to knit patterns, or at least stripes, with all the different colors. But Mom’s skill level was, shall we say, elementary. Before the War, when there was material available, she used to teach basic knitting to the six-year-olds. It was always facecloths, knitted on big fat needles so they came out looking more like fishing nets for the Little People. I suspect it was invariably these easy square pieces more because of my mother’s limitations than that of the kids. But my dad and I both had faith she could do scarves. What is a scarf, after all, but an elongated facecloth? She just started out with one color, tied the last piece of it to the beginning of the next, and created quite an interesting hodgepodge of colors. But Mom’s knitting was always a bit erratic. She would start out tense, her stitches too tight. But soon she would be distracted by some entertainment on the radio and the stitches got looser and looser. Before long the scarf was taking on a somewhat rolling countenance, swelling and shrinking like ocean waves. Also, to be fair, the fact that the wool was of different thicknesses did nothing to add to the consistency of the stitches. So each scarf ended up with very wavy edges, and considerable variations in width and thickness. If I could only recreate them now, I’d think they would have a pretty good chance of becoming THE fashion accessory.

My father did have a scarf but was badly in need of a new one. His apparently dated from some time Before the War and he had worn it During the War but now, After the War, it was in rags and must not have offered much protection from the bitterly cold winds of that 1947 winter.

We didn’t talk of decades in those days. All of life was divided into three time periods, always spoken of in Capitals as was The War Effort. There was Before the War, During the War, and After the War, sometimes simply referred to as Now. Before the War was a wonderful place of endless sunny days, with peace and laughter; a land of relative abundance. During the War was the land of stoicism and heroics and carrying on and making do and tightening belts and stiff upper lips, and a lot of pride. But Now, After the War, was disillusion and resentment following rapidly on the heels of the euphoria of the long-awaited peace. What had it all been for? So many dead, even more homeless and everyone was broke. Rationing and shortages were even worse Now than they were During the War.

Mum also already had a scarf from Before the War, but it was flimsy and, though pretty, not made to provide warmth. Not only was it from Before the War, but it came from some mysterious place called The Twenties. Most of the things my mother had, seemed to have come from The Twenties. She never referred to it as The Nineteen-Twenties, so I had no idea that she was talking about a time. I envisioned The Twenties as being some huge department store loaded with wonderful things – even more exciting than Woolworth’s.

Now, three strangely serpentine scarves lay proudly stretched out on the table. My mother watched proudly, waiting for Dad and me to pick the one we wanted. Dad shook his head.

“By heck! This’ll be a decision.”

He gazed solemnly at me and offered a grave wink. I wanted to giggle but somehow knew I must not. Instead I entered whole-heartedly into the game. I gave a little girly squeal, which I have to say did not come naturally to me, and wriggled in excitement.

“That one! Can I have that one?”

Mum wound it around my neck, Dad and Mom each wore one and we looked appreciatively at ourselves.

“By heck!” said my dad again, “that’s just grand!”

I have often thought, looking back, how absurd the three of us must have looked when we were out together in those ridiculous scarves; like escapees from some Dr. Seuss book. But in those days, everyone wore strange combinations of mend-and-make-do clothes, and nobody thought much about it. The aim was warmth, after all, and that we got.

Success went completely to my mother’s head. A few days later found her once again studying what was left of differently colored little balls and scraps of wool, and various needles, then at my eternally red, raw, and chapped hands.

“Gloves,” she was saying rather doubtfully to herself. “We all need gloves.”

A fleeting look of panic crossed my father’s face, to be replaced instantly by a bland smile.

“Ay, that’d be grand.” He winked at me. “But mittens,” he added, “they’d be warmer.”

“Ooh yes, mittens! Mittens!” I echoed, though I’m not sure I knew what mittens were. But I knew what gloves were, with all those fingers sticking out of them and, young as I was, I knew, as my dad did, that Mum’s knitting was not up to gloves.

“Yes,” she agreed with great relief. “Mittens. Mittens are much warmer.”

My dad was away for the next two weeks. He was an engineer, and deemed too valuable by the powers that be to be allowed to volunteer as canon fodder. Instead he worked at a huge factory a long way, at least for those days, away from home. To get to work he had to take two buses, then a train, then another bus, then walk two miles. He also worked very long very erratic hours, and so stayed in a rooming house near the factory for several days and sometimes weeks. Whatever they made at this distant factory was classified as Top Secret, another phrase which was always capitalized, so Dad never, in his whole life, talked about it. The question, what did you do in The War, Daddy? went unanswered for many a child as so many adults lived in terror of contravening the Official Secrets Act (in capitals) by saying too much, and disappearing into some distant dark dungeon. My dad did say, in some unguarded moment, that if the most exciting thing you did throughout the war was wash milk bottles, they’d find some way of sweeping it in under the Official Secrets Act.

