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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Breaking into Gay Culture by Phillip Hoyle

I didn’t break into Gay Culture but rather carefully walked in prepared for my entrance by my good friend Ted. Over many years he had coached me, revealed the ins and outs of much of the culture by taking me to gay bars, introducing me to gay people, teaching me the language both spoken and unspoken, introducing me to gay novels, showing me more of his life than I really asked to see, and talking endlessly with me about gay experience. His tutoring took on a different seriousness when in my mid-thirties I told him I’d made it with another man, a friend of mine he’d met years before. From that point on, Ted simply assumed I was gay whatever non-gay decisions I made. His assumption led him to open even more of himself to me rather than shield me from realities that would certainly become important should I leave my marriage and go gay full time! Ted was my effective educator.

About two months after my wife and I separated I made my entry into a world I had only studied. Three blocks from my apartment I entered a bar named The New Age Revolution, a bar I had seen while walking with my wife and had wondered if it could be gay. Why else would it have such a name in Tulsa, Oklahoma? I had thought about when I would be ready to go alone to such a place, thought about when I’d go there as a gay man. Would I be courageous enough to do so? Of course, I would. After all, I didn’t separate from a twenty-nine-year-long, perfectly fine marriage to an understanding and lively woman whom I adored without intending to live a fully open gay life. I had already begun preparing to leave my profession of thirty-two years, one in which I realized I would not be able to live openly gay. So I glanced in the mirror, took off my tie, straightened my clothes, walked out the apartment, descended sixteen floors in the elevator, waved at the security guard, exited the building, and walked those three blocks down to the bar. I went early, way too early according to Ted’s instruction. He taught me never to show up before ten. I’m sure I was there at nine. I suppose it was a weeknight; I had to work the next day. The place was nearly deserted. There was music. A few people stood around talking to one another. I went up to the bartender, said “Hi,” and ordered a beer; I don’t recall what kind of beer but it was in a bottle. While I slowly sipped at my drink, I looked around at the decorations. This place just had to be gay. I couldn’t imagine any other saloon that would display a decorated dildo on the wall behind the bar. I was pretty sure I had made it to the right place.

This was not only the first time I had been alone in a gay bar; I’m sure it was the first time I’d been alone in any bar. I grew up in a dry state with a prohibitionist mother and had married a tea totaler. I had drunk beers on occasion, but had never gone to a bar before I was in my thirties and living away from Kansas. I had rarely even paid for a drink. I thought about a gay friend of mine who said he sometimes went to gay bars simply for the spiritual aspect of it, as a point of identity, participation, and presence. I stood in the bar that night not talking to anyone, thinking about how being there certainly was a kind of spiritual experience, one of great importance to me. I was finally present publically as a gay man. There I was beginning my future life as openly gay.

I drank another beer. Finally I nodded to the bartender, left a generous tip (changes must be commemorated with great generosity), and exited the door. I walked thoughtfully up the hill all the time watching peripherally for anyone that might have seen me leave the place; after all I was in Oklahoma. I entered the apartment building and returned to my home. I suspect I played music and messed around with some art project. I thought about making gay saints for my next series of mixed media works. Would I become one I wondered?

That evening I walked into a bar but wasn’t breaking into gay culture. Actually I was breaking out of several important, long-standing straight relationships. My entering gay culture passed as quietly as that first night in a gay bar by myself, and I’ve never regretted that short walk some fifteen years ago.© Denver, 2012

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 Women in My Life by Pat Gourley

I have written many times over the years in this group about men and women who have influenced me. The men of course include Harry Hay and Jerry Garcia to say nothing of really countless gay brothers. In hindsight and this is actually current to this day it is the women in my life who have imparted the modicum of wisdom I have today.
It all started with my mother of course and her relentless unconditional positive regard. I was the oldest male in a modest-sized Irish Catholic family (6 kids only!) and therefore could really do no wrong. The closest I ever came to being reprimanded by her was the frequent Zen injunction to please go sit down and be quiet. Oh, and there is the one time I split my brother Brian’s head open with a rock. We had been throwing dirt clods at each other, something farm boys did frequently, and I apparently hurled one my brother’s way that also had a rock in it. That resulted in the only corporal punishment I ever received from either parent and involved a couple whacks on the butt with her shoe.
I also fondly remember two of my several aunts, Dorothy and Alice. These women taught me the fine art of cooking and the joy of gardening and eating fresh vegetables. Lessons that continue to serve me well decades later.

