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

A Letter to My 9½-Year Old Self by Ricky

7 October 2013

Dear Ricky,

This may be difficult for you to believe, but this letter is from you. I, that is you, wrote it to yourself 55½ years in your future. I borrowed a friend’s prototype time travel device so I could mail this letter to me (you) so you (I) would receive it January 2, 1958. All the scientists believe it would be a bad thing for us (you and I) to actually see or touch each other [something to do with destroying the universe], thus this letter.

You are now 9½ and are experiencing a major event in your life, the divorce of your parents. I know how you feel because I was you 55½ years ago. I won’t tell you many details of your future, but I am giving you some advice that should make your journey into the future a little bit easier to deal with. Trust me in this; or rather trust yourself not to lie to yourself. So, here are 17 things I feel you should know at your age.

1. First off: Don’t be afraid. I am proof that you have a long life ahead. Yes you will be reckless and sometimes do dangerous or downright stupid things, but you live through all of them.

2. Don’t continue to withdraw into yourself because of the divorce. Even though your grandparents don’t hug you enough, they still love you and always will. Everything works out just fine. Your new step-father is a good man and is not violent towards you. You will see and travel with our father twice a year for many years to come.

3. Have a bit of fun with your grandmother by telling her that your mother remarried and just gave birth to twins today (January 2nd). Our mother has not told her yet, so she doesn’t know about the marriage or the pregnancy.  Her reaction should be amusing. 

4. You, or should I say “we”, turn out to be a good person and you will be a good older brother to the twins.

5. Don’t be a social wall-flower. Be the person who makes the first move in becoming friends with others that you will meet. It will make a big difference in how you feel.

6. As you grow up, there will come a time when you will notice that your male peers will stop thinking that girls have “cooties” and will want to spend more time with them than you. This is a normal part of growing up so don’t take it personally. There will be boys who want to spend their time with other boys instead of girls. This is also normal. If you have those special feelings for other boys don’t worry it will all be okay. Be warned though. Society during your time does not look kindly upon boy on boy (or man on man) love, so be cautious of any activity in that area, if you become so inclined. It will take years, but society changes so it does get better. If you wish to get married and have a family, go for it.

7. On 14 May 2013, buy a “Powerball” ticket with the numbers: 2, 11, 26, 34, 41, PB 32.  On 2 August 2013, buy a “Powerball” ticket with the numbers: 21, 24, 36, 42, 45, PB15.  On 13 September 2013, buy a “Powerball” ticket with the numbers: 1, 17, 25, 37, 44, PB 20.   Do this and you will have a total of $977 million.

8. Your new step-brother is 5-years older than you, but he is a good and decent person. However, I strongly advise that you don’t eat any of his secret stash of cookies when the opportunity arises in 3-years.

9. Join the Boy Scouts as soon as you are invited to join. You won’t regret it.

10. When you get to high school, tryout for the school plays. There will be two per year. Pester your mother and step-father until they commit to letting you do it.

11. Don’t bother with high school sports. Keep up a good academic standing instead. Your family duties will prevent you from participating anyway.

12. When you get back to California and live in a resort the first summer back, take lots of pictures of what you will be doing there. I have none and wish I had some from that period of time.

13. Practice dancing and go to school dances, but don’t be a wall-flower. Make someone happy and dance with them.

14. Brush your teeth twice a day or suffer the physical and financial consequences.

15. Keep a daily journal.

16. Re-read the original Peter Pan often. Don’t ignore the lessons contained therein.

17. Pay attention in English classes and learn to write well so you can write this letter to yourself when you reach my age. Who knows—in another 55½ years, I may write to you again because I know where you live.

Sincerely,
Your Future Self

PS: Here are two photos taken 6-months in the future to prove this letter is for real.

       Gale, Ricky, Gene, Dale                July 2, 1958                         Gale & Dale

  © 7 October 2013

About the Author

Ricky was born in 1948 in downtown Los Angeles. He lived first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA. Just days prior to turning 8 years old, he was sent to live with his grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years while (unknown to him) his parents obtained a divorce.