When my father returned home this time, he was greeted by three pairs of mittens, all more or less identical except for size. The colors of all were the same random multi-colored blotches as the scarves and, on closer inspection, the shapes were not so different from the scarves. After all, with a little imagination, mittens are little more than short scarves folded over across the middle, the sides sewn up, and elastic threaded around near the open end to fit them to your wrist. But wait! What about the thumb? I had watched in fascination as poor Mum tried to knit the thumb part but could not seem to get the hang of it. After many failed attempts, she fell back on her old favorite, the elongated square. She knit what was in fact a very tiny scarf, folded it over as in making mittens, and sewed up both sides. Then, having left an opening when closing up the side of the mitten, she stitched the end open of the tiny mitten to the opening in the side of the big mitten and, voila! a mitten complete with thumb. Though in fact they looked, lying flat on the table, like nothing more than the old knitted facecloth with a miniature facecloth attached.

“Ay, that’s just grand!” Dad slid his hands into his and held his hands up, waggling his fingers open and closed. I learned later that they were way too big and would have fallen off if he had not held up his hands, and the little thumbs, as I also discovered about mine, were way too short and not quite in the right place. Who cared? They were warm! I simply tucked by thumb into my palm where it stayed nice and cozy, and ignored the little thumb addition. I must say, though, it gave me a better understanding of why hominids didn’t get far with the use of tools until they developed opposable thumbs!

Again, in hindsight, I marvel at the vision of this engineer, too valuable to be allowed to fight, turning up at this huge, Top Secret, factory, in those wildly colored, sadly misshapen mittens.

Especially in combo with the equally wildly colored and misshapen scarf, it conjures up quite a picture. And in a time and place where men rarely wore anything other than dark, conservative, clothes! But, to be honest, it wouldn’t surprise me if Dad didn’t wear them once away from home, though he always wore them when he left and when he returned. What makes me suspect this is that I caught him out in another way. I went to where he was planting potatoes in the garden, to tell him tea was ready. He started for the house and then stopped. Pulling the mittens from his jacket pockets he winked at me.

“Mustn’t go in without my handbags,” and he slid them on. And always after that I noticed him popping them on before returning indoors.

Oh, and I was so delighted with that term. Handbags. Hand bags. It described them perfectly. Bags to put your hands in! For many years after that, when Mom mentioned her handbag – it was never called a purse in Britain – I would giggle and my dad would wink solemnly, which only made me giggle more. My father said much much more to me with his wonderful winks than he ever did in words

I know this is where I’m expected to say how much I loved those mittens and that scarf, and carried them everywhere with me like Linus with his blanket. Sorry! Not so. I was ever grateful for the added warmth, but they … what is the word? To say they frightened me is way too much.

But perhaps they did make me a little uneasy. They had something of living creatures about them as they constantly changed shape. The bigger gaps in the relaxed stitching snagged too easily on things; particularly on little fingers. There was an occasional dropped stitch in there too, increasing the problem. The wool was old, some of it several times recycled and so, brittle and thin. It broke here and there, causing further unraveling, as did the slow mysterious undoing of my mothers knots. I seemed eerily to me as if they were slowly but steadily unknitting themselves, some future day to disappear, returning to little variously colored balls of yarn.

After clothing rationing finally ended, after fourteen years, in 1954, we had the luxury of store-bought gloves and scarves and my mother was relieved of the challenges of knitting. But for sure nothing ever again had such character. Nor did any clothes ever again represent so much love and laughter. My mother taught me that for those you love, you do what you must the best you can. And that is all any of us can do. And my father taught me to see the humor in just about anything, and to be ever solicitous of the feelings of others.

I searched through my old photos after I wrote this, hoping to do a show and tell of those mittens and scarves. No luck. Then of course it dawned on me. Mom did have an old camera which came, of course, from The Twenties, but even if it had still worked there would have been no film available over many years.

And that reminds me of one of my dad’s favorite expressions. It’s not original, it was a common saying used by many at the time. It’s also probably the longest sentence my father ever spoke.

“If we had any eggs, we could have bacon and eggs, if we had any bacon.”

© March 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 now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

Posted on

Lizzie Goes to Sunday Dinner by Betsy

It was a sunny Sunday afternoon in 1939. A large family group of 10-12 people is seated around a long table at the Pudding Stone Inn, a cozy hotel tucked into the side of a hill in rural New Jersey. The inn’s restaurant is frequented by this same family at least monthly during the warmer time of the year.

The matriarch and the patriarch, the eldest of the family, are seated each at opposite ends of the gleaming white linen-draped table. It is by their invitation, rather, by their request, that the family is here all having attended church together that morning.

Lizzie is the youngest member of the group at the age of three years. That place of distinction is soon to be usurped by a cousin whose entrance into the world is expected to take place in a couple of months. Lizzie sits in a high chair pulled up to the table but she has her own tray attached to her chair where her food is about to be placed. A napkin matching the gleaming white linen table cloth is tied around her neck and flattened in front to form a bib. Her father, brother, aunts, uncles and cousins complete the group.

Even at the tender age of three Lizzie knows exactly what foods she likes and dislikes. Ever since she started eating solid food, which was not that long ago, she knew also the foods she did not like. She hated oatmeal. At age 3 she did not know enough to call it by its proper name, but she knew she didn’t want any. At home at breakfast time, “Eat this up,” her mother would gently cajole. “I don’t want my ‘up’,” Lizzie would cry. Well, she would not have to eat any ‘up’ at this meal. ‘Up’ is a breakfast food and this was Sunday dinner.