I have wondered on occasion whether or not my mom may have had lesbian tendencies. She did join the WAC’s, as a nurse, in World War II stationed in Hawaii, was an ace softball pitcher; never fond of cooking or housework and always eager to drive large farm machinery. Perhaps it was lucky for me that I was born pre-gay-lib in 1949. The night I was conceived LGBT identities were really not even a twinkle in any one’s eye outside of a few urban coastal enclaves. Options for most Catholic women who might have been gay in the 1940’s were largely limited to the convent or marriage preferably with as many babies as you could pop out. Of the many, many compliments I can pay my mother that she might have had dyke tendencies is right there at the top – loved you mom!

The next woman to come along who had a very profound effect on my development was Sister Alberta Marie my government/civics teacher in the last two years of high school. I owe this woman a great debt of gratitude on so many fronts but most particularly I learned to never be afraid to question authority. I was able to reconnect with her in June of 2013 in New York City where she has lived for decades and worked as an immigration lawyer. To her immense credit she was tossed out of the convent shortly after I graduated high school with a long list of offenses per the local bishop. The final straw I think was bringing renowned Jesuit anti-Vietnam War activist, Daniel Berrigan, to speak to the school’s Peace Club at Marion Central, which she was instrumental in founding.

Next came a group of women who lived communally with us in Champaign-Urbana from 1967-1972. Several of these powerful women helped to shape my budding radical politics and began to impart a feminist analysis to my worldview. One in particular was a frequent LSD tripping companion. We would drive out to a local forest preserve and then take, in those days usually, a hit of something called windowpane and spend the day having religious and spiritual experiences with the local flora and fauna. To this day I think those trips were as close as I have come, despite many, many hours on the cushion and in retreat, to realizing the non-dual nature of it all. It really is all just one taste and one’s personal taste of it often fleeting.

Next up were a group of nurses again all women who I worked with at the inpatient psychiatric unit at then Denver General Hospital. A few months after arriving in Denver in late 1972 I was working on the Psychiatric Unit with a cadre of very strong nurses who I admired greatly and encouraged me to pursue my own career in nursing and that dance continues to this day. They were a feisty bunch who never afraid to put uppity physicians in their place and were totally instrumental in shaping my life-long philosophy of nursing.
By the mid-1970’s I was becoming involved in the Gay Community Center on Lafayette Street and being introduced to several potent women best described as radical lesbian feminists at the time. These women helped me through occasional and well-deserved criticism to hone my own political persona into one more effective and definitely more honest. A shout of thanks to Carol, Tea, Britt, Karen, Janet, Katherine, Donna and many others who helped immensely broaden my perception of what it was to be “queer-other” and helping to create a fertile ground that definitely aided in my latching onto Harry Hay and the Radical Fairies. Many of these same women were also instrumental in getting what turned out to be very successful AIDS efforts off the ground here locally.

By the late 1980’s I was exploring spirituality a bit differently, leaving the pagan/wiccan traditions behind and moving to the cushion and re-invoking my mother’s frequent injunction to sit still and be quiet. In the early 1990’s I became involved with a local chapter of the Kwan Um School of Zen. The guiding teacher, based in Rhode Island but a frequent visitor to our Sangha, was a women named Bobbi who had a day job as a hospice nurse and oh by the way she is a lesbian. Another potent mix of female energy I owe a great debt to.
In writing this piece more and more women have come to mind who were and are great friends and persons who had significant impacts on me. I’ll stop though in the spirit of brevity. It is quite frightening really for me to try and even think where I would be today professionally, culturally, psychologically, socially and spiritually without so many dynamic women influencing me along the path.