When reunited with his mother and new stepfather, he lived one summer at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife of 27 years and their four children. His wife passed away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.

He came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. He says, “I find writing these memories to be very therapeutic.”

Ricky’s story blog is “TheTahoeBoy.blogspot.com”.

Posted on

Long Ago and Far Away by Ray S.

In watching this handsome, self assured TV chef go about his demonstration of how to prepare trout almondine, he tells us about his service as a Marine in Iraq. As an aside to how a vanilla bean’s aroma reminds him of something the troops were warned to avoid as a poison because it smelled like vanilla.

Then he mentions his three sons, so I know he’s married–or was, and sufficiently endowed for he and his wife to become a father three times. All the time he’s so cool explaining how to fry the trout, then throwing together some panna cotta.

Why does my mind wander and begin nagging, “I wish I was a man such as I perceive him to be?”

It’s the image on the screen, it’s my mood slipping into classic “I don’t like me” mind fuck. A long ago secret wish to be someone else besides this body I’ve been occupying so long. Details like is he straight or gay, is he happily married, is he addicted to some sort of drug or booze? Would he be someone I’d like to spend time with? Why can’t I settle for who I am? All my life I’ve been comparing myself to others and especially men I can never be–and on and on and on.

Well, the food is cooked, the show is over and Mr. Wonderful fades away and so does my yearning and envy. Who knows he probably has as many devils to battle as I do.

Besides the grass is always greener on the other side of the bed.

Time to stop wasting energy on mindless self destruction and TV which has its moments too.

The quiet in the room an gentle sound of the rain drops striking the window panes reminds me of another day long ago and geographically far away–almost in another life. A little boy proudly rides his 24 inch wheeled Ranger bike over to his friend’s house. They admire his newly acquired birthday present and celebrate his graduation to a two-wheeler. Friend’s mother calls him to the telephone (it’s one of those new one-piece cradle phones–not like the old two-piece upright one at home.) The message is from big brother advising him to come home because of the rain storm and emphasizes be very careful because you are likely to slip and slide and fall and crash your new bike. Brother was especially emphatic about the imminent danger of the trip home. Sufficient to scare the wits (we didn’t say “shit” in those innocent times) out of the neophyte two-wheeler pilot.

The rain stopped long ago and far away memories stopped too. The whistle on the tea kettle beckons.

About the Author

Posted on

A Letter to My Younger Self by Phillip Hoyle

Note: I write this letter to a 19-year-old me not because I am upset over any decisions I made or over the life I lived subsequent to making them. My life has been fine; still there were a few crises I could have navigated differently. I write this letter from a point of view I could never have imagined, to a person who did not enough maturity of thought, feeling, or experience to have made other choices. In writing this letter, I am only thinking about a what-if that did not occur. I know that at 19 I may not have been able to imagine any of the things I now can at age 66! But, here goes anyway.

Spring, 1967

Dear Phillip,

I heard through your sisters about your recent breakup with your girlfriend. They seem upset about the severing of a growing tie, but I’m not quite sure what all informs their feelings. I do know they really like Myrna for her lively spirit and generosity. Yes, I like her too and am sorry for your loss and whatever feelings you are having right now. I wish I knew for sure what they are! I imagine they are quite mixed.

Breakups are difficult for all the feelings, but they are also opportunities of evaluation of one’s needs and interests. I remember your complaint about other ministerial students in your dorm who list all their requirements for their prospective wives: their looks, personality, musicianship, ability to teach, organize, cook well, get along, and so forth. I applaud your perspective that these lists are both hopeless and actually quite demeaning. I believe growing up with your sisters trained you well to look at women for who they are, not for what they will provide you. I was happy for you when you attached yourself to a young woman who was so independent and lively. I applaud.

One of your sisters told me that Myrna initiated the breakup out of her frustration that the two of you have difficulty talking with one another. I’m sure this reasoning frustrates you for in general you have no difficulty talking. Surely you are meeting with a frustration men commonly have in learning to relate to the women in their lives. We guys like to talk about our ideas, our work, and our activities; we tend to find it difficult to talk about our feelings in the ways many women desire to talk. That’s a plain old problem for most relationships between men and women.