Sunday dinner. The vision of one of her favorite foods enters her mind–a dill pickle spear. Finally, after waiting way too long, the food is brought out to the table. As usual Lizzie’s mother will share her food with her and probably deliver it to her mouth. It’s the usual Sunday afternoon dinner fare–turkey with gravy and mashed potatoes and some vegetables–probably overcooked–but that’s okay; Most children like vegetables that way–soft and soggy. On a plate, way out of her reach is Lizzie’s favorite food, a dill pickle. It does seem odd for a three year old to be so fond of such a strong tasting, puckery food as dill pickle, but it’s true–it is her favorite.

“Can I have my pickle,” asks Lizzie. “No, first you must eat some of this food, Lizzie,” she is instructed by her mother. One or two bites is all that is needed for this rather puny child. She manages to down enough to satisfy Mom. Before she knows it dessert is on the way. Ice cream it is for Lizzie and Ice cream she likes well enough. She hardly has any room left for anything but takes a taste or two to please Mom who is coaxing a cajoling her into finishing dessert. Finally Lizzie looks at her mom as she finishes the last sweet, creamy spoonful at the bottom of the dish. “Now can I have my pickle?” she asks.© 29 March 2014

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

Posted on

When I Get Old by Will Stanton

What do you mean, “When I get old”? What a weird topic suggestion. I already am old. And, why would I want to go and get it? That doesn’t make sense, considering all the problems associated with old.

I never got old. I became old, or one could say “I grew old.” But, I sure did not go out to get it. As far as I’m concerned, that would be like going to some place to get Ebola. If I had had some means of avoiding old, I would have done so.

If, for some inexplicable reason, one wished to go somewhere to get old, where would one go to get it? Are there shops that have old? Can one get old on-line, perhaps through Amazon? If so, how much do they charge for getting old? I assume that there are different sizes, colors, qualities, and prices for old. Considering what has happened to me now that I am old, I assume that the price can be quite high – – in my case, extremely high.

I don’t encounter very many young people; but if I do, I certainly won’t suggest that they go looking for old. That myth about the so-called “golden years” rarely lives up to its reputation. The only gold that I associate with old is what I need to pay for daily expenses, along with all the medical bills.

Now that old has been dumped on me, I “give it the finger.” Old is shabby and not worth the price.

© 9 February 2014

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.

Posted on

Angels by Ricky

I don’t believe in angels, at least not androgynous beings with wings that one sees in classical religious paintings. I do believe in messengers from God and, in these contemporary times, those messengers we call “angels”. I have never knowingly seen one nor have I had anyone give me a message from God. The one time a voice in my head warned me that two boys riding on one bicycle would fall down into the path of my car, the warning did not pass through my ears first but went directly into my brain and did not resemble or feel like my thoughts.

I attribute that warning to either the Holy Ghost or to one of the boys’ Guardian Angel because, if it had been my brain’s analysis of the situation, I expect the warning: 1. would not have been repeated with more emphasis and, 2. with an explanation that was a statement of fact—not speculation. On the other hand, I don’t know if guardian angels exist as some believe, but the above incident leaves my mind open to the idea.

When one has received the Gift of the Holy Ghost the Holy Ghost will be one’s constant companion as long as one remains sufficiently righteous. Since the “voice” in my head was not mine, I can believe it was the Holy Ghost. I don’t even want to consider, “if not the Holy Ghost, who else is in here with me?” I’m pretty sure guardian angels would be external to my body. So perhaps it is some Heavenly spirit hiding out as it were–sort of like being in the closet. More likely than that, it could be my split personality—my 12-year old self lurking in the background and not yet fully integrated into one whole adult. I prefer the Holy Ghost version.

There are three kinds of angels. Not to be flippant, but two categories are good ones and bad ones. Good ones serve God and the bad ones serve not God but whatever name one calls the supernatural being who is opposed to most of what God wants. There are two subcategories within the good and bad categories. Now pay attention even though there is no test later.

The first subcategory is angels who are “Resurrected Beings” which are people already resurrected and now serving as messengers (angels) of God. Most Christian denominations believe that only Christ has been resurrected and that everyone else must wait until “the morning of the first resurrection” sometime in the future. [See KJV Mathew 27: 52-53 for the truth of “resurrected beings”.]

The second subcategory is angels who have “Spirit Bodies” which are those who have not yet been resurrected, or yet been born to receive their bodies, or are among the spirits cast out of Heaven during their rebellion against God and thus cannot have been resurrected yet. [KJV Revelations 12:7-9] Of these, the first two listed serve God and the spirits “cast out” serve the not God that you can name yourself.

If you are ever visited by an angel, how can you tell which type, good or bad, you are talking too? Apparently, angels have laws or rules they must obey. Just ask them to shake hands. If the angel is a resurrected being he will shake hands with you. If the angel is still in his spirit body, one serving God will refuse to shake hands while one serving “the one you must name” will shake hands but you will not feel his hand in yours. What could be simpler, assuming that being in the presence of an angel will not have reduced you to a quivering mass of protoplasm barely able to function let alone remaining rational?