Sadly as I finish this piece I just received an email about the death of straight woman ally who I had gotten to know well in the 1980’s through her tireless volunteer efforts with the Colorado AIDS Project being on the original CAP Board of Directors. Straight allies in those dark days were very brave and cherished souls. Jill got to spend Thanksgiving with family around her bed before succumbing to a four-year battle with cancer.

Women – can’t live without ‘em!

© November 2014

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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Being Gay Is by Lewis

For this well-ripened and battle-hardened gay man, being gay is–

seeing the beauty and sensuality in both the male and female body;

relishing the sensibilities of both male and female;

taking care of my own body because I think it’s beautiful and deserving;

knowing the difference between my political friends and enemies;

knowing the difference my involvement can make in electing my political friends into positions of power;

believing in my bones that the form of the human body that turns one on is not a matter of choice, no matter how much others may prefer to see it as a manifestation of depravity;

knowing the difference between lust and love and when each is “of the moment”;

knowing that, while judgment of others is part of our human nature, 50% of the time it is kinder to keep those judgments to myself;

having more than a single share of empathy, for I know that the only moccasins in which I have a walked a mile are my own, and, finally;

as a member of a not-so-long-ago reviled minority, knowing that it is not enough to just “be myself”. I must also be as loving and as kind and considerate a human being as I can, for I am not only me but a representative of my own maligned and precious kind.

© 29 September 27

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.

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A Ring to Prove It by Gillian

I don’t believe I’ve ever actually told anyone this. Not because it’s shameful or embarrassing but because it held really no significance for me; so I say, but here I am remembering it after almost 45 years, so it must figure somewhere, if remotely, in my psyche.

It was, I think, 1970. Maybe ’71. I lived with my husband and step-children in Jamestown, a small, one might say tiny, old mining town in the foothills north-west of Boulder. It’s roughly ten miles up Left Hand Canyon, off highway 36 which runs between Boulder and Lyons. In those days there were few houses in the canyon until you reached Jamestown, with its impressive population of around 200.

I put in many extra hours of work at IBM, built a few years earlier between Boulder and Longmont. Being by nature a morning person, I preferred to arrive early rather than stay late, and frequently began work around 5 am. This particular day I must have had some compelling task ahead, though I have no memory of it, as I started out to work under dire conditions.

It was a dark and stormy night.

No, really! It was.

I set out down the canyon about 4:30 in the morning, in our old Willys jeep, hardly able to see anything for the snow swirling in the headlights. I doubt I had reached 20 m.p.h. when I thought I saw something moving ahead of me: just a vague dark shape against the snow which had already built up on the road, drifting against the trees. Deer, I thought. They were often about on the canyon road. I slowed even more, knowing how skittish they could be. I crept up on the shadow still moving ahead of me. Not a deer. A shambling, half running, half walking, figure on two legs.

What on earth was he, for some unknown reason I identified the figure as a man, doing, walking down the canyon in this weather? Had his car broken down? Crashed? I had seen no vehicle beside the road, but with the dreadful visibility maybe I’d have missed it.

I stopped beside him. He was beside the passenger door, and before I knew what was happening the door was torn open against the wind and this dark figure hauled itself into the passenger seat. Well? Wasn’t that why I had stopped? You can’t, at least I can’t, ignore a fellow human being under these circumstances. And anyway, he must be a neighbor; at the very least someone I knew by sight. Who else would be in Left Hand Canyon on foot in the middle of a blizzard?

Socially, I introduced myself, then politely enquired,

“Who are you?”

Silence.

“Do you live in Jimtown?” I asked, using the local vernacular.

In the absence of a reply, I asked, “Where you trying to go?”

A grunt which could have been interpreted as “hospital,” emerged from the dark shape beside me.

“Boulder? Which one?” Boulder at that time had two.