I want to recommend something to you. Write down your own thoughts. Try to make sense of them from all your friendships and flirtations since junior high. List all the people you think might make a good partner for you or you might imagine yourself living with in adulthood—married or not. Erase any assumptions you may have that are similar to your dorm mates’. (You may be surprised to find that you are not all that different from them.) Write down your initial thoughts, those you had when Myrna left you alone in the chapel sitting there on the piano bench. Read and edit your thoughts. Evaluate them. This breakup can help you have freedom in your choices henceforth; it can help you understand yourself and your needs.

I love you, Phillip. I love your music, your artwork, your kindness towards others, your religious motivations, and your imagination. I love how you have learned to work, study, and reason. Please don’t shortchange yourself emotionally, academically, or vocationally. There are many, many ways to be a minister. There are many, many honorable kinds of work. There are many, many opportunities awaiting a person just like you. They are there for you. I hope for you more experience of the world before you make such an important decision about any kind of life partnership.

You will be tempted to run away from or to run back into whatever security Myrna represents for you. Please think deeply and honestly about these matters. Give yourself more time to mature. (I know that sounds awful.) Think about exactly what you want to do with your talents. Your life is right now wide open and your abilities can serve as doorways to many opportunities. Don’t shut too many doors too quickly. Good luck. God bless.

Love,

(signed) Your Self Yet to Be

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

Posted on

The Sound of Silence by Nicholas

I was buying this car, I told myself, so I could get away from traffic. In the summer of 1970, I purchased the first car I ever owned, a 1962 or ‘64 or maybe ’66, golden brown Ford station wagon. Like so many others back then, I was eager to leave the city of San Francisco; I was getting out. Freedom, just like the American myth says, freedom has its own wheels and comfy seats. Gas was only 28 cents a gallon. So, I was on my way.

I headed out across the Bay Bridge, through Berkeley and out east on I-80, past Sacramento and into the Sierras. The mountains. My plan was to spend much of the summer around Nevada City where my friend Keith had a cabin. I wouldn’t have a cabin, though, since I was daring myself to go back to nature in a big way. I would spend my time in the forest hiking and camping. I had my sleeping bag and my dog and other assorted gear and planned to spend days and nights exploring the wilderness of the Sierras. I’d be living out of my car when I wasn’t walking.
The Sierra Nevada are spectacularly beautiful mountains, especially for being so heavily traveled. You can still—at least, in 1970 you could still—really get away. Really find peace and find a quiet that was absolute. It was a quiet that was so complete that it fairly roared with no sound. Oh, there was the occasional buzz of an insect, the call of a bird, a crackling tree branch, but in the heat of the day, not much else. At night, the quiet dark was broken only by the howling of the coyotes as they formed their packs for hunting.
I was alone. Alone at last. Completely alone. Oh, the sweet solitude.
It was crushing. The silence was nothing less than ear-splitting. I could feel it like a weight on my ear drums. I could hear the sound of nothing. I could hear nothingness. I had never before in my life been in a place with a near total absence of sound. There was no background noise. The only noise was the noise of nature and nature usually isn’t very noisy.
And it was scary. In the dark, I was convinced a bear was tramping through the forest to munch on my bones when actually it was a ground squirrel scampering through the leaves and brush on the forest floor.
I loved it. And it was driving me crazy. I found that I loved my solitude but I didn’t care much for being alone. Solitude is something to cherish and an experience that can enrich life. It is also a common form of torture and can eat away a psyche. Solitude can give you strength and it can kill your strength.
And now long after that brave summer, I still value solitude—from time to time, like having the house to myself or meditating on a mountainside or taking a trip to the Shambhala Mountain retreat center to sit before their big Buddha. A bit of solitude is a big help to regaining perspective. But I’m not overly keen on being alone much. When Jamie goes away on one of his periodic business trips, I relish being alone in the house and doing whatever I want when I want without having his schedule to consider. After two days of this, the house gets to be a silent, empty, lonely place.
I actually have found it is possible to capture a bit of solitude—yes, solitude comes in bits unless you’re the desert island type—in a downtown Denver coffee shop where I frequently retreat to do things like withdraw and read or begin writing little essays to read on Monday afternoons.
I’m a city person and like having people around even if I don’t know them or do anything with them. Urban solitude is more of an internal state, a sense of self and a sense of privacy even when you’re in public.
So, I don’t need mountain forests to find respite and retreat. A nice afternoon nap in my quiet basement will do, thanks. Maybe some Tibetan bowls ringing softly to define the quiet while chasing away the crush of silence.