The third of the three main categories of “angels” is where we humans have assigned angelic attributes or qualities to mortal men, women, and children. Hence, the popular phrase, “You are such an angel.” Many such mortals probably deserve the comparison at least until their “feet of clay” are uncovered and exposed to the world, if they are famous enough. Mother Theresa’s case comes to mind. Personally, I can overlook her shortcomings and remember her as serving God among the poor.

As I said at the beginning of this piece, I have no experience with actual angels that I consciously know of but, from what little of him that I do know, I view our group member, Pat Gourley, as an angel due to his work among the sick and dying. Florence Nightingale, Mary Martha Reid, Catharine Merrill, Anna Etheridge, Cornelia Hancock, Louisa May Alcott, Clara Barton, and Walt Whitman were also famous nurses working among the sick and dying. Pat has followed in the path of nursing “greats”. Surely, he deserves the mortal title of “angel” despite any flaws he may have. I am sure God will judge him kindly because, as Jesus said, “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” [KJV Mathew 25:40 – see verses 35-40 for the complete concept]

I believe many people engage in angelic-like behaviors at one time or another. As we go through life, let us all remember the words of King Mosiah from the Book of Mormon, “And behold, I tell you these things that ye may learn wisdom; that ye may learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God.” [Mosiah 2:17]

© 13 December 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

Posted on

Drifting by Phillip Hoyle

In a very important sense I was drifting through life back then. Oh I had goals in my career and a highly structured schedule, but I was living into the common cultural expectation of marriage with children. I appreciated that my ministerial work afforded me the luxury of reading, researching, teaching, and the like. I easily tolerated the work conditions. In regard to family, I lived with a wonderful woman and by then two very interesting and creative children. I floated my way downstream keeping in the current but letting it move me along well-worn channels.

Then Mike A drifted into my life. He showed up one afternoon at the church where I worked, out on Camp Bowie Boulevard in west Fort Worth, Texas. I didn’t know what he expected, but there he stood looking a little beat down yet clean in cowboy boots, western shirt, Levis, and sporting a tooled leather belt with a big metal buckle that announced in all caps STUD. I was amused as well as concerned. We talked. He wanted help getting his life back together.

I don’t remember if Mike had his equipment with him but he told me he was a welder and needed to get a job. He may have had his welding mask and gloves and probably a suitcase or a box of clothes. He did have a rather pleasant manner and spoke working-class Texan with a distinct twang, drawn-out syllables, and what seemed to me, strange pronunciations. He also had a sense of humor and a charming smile. He was down on his luck but he wasn’t done with life or with living it.

Mike assured me he would be able to get work if he could just get to a particular place to apply. Realizing he’d have to rely on me for a few days, I drove him to a fabrication shop way out in east Fort Worth where he secured a job. Maybe he’d worked there before; I didn’t know. In fact I knew nothing about this world, but Mike did start work at that shop the next day.

Mike knew his trade. While returning to our apartment, he said my car was “arkin’” and asked me to pull into the grocery store and give him a dollar. He’d fix it. I knew there was something draining the power from my car and had wasted quite a bit of money paying mechanics who didn’t repair it. I had no idea what was wrong, nor had I ever heard the word “arkin’.” For 89 cents Mike bought electricians tape and wrapped the places where the insulation had worn off a couple of spark plug wires. He knew the sound of an electric arc; after all he was a welder. And his fix held for many years!

Mike went home with me to my wife and two kids and stayed for a week. I gave him a ride to work and picked him up at the end of his shift—what in the church office I called my paper route. One parishioner overheard the reference and asked the secretary if the church wasn’t paying me enough to live on. That week as we traveled back and forth across the city, I picked up random details about his life, his loss of job, his estrangement from his wife, their two girls who lived with her. I felt like I’d gone down this road before; assisting someone, wondering if my efforts would really help.

Within a week Mike arranged two-way transportation for work. It didn’t occur to me that he was probably back into a network of relationships he had known for years; I was too busy with my life to worry over his details. Mike met church people at our apartment. For him being around educated folk may have seemed odd. One of them perceived Mike’s alcoholism. I knew he drank; she knew of his disease. Her insight made sense of some things I had observed.

One night Mike called me. He had burned his eyes at work—a common hazard for welders. “Could you get some eye drops and bring them to me?” he asked. “Of course,” I answered inquiring just what kind he needed. I drove over to his by-the-week motel, knocked on his door, and administered the eye drops. That’s when Mike gave me one of the most precious gifts I’d ever received. As the sting was abating from his eyes he looked up and said, “I love you, Phillip.”

“I’m happy to help,” was my defended reply to this rather crass, beer-guzzling, Texas cowboy stud. But I was stunned. No man had ever said those words to me, not even in my family.

I knew about love. In college years I had learned to speak words of love to my girlfriend, who became my wife. Actually she taught me how. Saying such words seemed a requirement to get married. I’d said “I love you” many times to her, to my son, to my daughter, and I meant it. A couple of years before Mike drifted into my life I realized that I had fallen in love with a male seminary classmate. I refrained from saying “I love you” to him lest it seem manipulative or, worse, scare him away. Now this drunk said “I love you” to me. I took it to mean he deeply appreciated my help. At the same time I realized I was not interested to explore any further dimensions of its potential with him. My heart was already elsewhere—way too committed to my family and to the one male friend I adored.