Another grunt.

By this time, my common sense was reasserting itself.

Who was he? Why, in God’s name, was he heading for a hospital on a night like this?

Was he hurt?

I glanced occasionally in his direction but could see nothing but a dark shapeless mass of clothes. What to do, what to do!

I tried occasionally to engender conversation, but failed miserably.

My imagination took over.

Perhaps he was riddled with bullets! Was he, at this very moment, dripping, no, pouring, blood all over the jeep? Worse – well, maybe worse – was he suffering from some highly infectious disease and in two days I and all my family would be at death’s door?

What to do, what to do?

I breathed deeply and calmed myself.

Of course! He had had a phone call. Some loved one had had an accident, only to be expected on a night like this. They were in E.R. and he was going to their bedside. Or he himself had had an accident. The car had gone over the bank into the creek, quite likely in this storm, and explaining the absence of a vehicle. Was he, perhaps, drunk? I sniffed the air surreptitiously but could detect no hint of alcohol.

Whatever the truth, I should get to Community Hospital as fast as possible, which actually was very slowly indeed, and part company with my guest. Alone with this silent, apparently unknown, man, on a night like this in the pitch-black canyon, was seriously not comfortable.

As the friendly street lights of Boulder approached, I glanced in his direction as often as I could possibly afford to take my eyes off the road, which in fact was pretty infrequently.

He had one hand, I managed to see, tucked into his coat, Napoleon style.

My imagination took off at a run.

Was that hand injured? Or holding a gun? Or, I tried to bring myself back to earth, just cold?

He was resting, I now saw, with his head on the back of the seat, (no head-rests in those carefree days!) with his eyes closed. He looked much more vulnerable than scary as his head rolled with every turn. Was he asleep? Passed out?

The coat which carefully encased his left hand looked like an army great-coat.

A sick Vet? A deserter? The Vietnam War still raged. It was possible. I liked the idea and warmed to him on the strength of it.

I pulled into the brightly-lit entrance drive to the hospital. I had no idea if this was where I should take him, being as ignorant of hospital etiquette as I was of his needs. As I pulled up, he pushed himself up in the seat, blinking his eyes.

“Community Hospital,” I said, sounding terse even to myself.

He, however, became positively verbose.

“You’re good person,” he said, or something like that.

“No money. Here.”

As he stumbled from the jeep into the still swirling snow, he pushed his right hand towards me.

It held a ring between the thumb and index finger.

He gave a heavy shrug.

“Not worth much I ‘spect. All I got …. “

I gazed at it, stupefied.

“No, no, I don’t need anything. Just hope …,” I had no idea what to say, “everything’s OK,” I finished, lamely.

He slid gracelessly off the seat into the drifting snow and staggered into the hospital without another word or a wave of the hand.

What did I expect, that he would wave a goodbye kiss?

I went to work.

As happens sometimes in Colorado, the sun was out by noon. The cars steamed in the parking lot. By late afternoon there was nothing to suggest the raging blizzard of twelve hours before. My midnight rider seemed surreal to me. Could I have imagined the whole thing? I wasn’t sure if that worried me more, or the fact that it had actually happened.

It was still vaguely light when I left work. I studied the jeep passenger seat carefully. It wasn’t wet; perhaps slightly damp. There was no hint of blood. I ran my hand once more over the seat and brushed against something hard. I picked it up, held it up. and peered through the dim light.

A ring.

Had he dropped it when he got out of the jeep? That seemed unlikely. I realized that it had been centrally located in the middle of the seat. Placed there. It was his payment for my assistance. I slid it into my pocket. It was nothing I wanted to explain to my husband, however I cared to view it.

For the next week or so I monitored local radio and read the Boulder Camera from cover to cover. I looked for gangland shootings, hippie overdoses, army deserters, and deadly viruses. Nothing. Then I went off into true paranoia. There were no reports in the media because he was a #1 FBI fugitive and they wanted no publicity. He had a highly communicable disease and they were keeping it quiet to prevent panic. He was a Communist spy – this was still the Cold War, remember – so they were keeping him under wraps.