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

Coming Out Spiritually by Michael King

As I reflect on this topic it seems to mirror in many ways the slow and meandering journey of discovering the gay part of me and eventually becoming a gay activist.

I didn’t understand the differences between religious, spiritual, etc. I now have my own definitions however prefer to avoid the various terms. People state that they are non-denominational, new age, protestant, Buddhist, Hindu, Jewish, and the list goes on.

I’ve not felt comfortable with any of those labels. Faiths, creeds and rituals may be a part of being religious but I don’t think of them as being spiritual. There are, I am sure, those who are very much in touch spiritually and still participate in religious practices.

My family seldom attended church or even mentioned anything religious and fortunately left the whole arena fairly free of doctrines, duties, biblical teachings, fear, or guilt. I was grown and away from home by the time I encountered a vague concept of the term spiritual.

I did have an experience, the first of many, that has affected my perspective that I will call spiritual. I had the same name as my grandfather. I have since change my name. The family was present and I stood back by the door when he took his last breath. I was 15 and as far as I know no one else saw what I did. I was very calm and detatched. I had a sense that everything was OK. He and I seemed to have an understanding. I was an observer, and at the same time as I heard the death rattle, a shiny golden orb jumped from his head, wavered, and then quickly departed through the wall behind and to the side of the bed. I had the assurance that some kind of future followed this life.

I tried to identify with many belief systems over the years but couldn’t accept any until after the transforming experience I had when I made the decision to divorce my first wife and remove the children from their mother’s influence. I clearly stated to her, “I don’t give a shit about you or about myself. I’m going to do what is best for the children!” An experience of being in the future in the presence of what I have called a being of light and pure love followed. I’ll not go into further detail but my life changed forever.

I looked for information about my vision as that is what I think it was. I read and studied, attended lectures and workshops, read the Bible from cover to cover and most if not all the writings that were not included in the versions most often accepted. I explored eastern teachings, metaphysical writings and any other potential source hoping to find a better understanding of my experience.

I’ve since forgotten most of what all I studied because I didn’t find the answers I was looking for until one day after we moved to Denver. I was on my way to a bookstore to purchase some books that might have some answers when a voice directed me to buy a particular book. I recognized the voice but that’s another story.

I will say that I not only got the answers to the questions but I also received an expanded perspective far beyond anything I might have imagined. Experientially I am gaining in an understanding and have progressed in some levels of maturity.

When did I come out? That is probably the part that is most humorous. Every time I had an insight or learned something that I thought was profound I tried to share it with those around me. Mistake!!! No one was interested. Everyone has found what they want or have a prescribed approach they plan to take to get their answers. I came out so many times and was ignored just like when I came out gay. Everyone already knew it and some told me they were waiting for me to figure it out.

Among the blessings I have are the love I have from my family and close friends and some that aren’t so close, my rich inner life and the many insights, visions and personal revelations that have formed my present self. I have great appreciation for these blessings.

So long as there is consciousness, expanded awarenesses and new expressions of a spiritual nature can continue to enrichen our lives. I don’t think that coming out spiritually will ever stop.

July 1, 2013

About the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities,” Telling your Story”,” Men’s Coffee” and the “Open Art Studio”. I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.