I also came to realize my patient and caring help to this man who may have been starved for any kind of love—that along with his lowered threshold of defenses due to his drinking—left him open to say whatever he felt. I received his drifting expression with deep appreciation and realized how much I wanted, even needed to be loved deeply by a man, especially one who might open his non-alcoholic heart to me.

It took twenty more years of maturing for me to do what my heart of hearts desired: to live with a man I loved and who loved me. But I wonder how many more years may have passed if I had not heard those words from my Texas cowboy STUD. His gift to me far exceeded mine to him, and I continue to appreciate that Mike A. had drifted my way.© Denver, 2014

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

Posted on

One Summer Afternoon by Lewis

When I was a child, my parents didn’t take a “family vacation” some summers. Instead, they sent me off to summer camp, which was enough vacation for them, I guess. On one such occasion, they sent me off for an interminable ten days to a YMCA camp called “Camp Wood”. I was about nine years old and an only child. I was introverted and a non-swimmer. For me, swimming was, to quote Bill Cosby, “staying alive in the water”. I had allergies and my sinuses were constantly inflamed. If chlorinated water got up my nose, it felt like someone had set my snot on fire. Therefore, if I was in water more than four feet deep, out came my nose plugs. It was swimming that kept me from getting beyond a “Star” rank in Boy Scouts.

When I got to Camp Wood, I soon discovered that it was organized a little like a country club. The lake had two beaches–the shallow one with the kiddy swings for the non-swimmers and the cool beach with the deeper water and the water slide for the swimmers. I was a few years older than almost all the kids on the kiddy beach and was going to make myself absolutely miserable unless I could graduate to the older boys’ beach. To do that meant that I would have to swim from the edge of the kiddy beach out to a floating dock about 50 yards out into the lake. From where I stood on the edge of the water at the kiddy beach, the dock looked to me to be only one or two strokes closer than hell itself. Not only that, but there would be kids and adults nearby watching me. Who knows if they were rooting for me to make it or were hoping to see something their parents would be most interested hearing about?

There was a lifeguard standing on the dock. He looked to me to be a young man of about 17. I’m not very good at judging these things, as I never had an older brother or even a male relative under 21. I suspect that it was only the prospect of that young man coming to my rescue that gave me the courage needed to attempt to swim toward the raft.

I would give anything to see a home movie of my valiant effort to look graceful while flailing all four skinny limbs in a desperate attempt to keep from consuming too much of the lake. By the time I reached the dock, I was totally exhausted, a fact that I’m sure was obvious to the young man looking worriedly down at me. Nevertheless, one got no credit for merely reaching the dock. No. One had to swim back to the shore from whence I had come.

I’m sure the lifeguard offered me his hand. But I was too embarrassed and determined to pass the test, so I turned back toward shore hoping against hope that I would find the strength somehow to make it all the way. Well, I only made it a few yards before I started to flounder. The lifeguard was on me in a couple of seconds, lifting me up and putting me under his arm to sweep me back to the safety of the dock.

“This must be what it feels like to be Sleeping Beauty,” I thought. No, not really. But it did feel pretty sweet, though humiliating.

None of the other campers ever mentioned my fiasco, nor did I ever tell my parents about it. Camp ended on a much higher note, when I placed first in the broad jump in the track meet on the last morning of camp. Somehow, solid ground just seems to suit me better.

© 17 June 2013

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.

Posted on

A Picture to Remember by Nicholas

Picture this. Jamie and I are decked out in our tuxedos with purple silk bow ties and purple cummerbund, standing near to each other—he a head taller than me. We have boutonnieres of white carnations in our lapels and we are smiling. We look like two grooms because we are two grooms, celebrating our wedding in 2008.

Now, picture this. We are in a hospital room. Jamie, in a hospital gown, is in bed and has a nasal-gastric tube in his nose. I’m standing next to him wearing a polo shirt and khaki slacks. The minister who officiated at our ceremony is signing our marriage license as our witnesses—my sister, Jamie’s sister-in-law, my nephew, and Jamie’s mom—watch. Just married. Our smiles are trying to make the best of a bad situation.

Which picture is true? Which picture do we really remember? The answer is: both. We have the official picture of our wedding, as it was supposed to have happened. And we have the actual picture of our wedding, as it did happen in Stanford University Hospital. The official photo, which is actually from a reception we held months later, sits proudly on our mantel. The other rests indelibly in our memories of that August day in 2008 when the grand celebration we’d planned all summer turned into a desperate rush to the nearest ER. It sits in a box on a closet shelf.

Early on the morning of our wedding day, Jamie complained of a stomach ache that seemed more than a case of wedding day nerves. At 6 a.m., we went to the Emergency Room at Stanford Hospital where doctors quickly diagnosed that they didn’t know exactly what was going on but Jamie had to stay in the hospital until they could figure it out. Sorry, said the doctors, no wedding that day.

Then someone, I don’t recall who, asked about having our wedding in the hospital. The docs were surprised but said, sure, if the nurses were OK with it. The nurses were thrilled to have a wedding in their hospital and they set about making Jamie look presentable.