Slowly the years went by and of course I forgot all about it. It had, after all, little if any impact on my life. But for whatever reason, doubtless nothing more than inertia, I still have the ring. And that is the only reason I know that this really did happen.

© October 2014

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.

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Mother Goose (and Writing My Story) by Betsy

“Let’s see…. Mother goose. What can I possibly write about an old woman who flies through the air atop a goose,” I mused. “Or about the Mother Goose rhymes, for that matter.” Jack Spratt could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean. I know there is a hidden political statement there, but, do I really want to research that?”

“Well, Mother Goose and I have one thing in common. We’re both mothers. Further research is required here. Besides, I want to write about writing my story. Maybe I can combine the two subjects,” I speculate.

Facts about the Canada Goose: The species mates for life. Well, we don’t have that in common. Although I am monogamous, and faithful to my mate.

Many Canada Geese use the same nest each year and also build their nests in the same spot as their parent’s nest. My nests have moved around about every 15 years of my life and I have never nested anywhere near my parents nest.

Enough with the comparisons already. The Canada Goose is a very interesting creature. I read on.

Most people are familiar with the Canada goose. However there is great variation among them. There are 7 subspecies of the Greater Canada Goose in North America ranging in weight from 3 to 24 pounds. These waterfowl live for 10-25 years.

Mother-to-be goose (and father-designate) find each other at 2-3 years of age usually. It seems they find each other strictly for the purpose of breeding that very same season. No honeymoon. They go right at it. If one dies, a new mate will likely replace the deceased before long. Otherwise Canada Geese mate for life.

The nest is constructed of grass materials and feathers from mother goose’s breast. The eggs once laid are incubated for 28 days and hatched all at the same time. After being hatched the goslings are led away from the nest and cared for by both mother and father goose. The goslings have the protection of both their parents for 10-12 weeks after which time they are able to fly.

Mother Goose spends most of the day foraging for food which consists of grasses, roots, and leaves. That makes us both grazers–another point in common. She sticks pretty well to a vegetarian diet including lawn grass. A walk through the park attests to the amount of time spent consuming their food. One must carefully place one’s foot when walking through heavily goose-populated areas.

We have all witnessed the familiar V formation of the flying flock of geese. Why the formation? The V formation makes it easier to fly and facilitates communication among the flock. They migrate from the northern hemisphere in the late fall when the ground begins to freeze. These birds can travel more than 1000 miles per day on their journey to the Southern U.S. or Mexico. This puts my mileage to shame if you will permit me another comparison. The furthest I can go using my own muscle power is 100 miles in 1 day. That’s on a bicycle which allows me the aid of wheels and a drive chain. Even going that far in a car on interstate highways would be unthinkable for me even with two or three alternating drivers for that matter.

Canada Goose populations are expanding in urban areas attesting to the adaptability of the species. Well, I have been known to adapt to new environments–but not without complaint. But I do suspect that mother and father goose complain quite often. At least they sure look like it when they are hissing and honking.

So these are a few basic facts about goose behavior and habits. As for combining this subject with writing my story…I think that project must wait for another day and another topic. It turns out Mother Goose and I have very little in common.

© 12 May 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.

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Internal Misery by Beth Kahmann

Can’t cope so I dope,

Can’t stand taunts, jabs, injustices and lack of humanity.

Being ‘Gay’ I’m terrorized and teased mercilessly.

Can’t cope, so I dope and dream after taking lots of Dramamine warding off perpetrators inside my head.

I dream of ending it all.

If I do will that stop bullies, homophobes and the like?

Or will they still harass and call me a Dyke?

Perhaps they swim in their own internal misery.

From schoolyards, to back yards, to cemeteries, my life and death won’t even end in peace.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones-but words can never hurt me”

Yeah, tell that to the teen or Mom or brother that wants to end it all because year after agonizing year they were called Queer.