Posted on

Hospitality by Merlyn

When I think about all of the places I have been the one that made me feel the most welcome was Jack Daniels distillery in Lynchburg, Tennessee. My girlfriend in 1983 and I were on the first of many long trips together. I sold radio cab #32 in Portland, Oregon, paid the rent three months in advance, and hit the road. We were heading east through Tennessee when we heard that we could take a tour though the Jack Daniels distillery. We were driving a ford van set up for camping and we were parking at Kroger stores to sleep. We got into Lynchburg just before it got dark. When we drove past Jack Daniels there was a big camper parked in the parking lot, so we decided to sleep there.

We were still sleeping when someone woke us up by tapping on the window. When I looked out he told us they that had fresh coffee and to come inside.

We got dressed and went into a building with a big lunch room where a guy met us and told us to help ourselves to coffee and donuts. He gave use a handful of postcards to fill out and told us they would stamp and mail them for us. He said the tour would start about 9:30 and would take about two and a half hours.

At 9:30 there were around thirty people waiting. They split us up into groups of five people and told us the guides worked at the plant and took turns showing people around. Our guide sounded like just like Jerry Reed and it was fun to hear him talk. The first thing he did was take a photo of the five of us. It was waiting at the post office when we got home.

Some interesting facts about the distillery and Jack Daniels:

Lynchburg, Tennessee is in a dry county. You cannot buy Jack Daniels there.

There were ducks on the banks of a small stream that were falling down and walking into each other. They would get into the old grain and were all walking around drunk.

We got to go inside a small cabin that Jack Daniels had used for his office. He had a big safe that was hard to get open, one day Jack lost his temper and kicked it so hard he broke is big toe. It got infected and the infection killed him.

They filter the whiskey with charcoal that they make at the plant. Since used charcoal that’s been soaked in alcohol is a fire hazard, a single match will set it on fire, someone came up with the idea of selling it under the name Match Light Charcoal.

After the tour he invited us to a free meal at Miss Mary Bobo’s Boarding House & Restaurant at 1PM. Mary was in her mid eighties and would make a dinner for everyone even if the Boarding house wasn’t full and we were lucky enough to be invited to one of the best southern meals I have ever had.

We stopped at the only store in town on the way to lunch and were going to come back after lunch and buy some t-shirts but they were already closed when we finished. We did not spend a dime all day.

Most of Jack Daniels whiskey comes out of Chicago today. Lynchburg is still operating and making the most expensive Whiskey the same old way they always did. They have over 250,000 visitors a year.

We had a real taste of southern hospitality that day.

July 29, 2013

About the Author

I’m a retired gay man now living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for the unusual and enjoying life each day.

Posted on

From Brooklyn to College Point, New York by Louis

Long ago, far away

I guess long ago and far away could mean recounting the adventures of Alexander the Great (gay general) in ancient Persia. But since I am getting to become an antique myself, I thought I would reminisce about the years 1949-1950. The first president I remember was Harry Truman. Who was the first U. S. President you remember? I was living with my mother and father, my maternal grandmother and my paternal grandfather and four brothers in an apartment on Baimbridge Street in East New York, Brooklyn. Today Baimbridge Street is located in Bedford-Stuyvesant, which is not one of New York City’s better neighborhoods.

My younger brother Charles Francis was born in 1949. So I helped my mother and grandmother take care of him. Unfortunately he has since died – too much hard liquor. I remember a lot of soldiers who had returned five years previously from Europe after World War II recounting their experiences and showing us their helmets and rifles some of which even had bayonets although I remember Obama saying the use of bayonets was discontinued after World War I.

My grandfather used to take me on the electric trolley train and we would ride to Coney Island which back then was in its heyday. I was six years old and was awe-struck by the plethora of sparks showering down from the overhead electric wires that provided the energy for the trolleys to travel.

In 1950, we moved to our own house in College Point, Queens, NY. It had brown shingles, a big screened-in front porch with a sofa. Of course, it was still an urban setting, but to me, with the big yard in back and plenty of room as compared with the apartment in Brooklyn, it was like moving to the country. Back then College Point was a lower middle class town with lots of vacant lots and two well-maintained parks. A walk across town would bring you to a large expanse of untouched swamps. I and a bunch of other children loved to seek out the frogs, pheasant, and the rabbits. Unfortunately, all that is now gone. Nowadays College Point is run-down, dirty and overcrowded. So I am trying to relocate to Colorado.