We hastily arranged for just family to squeeze into Stanford’s tiny chapel where we recited our vows and were pronounced married. The reception with catered dinner and fancy cake with two grooms on top went on as scheduled since we had 80 people gathered—some travelling from far away—to help us celebrate this momentous day. Jamie, of course, had to remain in the hospital while I, so tired I could hardly think, had to play host—alone. Yes, I received countless good wishes that day but I barely remember that.

A few days later, Jamie was operated on to relieve a bowel obstruction and began a long, slow recovery that kept us both in California for over a month but not for the honeymoon we’d planned.

So, we have our pictures—the one we happily remember and the one we can’t forget.

© March 2015

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

Posted on

Homophobia Hell by Gillian

I used that title because I firmly believe that homophobes inhabit a Hell on Earth. They are consumed by anger and hatred, all driven by fear. They fear a wrathful God. They fear the unknown. And, perhaps the greatest, they fear that deeply-hidden part of themselves which they absolutely dare not acknowledge.

It must be nothing short of terrifying to be a Fundamentalist Christian. (Or probably any kind of Fundamentalist but that’s another discussion.) If I truly believe that every word of The Bible is true, and my church tells me that according to that Good Book, homosexuality is a sin, you’d better believe I’m going to condemn it. With that Vengeful God watching my every move, waiting to pounce on my slightest miss-step and fling me into the Fiery Furnace for Eternity, what else would I do? It’s easy to poke fun at such extreme beliefs, but I sincerely am not. I cannot imagine living in that kind of fear every day of my life. We cannot save them. It is impossible to have any logical discussion with someone who’s answer to every question or comment is, it says so in The Bible. I would like to save them from their life of fear, but I cannot, any more than they can save me from my life of sin. I don’t hate them for all that they rail against us. To return their words to them – I hate the sin, but not the sinner.

No phobias are rational, that is their very essence. I have been, from as far back as I can remember, an arachnophobe. I hate to deprive any living creature of life, but I had flattened every poor innocent spider I ever encountered with great energy and little compunction. Then, many years ago, I was ill for quite some time after being bitten by a Brown Recluse which I never even saw. I had to laugh at the irony. But the result was surprising. No, it didn’t cure me of my spider-frights, but it did decrease their strength and hold over me. I still call to Betsy to deal with any I find in the house, but reasonably calmly; not curled in a gibbering heap on the chair.

I suppose that is what encountering the object of our phobias does. That is what exposure therapists would have us believe, anyway, though I don’t see myself hugging a tarantula any time soon.

Not so long ago, most people didn’t know anyone Gay; or didn’t know they did. Most Straights feared us because they didn’t know us. We were just these weirdos out there they didn’t understand and sure as hell didn’t want to. Then those closet doors started creaking open.

At first it was oh well, yeah, Jimmy’s OK. It’s the rest of ’em.

Then the rest of ’em came out. It wasn’t just your nephew. It was your high school sweetheart and your best friend from college and your neighbor down the street. And you know what? Surprise, surprise! They live very much like we do.

Homophobia began to dissipate.

But it hung on.

Most of us remember the battle over Amendment 2.

Everything was going fine. It had little support. Then, suddenly, in the last two weeks of the campaign, the ad. blitz was on. I can see those ads as clearly as if they were on a TV in front of me right now.

Picture it.

A serene, middle aged, white woman appears on the screen; middle America’s perfect mother. She smiles slightly as she looks into the camera. She speaks in a gentle tone with a well-modulated voice.

“Of course I don’t hate homosexuals!” she says, implying something close to horror at the very thought. “I have nothing at all against them,” with complete sincerity.

She leans in towards the camera a little, a slightly worried look appears on her face.

“But special rights,” and she shakes her head sadly, regretfully. “That’s just going too far.”

God, they were good, those ads. I was almost talked into voting for Amendment 2 myself. They were so reasonable. So sorry that they just couldn’t go that far for us; much as they’d like to, they implied. This attack-ad fest turned the campaign around and the amendment passed.

There’s an interesting article in the online archives of publiceye.org, part of which details this buildup of frenzy around Amendment 2. For the sake of history, I am glad it is so well documented, but I find myself at odds with it’s title, Constructing Homophobia. Much as the opposition tried, I don’t believe that is actually what they succeeded in doing. Via misinformation, manipulation, and downright lies, enough people were convinced that a no vote equalled a vote granting homosexuals in Colorado special, rather than equal, rights. It was that which changed the minds of many otherwise accepting, middle-of-the-road, voters. And my bet is that many of the same people who voted for Amendment 2 are now greeting the State’s legal acceptance of gay marriage with equanimity.

Try as they might, those real homophobes, too many people just don’t care. Young people, especially, just don’t get it. What’s the big deal?

So who are they, these real homophobes? The ones who lead the campaigns against us? Some are those truly led, or misled, by religion, some possibly still fall into the category of fear of the unknown. But most, I believe, are those who are terrified by what they feel within themselves.