Denver, © January 2015

About the Author

Beth is an artist, educator, and is very passionate about poetry.

She owns Kahmann Sense Communications bethkahmann@yahoo.com

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Snow by Will Stanton

“Let it snow, let it snow!” Seems like years ago, long before climate change, we had a lot more snow in the winters here in Denver. That may just be a fignewton of my imagination, but warmer, drier winters seem more evident now.

I recall thirty years ago, I was saddled with the task of shoveling knee-deep snow off my sidewalks. I even had a friend stop by one Christmas Eve who ended being a house-guest for the next three days. We quickly became snowed in, and he could not get home.

Back in the early days, I bought a little two-stage snow-blower, only to find out that it had no chance of contending with deep snow and deeper, wind-blown snow-drifts. So I sold it and found a second-hand, tractor-tread snow blower. It was so big that the little lady who first purchased it could not wrestle it around the sidewalks. So she decided to sell it. I was happy to use “Big Foot” the first few years that I had it and even did the sidewalk of the retired teacher next door. Then as the years passed, I would prepare the snow-blower at the beginning of each winter and fill it with fresh gasoline. Then it sat there and sat there, waiting for the big snows which rarely if ever came. I ended up going through the messy effort of draining the unused gas each spring. “Big Foot” has been sitting abandoned in my garage for the last several years.

Living here in Denver, I can’t say I care for snow, having to shovel it and drive on it. I’m not like so many avid skiers who can’t wait to make the arduous drive up to the mountains just to ski the fresh powder. When I first arrived in Denver many years ago, I guess that I felt obligated to try out skiing the first couple of years. I had to pay more money than I cared to for rental skis, boots, polls, and gasoline. The long drive up and back through endless stop-and-go traffic meant limited time on the slopes. I certainly never have been one of the well-heeled who have condos up in the mountains and do not have to rush back all in one day. I let skiing go and limited my physical activities to sports that I could do right around home.

I see that, over the last several years, the northeast U.S. seems to have been overwhelmed with heavy snowfalls, taking out power to thousands and closing highways. Of course, some areas always have been prone to bitter winters, but it also appears now that climate change is increasing the ferocity of some storms. Not surprisingly, the mindless congressmen in charge of the science committees point to snowy winters as supposed evidence of no such thing as climate change, or “global warming,” as they prefer to call it.

Going back many decades to where I was growing up as a young child, I recall that we had some memorable snow-storms. One of the biggest was when I was five. I have an old photo of me standing on a cleared sidewalk with the snow on either side as high as my chest. Few cars ever drove by our house even during good weather, but it was a rare, brave soul who tried to drive through that heavy snow in winter.

One of my most pleasant memories was of my oldest brother Ted sledding on the empty, snowy street. Now when I say “sledding,” I really mean sledding. There was a wealthy family who owned a lot of land on a forested hill just north of us; and they had a long, steep drive that wound its way up the hill to their house. I recall one day seeing Ted make the long hike up the steep slope to the first bend in the road and then sled all the way down to the street below and past our house. With that much momentum, he continued on for some distance. Now that must have been a grand ride. I don’t know how many times he did this, for that was quite a long hike up the hill.

Our growing up with snow during Christmas, we naturally became habituated with the idea of there having to be snow on Christmas. “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas.” That is all well and good, provided one has a home, heat, maybe a warm fire in the fireplace, and the heat stays on. The image of that cozy ambiance still is ingrained in me, although Denver’s Christmases usually are brown. If I had some logs, I’d put another log into the fireplace, if only I had a fireplace.

Now that I am discernibly superannuated and I don’t ski, I just don’t want to hear the song, “Let it snow, let it snow.” I never cheerfully hum that while trying to shovel my walks, often in the dark of early morning before the high-school scholars tramp it down to unremovalbe ice. And, I can’t imagine any terrified driver whistling that song as his car is sliding uncontrollably down-hill toward a busy intersection. That happened to me once. I was very lucky; there was a momentary lull in traffic at that time. I’ll reserve snowy scenes for the home-made Christmas-card images that I send to people.