On a hot summer’s day, a neighbor took us to the CYO swimming pool in neighboring Whitestone. I guess I lingered a little longer than I should have in the boys’ locker room.

In other words, when things are perfect, and one is happy, why do things have to change, go downhill?

Sept. 10, 2013

About the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

Posted on

Cooking by Gillian

I have blamed my lack of enthusiasm for cooking on being a lesbian, and my mother, in varying percentages. However I know many lesbians who love to cook, so decided it came down to my mother. She cooked as necessary for my dad and me, but it was always apparent that it was more of a chore than a pleasure; my attitude exactly to cooking for my family, although I managed to keep four teenage stepchildren from complaining too much. I’m not sure whether that’s a testament to my unexciting but perfectly palatable meals, however, or to their forbearance.

It was only later in life when, perhaps, you look back on things with at least slightly less distortion, I realized that for most of the years that I lived at home, Britain was under severe food rationing. In a world where many things, including practically anything imported, were simply unavailable, and what was available severely rationed, no wonder she lacked a certain enthusiasm. Doubtless some women reveled in the challenge of creating gourmet wonders from dried egg substitute (though we did get one real egg per week) and substituting ground potato for just about anything and frying sausages that were 90% bread crumbs. My mother was not among them.

I still have one of her cookbooks from that time and some of the recipes are astounding:

Carrot Fudge: well the thought’s enough to gag you. But, hey, the recipe was simple and easy; grate and cook as many carrots as you can spare, flavor with anything available; juice squeezed from fruit in season, artificial vanilla, left-over tea. Add gelatin, cook a few minutes, spoon into a flat dish. Leave to set then cut into cubes.
Yummm

Or there was SpaMghetti, which called for spaghetti, four eggs from reconstituted egg substitute, one half can of SPAM (God Bless America,) ¼ cup grated cheese (or grated potato if not available), onions and parsley, pepper and salt, as available. While spaghetti is boiling cook other ingredients in margarine if available or lard if available or water if nothing else is available.

Now you just try working up a fervor for that!

And, looking back, my poor mother did try so hard.

One of my most vivid childhood memories is of a very early birthday. I think I was three or possibly four. Mum produced, with a grand flourish, a birthday cake. Surpri-ise! Well I doubt my brain actually had a grasp of any such concept. Rationing allowed us very little in the way of cake at all, and I’m not sure if I had ever even seen a real pre-war style frosted cake, let alone tasted one. Only many years later did I have the remotest concept of the hording of ingredients and the trading of coupons this production must have cost.

It smelled delicious. I remember that.

And I was not the only one who thought so.

The dog sprang from the fireside mat, gained the table in one quick lunge, knocked the cake on the floor, and inhaled it. Apparently she, being considerably older than I, did recognize such pre-war visions of taste-treat sensation.

My mother was inconsolable. She wept. She roughly shoved the dog outside – about as close to animal cruelty as Mum would ever get. My dad shook his head and clicked his tongue and said, “Never mind,” – about as close to verbosity as he would ever get.

I remember feeling very confused at all this drama and then I sat down on the floor beside the remains of the shattered cake and scooped up finger loads into my mouth. It was delicious. Who could fault the dog?

I started to giggle. My mother, who always had a good sense of humor, soon joined in.

Dad, looking much relieved, winked solemnly at me and sat beside me on the floor, jabbing big hairy fingers into flattened frosting.

As he had anticipated, my mother responded with a disgusted, “Oh Edward! Get up!” but we both knew that secretly she was delighted with our response and our evident delight at her cake, even if it was not served quite as she intended.

She even relented and let the dog back in eventually, to clean up the dregs my dad and I had left on the kitchen linoleum.

There were still years of rationing to follow, but I don’t recall Mum ever going for the Big Cake Event again, and she certainly did not once rationing ended and cakes were readily available in the local bakery. So, whether or not it originated with rationing, who knows? (Though Brits of my generation and up do so love to blame the Germans.)