In recent years, Ted Haggard, the evangelical leader who preached endlessly and fervently against homosexuality, resigned after a scandal involving a former male prostitute. Larry Craig, a United States senator who opposed including sexual orientation in hate-crime legislation, was arrested on a charge of lewd conduct in a men’s bathroom. Glenn Murphy Jr., a leader of the Young Republican National Convention and vocal opponent of same-sex marriage, was accused of sexually assaulting another man. Haggard himself actually said,

“I think I was partially so vehement because of my own war.”

A New York Times article from 2012, actually entitled, Homophobic? Maybe You’re Gay,* cites an April 2012 issue of the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology in which researchers claim to provide empirical evidence that homophobia can result from the suppression of same-sex desire.

Given my original premise, that homophobia is driven by essentially three basic types of fear, I see strong reason for hope that it is rapidly decreasing, as those fears dissipate. But let’s not fool ourselves. It will never go away. Even if it becomes politically incorrect and lies largely dormant, it will remain a smoldering coal to be re-ignited at the slightest breeze. Prejudices live on. We have seen, recently, the fanning of the flames, in the attacks, both physical and political, on people of color. No minority group can ever rest on it’s laurels of equality gained; rather we must live a life of collective eternal vigilance. We need to maintain positive images of ourselves in the public eye; and I have a plan!

Did you know that we are awash with National Days? In the first week of January alone, we had sixteen of them, not even counting New Year’s Day. And I bet you missed them all. Today, by the way, is National Pharmacist Day, National Curried Chicken Day and National Marzipan Day.

Who knew? Tomorrow, incredibly, (honest, I’m not making this stuff up,) is National Rubber Duckie Day. And January 31st is national Backward Day, so be careful out there. The whole crazy thing has even gone international. For example, January 17th is International Hug a Tree Day, so get it on your calendars.

Now, hugging is very in, these days. And we of the GLBT community are so very huggable. So I think we need a National – oh what the Hell, let’s think big – International Hug a Gay Day. I can see bumperstickers (which we found out last week we all love so much) saying,

HAVE YOU HUGGED A GAY TODAY?

I was really getting into this idea when my thoughts got crazy, as in, we could even have a National Hug a Homophobe Day, so I had to stop. In the words of that Amendment 2 ad., that’s just going too far!

* http://www.nytimes.com/2012/04/29/opinion/sunday/homophobic-maybe-youre-gay.html?

© January 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 now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

Posted on

ABCs of Life by Betsy

A FEW THINGS I HAVE LEARNED IN MY OLD AGE

Respect your elders–even ‘though they may become fewer and fewer in number left on this earth.

Take care of your body–no new models are available.

Make friends with and understand your ego. When it is out of control you will need to counsel it and put it in your pocket.

Take your medicine everyday and know what it is and why you are taking it.

Exercise every day.

Learn something new every day.

Think, think, think—everyday.

Never stop seeking adventure. Never stop dreaming.

Take a nap everyday even if it’s only a two minute one.

Listen–listen to the birds, listen to the wind, listen to your children–even after they have become adults.

Measure your worth and accomplishments according to your own values–not those of others.

© 2 April 2012

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

Posted on

Reputation by Will Stanton

I really was in the mood to prepare something more unusual and more interesting than just a run-of-the-mill story; but for a long time, the suggested topic “Reputation” did not inspire me. Naturally at first, I tried to think of a person whose reputation is remarkable. One came to mind, but I already have written about him.

On the other side of the coin and as occurs far too often, reputations are inflated, misleading, or even false. Quite often, a person’s reputation largely is the result of his “blowing his own horn,” in a sense, marketing himself. In contrast, those of us who, by nature or breeding, learned not to impose our own impressions of ourselves upon others suffer a lack of recognition and reward. Our accomplishments even may be met with skepticism because they are not widely known. My not settling upon any particular person, good or bad, I abandoned the thought of writing about a person.

Of course, the idea of reputation may apply to whole organizations, such as the I.R.S. or political organizations such as those financially supported by the Koch brothers, but I did not wish to upset my stomach and rejected them as a subject. Then, it occurred to me that reputation, good or bad, can apply to locations as well.

That’s when I decided to prepare something a little more amusing, writing about the abandoned Moonville railroad tunnel and all the wild rumors about it. Over the years, I have taken several rail-fan friends there to see it. The idea to write about it was sparked when I was doing a Google-search for railroad history near my home-town, and I stumbled upon an astonishing number of videos and websites devoted to supposed ghostly apparitions associated with the tunnel. This widespread reputation keeps growing. All one needs to do is talk to any person residing in the general area of the tunnel or just look on Google or YouTube for stories, pictures, and videos.

The ironic, but not surprising, reputation of the Moonville tunnel has nothing to do with reality or the utilitarian purpose of its construction but, rather, the generations of people who have imposed their fantasies upon the tunnel. Apparently, a large portion of the human population is prone to eagerly embrace such fantasies and escalate their spread.

Here is the factual history of the tunnel. Early in the nineteenth century, people living and working in southern Ohio decided that they needed a railroad to ship coal and iron, to take goods and produce to market, and to more conveniently move passengers. The construction of the Marietta and Ohio Railroad began in 1845. By 1856, the line had reached into the wilds of the isolated Zaleski Forest, named after a Polish count who had been persuaded to invest in the railroad with the hope of profiting from the coal reserves lying in the area. Vinton County remains as the most heavily forested and least populated county in Ohio. More memorable for me is the fact that the area surrounding Moonville is rather desolate, gloomy, inhospitable, and can be reached only by circuitous gravel roads through the forest. That alone can contribute to a person’s developing strange feelings about Moonville.