© 11 December 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.

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Lonely Places by Ricky

Deserted Islands

Sinai Desert

Gobi Desert

Death Valley

Rural Nevada

I-90 between Minnesota and Montana

Wyoming

West Texas

Occupied Life Rafts in the Pacific

Australian Outback

Antarctica

SW Arizona

Trapped under the rubble of a collapsed building

Buried Alive

The mind of an Alzheimer patient

Hospitals while an in-patient

Walking on the moon

Graveyards

Empty Theaters

Ancient Ruins

Your home after the death of a spouse or partner

Memories

Broken Hearts

Jail and prison cells

Working in unrewarding or unfulfilling jobs

And last but not least: Sitting in front of a PC at 2AM writing a list of lonely places.

© 11 August 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

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A Few Words about Sex and Relationships by Phillip Hoyle

At times I am a thinker. So here is a summary of “I used to think…, but now I think…” although it really is “I used to do…, and then I thought…, and then I did a lot more, and then I thought some more, and now I think….”

As a child I was open to sex with my friends. I never had it with my siblings and was unaware of any of my friends having sex with their siblings. Nor was I aware that any friend or acquaintance was having sex with an adult. The play happened occasionally over several years, with a number of kids around my age.

When I was fourteen, an older man molested me as it is defined by law. I wasn’t upset. What he did felt good, but I was not interested to spend time with him and within a year my family moved to another town.

Then at age fifteen I had quite a lot of sex with a friend a year younger than I. With him, the sex came complete with all the pleasures afforded by increasing hormones—that double testosterone fix as it were—and some things the other guy had learned somewhere else. His family moved away the following summer, just before I turned sixteen. I didn’t have another boyfriend for years.

What did I think of all this? I wasn’t bothered by it and since I also had girlfriends, I reasoned it might be a sort of phase I was going through. I did not have sex with my girlfriends although we did dance and hug and kiss on occasion.

Upon graduation from high school I went to college and applied myself to my studies but found no girlfriend or boyfriend. As a sophomore I met and started dating the young woman who would become my wife. Unlike some other students in our church-related school, we were conventional in our expectation to wait until the wedding before having sex. At the same time I read books on the matter. I learned about hymens and pain and how men and women often have quite differing relationships with sex and differing expectations related to the interactions. I found helpful the ideas about how to have sex and how to sustain the loving relationship for years and years. I paid attention. I taught my wife what I had learned and we commenced our marriage with gently-approached, though vigorous, sex. We continued that exploration for twenty-eight years and the sex was an important feature of the way we communicated and loved one another.

At the same time during these years that were characterized in our nation by the sexual revolution, I evaluated ideas of sex and relationship. Not being very ceremonial, I came to think that if a man and woman get together sexually, they become married—at least in terms of the religious universe in which I lived and, of course, state statutes of common-law marriage. I was not at all concerned about premarital sex assuming it was just that. When one of my sisters and her boyfriend talked with me about their pregnancy, I was accepting and reassuring, a fact that surprised her ROTC boyfriend who was sure I’d beat him up. I laughed when he said it. He was the soldier and quite a bit bigger and stronger than I. I had no judgment against them for I was aware that I had been sexually active as a child and teen. In fact, co-habitation followed by marriage after pregnancy seemed to become the norm in American society around that time.

When at age thirty I fell in love with a man, I realized I had a few more things to consider. I had no idea of leaving my marriage and family. My only fear related to what the other man might think or desire. I would have loved having sex with him but he, too, was married, and I valued marriage. So that relationship didn’t go sexual for several years. By the time it did, I knew him well enough to hope he’d never want to leave his marriage. While I was somewhat crazy for him, I didn’t want his debt or his expectations regarding what he owed his offspring. By that time—in my mid-30s—I knew about men getting it on and sometimes living together in committed love relationships. (I had kept reading!) I knew about lesbian relationships also. I started wondering about even more complicated relationships.