All I know for sure is, I’m with her. A woman’s place is no longer in the kitchen, and I would rather spend my time writing my silly short stories.

And as it’s almost Thanksgiving I shall close with a relevant quote from Erma Bombeck?

Thanksgiving dinners take eighteen hours to prepare. They are consumed in twelve minutes. Half-times takes twelve minutes. This is not coincidence.

Lakewood, 2012

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

Falling into Unrequited Love by Cecil Bethea

Away back about sixty years ago I was in love with Hugh Stanley. He certainly wasn’t handsome; no way could he have been a porn star even had there been any porn available. But he was what I wanted in my vague, amorphous hankerings. Such were complicated by the firm knowledge that homosexual activity was condemned by my peers, my family, and my state. Remember back in those days, there were no Gays just homosexuals, queers, and cock-suckers. The result was no overture was ever made, so I at least was never rejected.
Hugh was a brain. He made practically all “A’s” at least enough to be selected to become a member of the School of Chemistry equivalent of Arts and Sciences’ Phi Beta Kappa but without the age or memorability. Unlike most scientific types, he liked to read literary novels before going to sleep. I remember in particular WAR AND PEACE, VANITY FAIR, and I, CLAUDIUS. It must [have] taken months to read the first two in thirty minute bouts. In I, CLAUDIUS, there is mention of the Spintrians, a group of Gay Romans. He referred to a similar group on the campus by that name in disparaging tones, but such remarks did not end my hunger.

He received a handsome fellowship from the Department of Defense. To this day, I remember the title of his thesis: The Synthesis and Thermal Decomposition of Symmetrical Bi-Methyl Hydrazine. The sponsorship came about because hydrazine was an early rocket propellant. I worked in the library of the School of Chemistry; actually my pay was in the form of a scholarship from the school. This method of payment didn’t bother me as long as the money came. True, you will have trouble finding someone with a scholarship in chemistry who knows less about the subject.

Meanwhile in all my turbulence, I was taking a course in Shakespeare. The test on MACBETH had a question like, “Discuss the motivation of MacBeth.” In the storm and stress of my soul, I decided that his love for Lady MacBeth drove him to all of his deeds most foul. I cited lines from the play to buttress my view. Written upon my test by the professor, Hudson Strode, were words something like this: “While some scholars accept this view, most believe that it was ambition. Also, Mr. Bethea, the character’s name is Lady MacBeth and not Mrs. MacBeth.” Every reference to the woman was at least consistently Mrs. MacBeth. It does loose something in transition.

This tale ends decades later. A letter from Hugo arrived. He had found my name on the internet. Wanting to be sure that I was the right Cecil Bethea, he recounted our friendship in school so that I could identify him, a totally unnecessary exercise. I replied with a lengthy letter. I said that I was Gay and a bit about my thirty-five years with Carl. After all I couldn’t hide him in a closet like a bastard child.

Hugo’s letter arrived sometime in August. We’d already decided to go to Alabama that October. Not only is the heat less, but Carl had never seen the fall leaves down South. Carl readily agreed to a change of route to go by Gulf Shores, down south of Mobile. So I proposed to Hugo and Laura, his wife, that we would like to take them to dinner at a place recommended by AAA. Also I stated that we’d be sleeping at a certain motel suggested by the same. 

The next week Carl and I, for some disremember reason, went to the Home Depot away out on North Washington with a Wal-Mart across the street. As I parked the truck, the battery died. We did our shopping and called AAA. The man said the battery was dead, dead, dead. Carl then took out the battery; he carried enough tools to make most any repair short of removing the engine. With the battery in a shopping cart, I went over to purchase one at Wal-Mart. Why this unexpected purchase at $67 should irk me more than any other I don’t remember, but it did irritate intensely. Walking in August across two parking lots on a hill, I remembered “Into every life a little rain must fall,” and other equally puerile philosophic mottoes. By the time I had reached the truck, I had reconciled myself to the notion that unexpected purchases or setbacks are part of human life.