The tiny village of Moonville was built to house railroad-construction workers, miners, and those forging artillery pieces at nearby Hope Furnace for the Union army. The village consisted of a small row of clapboard houses, a general store, saloon, a saw mill along Raccoon Creek, and a cemetery atop the high ridge just to the east. At its peak in 1876, Moonville housed only around one hundred people. By 1947, the last family left, and the remaining structures crumbled into nothing. Only a few sandstone foundation stones remain.

It was that high ridge that obstructed the railroad without its having to be diverted in a large loop along Raccoon Creek to the other side. So, a tunnel was dug out and lined with brick. Above each portal, protruding bricks proudly spelled the name “Moonville.”

By 1887, the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad had crossed into Ohio, and they bought the Marietta and Cincinnati, using it as the main southwestern line from Washington to Cincinnati and St. Louis. In the later 20th century, in addition to freight-train traffic, Amtrak leased the rights to run passenger trains on the line. The one time in the early ’80s that I decided to go to Athens by train turned out to be the very last run of the Amtrak “Shenandoah” on the southwest line and through the Moonville Tunnel.

 The final owner, CSX Corporation, tired of maintaining that mainline through the low and isolated Zaleski Forest and cleaning up train wrecks such as the coal train that I saw tipped over right at the eastern portal. They abandoned the line by 1988 and pulled up the track, ties, and the short bridge near the west portal. I was surprised that CSX, out of any over-concern about potential injury and liability, did not close the tunnel by blowing up the portals. Instead, a portion of the line has been turned from rails into trails, allowing people to hike through the tunnel.

Because of Moonville’s isolated and unusual setting, tales of hauntings around the tunnel began as early as the 1890s. I suppose that it’s human nature to imagine experiencing paranormal phenomena and to weave tales about what they supposedly saw. Usually, such tales surround tragic events and deaths. There certainly were some incidents over 150 years, although such things can happen anywhere. It’s just that Moonville Tunnel makes for such an appropriate setting.

During the 19th century, the job of railroad brakeman was one of the most dangerous jobs known. Sure enough in 1859, a brakeman fell off a train near Moonville and was run over.

Over the years, local people often avoided the winding roads and made a habit of walking the rails, taking a shortcut through the tunnel, or hopping freights for a more direct route to Moonville. In 1866, a ten-year-old girl was walking on the small bridge near the west portal and was hit by a train. In 1876, thirteen-year-old Henry Sharkey hopped a freight, tried to jump off near Moonville, and was run over. In 1880, James Hood road a freight train from Athens to Moonville, jumped off, but smacked his head on a post. Mrs. Patrick Shay was trying to cross that same bridge in 1905 and was killed by a locomotive. Allen Albaugh hopped a freight in 1907 and fell off near the tunnel. Coal-miner Rastus Dexter took a shortcut through the tunnel in 1920 but did not make it to the other end. As recently as 1986, a girl scout on a hike tried to beat a train across the bridge.

There were a few other kinds of deaths, too. David Keeton was murdered along side the tracks in 1886, and another man was murdered in the Moonville Tavern in 1936.

But it was the 1880 head-on train crash that has sparked the most tales over the years. The tales spun around this incident grew to the point that someone even wrote a folk ballad about it. Starting with westbound train No. 99 in 1895 and for generations afterwards, locals told tales of a ghostly railroad man with a lantern trying to stop approaching trains near the tunnel. Rumor has it that this occurred so often that engineers were instructed to ignore such visions in the area of Moonville.

What amazes and amuses me is that the current generation of teenagers, college students, and locals, have not only perpetuated the tales surrounding Moonville Tunnel but actually have increased their number. Clusters of kids make the long trek through the Zaleski Forest to experience, what they hope to be, ghostly encounters. So called “ghost clubs” have sprung up, and whole groups come out to the tunnel, sometimes even at night, bringing their cameras and sound equipment. Often, they do convince themselves that they have witnessed something strange. A college student swore in 1993 that he actually saw a swinging lantern in the tunnel. Then these young ghost-hunters, fascinated with their experiences, upload their stories, pictures, and videos onto the web.

The unfortunate result of all this attention to the Moonville Tunnel and its reputation is that many kids have felt the urge to spray-paint graffiti throughout the tunnel and over the bricks forming the name on each portal. Fortunately, the cemetery on the hill above the tunnel has been left alone. Mother Nature has not been so crass as the kids have been, but she has contributed to the decay of the area around the tunnel. Within a few short years, new trees and shrubs have crowded in on either side of the railroad right-of-way, and soil has crumbled down upon the path.

Moonville is a perfect example of reputation based upon people’s perception and imagination rather than more prosaic facts. It also is a good example of how such a reputation can grow and spread. Once this happens, people are less interested in hearing facts, especially when the facts are far less exciting than the myths. After all, the Moonville myths are so much more fun.


© 9 October 2014

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.