The churches I worked in often had more conservative views than I. As clergy I conducted weddings—rituals with simple Hollywood-like vows—ones I found realistic given what I had learned over the years. Still I wasn’t interested in counseling couples and some years later felt relieved when I was out of the marriage business altogether. Perhaps that’s why I argue for the adequacy of civil union services for all kinds of marriage. For me it’s kind of like this: People who willingly make babies together must shoulder the responsibilities. But I know well that a union or marriage certificate has little correlation with folks’ behaviors or their ability to shoulder the burdens. I have become more European in my assumptions about marriage and extra marital affairs and have let go of all fairy tale assumptions about romance and royalty and marriage. No man’s house is his castle. No woman dolled up in a long dress adorned with flowers is Eve or a princes or a queen, and the man she is marrying is not prince charming however good looking. For me, the same sorts of things apply to all marital-type pairings, with or without children.

Oh—I remember—we live in a democracy. I’m happy to be here. I’m happy to see laws change toward more tolerance and equal rights for all citizens. I’m happy to define my own relationships. I’m happy to work out my relationships in ways that to me seem moral, helpful, and loving. That’s what I think now about sex and relationships.

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.com

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When Things Don’t Work by Will Stanton

One person said that this week’s topic is “When Things Don’t Work.” Another person thought the topic is “When Things Don’t Work Out.” Take your pick, or maybe do both.

Left’s start with “Things Don’t Work Out.” The funniest thing happened to me on my way to perfection. It turns out that there is no such thing, far from it. Just like so many young people, I once thought that I’d always stay relatively healthy. Boy, was that a mistaken notion! I have been plagued with health problems my whole life; and now I must deal on a daily basis with some serious, probably permanent, afflictions. Good health certainly did not work out.

I also thought that I had plenty of years to become educated, build a career, find a life-partner, accrue financial security, and still have time to relax. That did not work out either. It seems that (in the early words of the late Walt Kelly) “tempus just keeps fugitting along.” The majority of my years are behind me.

When I was young, I very naïvely thought that most people are knowledgeable, rational, kindly, and caring. For the most part, my trust in people didn’t work out either. I look about me and see how so many people are prone to lying, cheating, violence, and just plain stupidity. Like most of us, I unfortunately have been the target of such behavior over the years. Yes, there are some good people in the world, and I’ve appreciated them, both those whom I have been fortunate enough to know personally and also those I hear about. Still, my general belief in people did not work out.

So, there are three examples of “When Things Don’t Work Out.” Now for “When Things Don’t Work.”

I’ll allow myself to mope yet again about my life-long wish to be able to express the music inside me by playing the piano well but finding that desire to be an impossibility. Succinctly said, my hands don’t work. They are not even average hands, let alone lacking the athletic ability to play piano truly well. Woe is me. Enough said about that.

Still, I realize that some parts of me work better than that of some of my friends. For example, Larry has diabetes, peripheral neuropathy, hip replacements, leg braces, and uses canes to walk. Mike complains of being overweight, has bad feet, and wears special boots to get around. I recall one day the three of us driving up to a street-corner and stopping at a red light. Our attention was drawn to an exuberant teenager on a skateboard, zipping down the sidewalk, doing kick-jumps over the curbs and twirls just for fun. He appeared to be taking for granted his good health and athleticism, dancing down the walk like a young colt in springtime. At this point, I heard Mike grumble, half in humor but also half as a lament, “It’s not fair.” Then Larry morosely responded, “And, everything works.” To be honest and being familiar with Larry’s previous quips, I know that he was referring to more than just the teen’s athleticism.

In life, in the real world, a lot of things don’t work; much does not work out. I suppose we just have to keep plugging along, making do with the cards we have been dealt. That reminds me, each Sunday I have been playing with friends the card-game “Samba,” and I have been losing for weeks. With the cards I have been dealt, that has not worked out either.

8 December 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.