When we reached home, there was a letter from Hugo. I fixed myself some coffee and then sat under the tree in the front yard to read it. The first sentence was disheartening. Something like: “Your visit won’t work for me,” “his being too much of a Victorian,” “I’d never displayed any such symptoms at school,” and other such statements. After reading the letter, Carl said, “Well, we can go home by Memphis.”

My problems with the battery and the resulting homilies set me up for the worse that was to come. Two, decades earlier I had learned that not everybody would love me.

Hugo’s letter was our last communication. After Katrina, I wanted to know how he had survived but refrained. There is a limit to how many lost causes one can pursue.

© 1 August 2011

About the Author

Although I have done other things, my fame now rests upon the durability of my partnership with Carl Shepherd; we have been together for forty-two years and nine months as of today, August 18the, 2012. 

Although I was born in Macon, Georgia in 1928, I was raised in Birmingham during the Great Depression. No doubt I still carry invisible scars caused by that era. No matter we survived. I am talking about my sister, brother, and I. There are two things that set me apart from people. From about the third grade I was a voracious reader of books on almost any subject. Had I concentrated, I would have been an authority by now; but I didn’t with no regrets.

After the University of Alabama and the Air Force, I came to Denver. Here I met Carl, who picked me up in Mary’s Bar. Through our early life we traveled extensively in the mountain West. Carl is from Helena, Montana, and is a Blackfoot Indian. Our being from nearly opposite ends of the country made “going to see the folks” a broadening experience. We went so many times that we finally had “must see” places on each route like the Quilt Museum in Paducah, Kentucky and the polo games in Sheridan, Wyoming. Now those happy travels are only memories.

I was amongst the first members of the memoir writing class. While it doesn’t offer criticism, it does offer feedback. Also just trying to improve your writing helps no end.

Carl is now in a nursing home, I don’t drive any more. We totter on.

Posted on

Signs of the Times by Betsy

When we are young we don’t recognize signs of the times because we have experienced everything for only a short time. Everything has always been that way. So the way things are at the time we experience them we consider to be normal.

I have noticed all too often in my old age the changes that have taken place in the world and the changes that are taking place before my very eyes it seems. After all, we older folks have experienced or at least observed many changes in many areas of our lives and in the life of our society and our culture. I find myself complaining about something that has become different from the way it used to be and the way I wanted it to be. It was just fine so why does it have to change. I end up explaining it away by saying, “It’s a sign of the times.”

I started compiling a list of some of the modern phenomena of our culture that have changed for the worse (in my opinion).

People talk too fast. Especially young adults. Has anyone else noticed that? Or could it be related to my failing hearing? Maybe I just think they are talking too fast. I wouldn’t really be surprised if they actually are because it goes along with the fact that everything else is moving faster. Communication is faster than we ever dreamed it could be when I was a youngster. Everything that moves is faster. Walking, running, skiing, cycling, thinking is faster, problem solving, information gathering, etc. Sometimes it makes my whole nervous system want to run and hide or at least take a rest. Here’s an ugly thought that hit me just the other day: Maybe, just maybe everything just appears to be speeding up because my brain is slowing down! Oh no, it can’t be anything like that, can it??

These days I hear many people talking about our government in Washington–Congress in particular–and what a lousy job they are doing. In reading any history of our government, as far as I can tell, disapproval of congress has always been a sign of the times for somebody, anyway. But I’ve heard the current disapproval rating is at an all-time high–number one–having surpassed number two colonoscopies, and number three root canals.

Another sign of the times I’ve noticed lately is that every processed food of any kind contains high fructose corn syrup. It’s easy to see why while driving across the country in the summer or fall. So much corn!! But then, why not? After all, we’re paying the farmers–be they corporate farmers or family farmers–we’re paying them to grow it. Too much corn and too much government support to make a living growing it, so they have to make up ways to use the resulting over abundant supply to keep the price up. The other positive for the food producers and processors is that high fructose corn syrup is a form of sugar and is a very addictive substance. Consumers will always come back for more. Guaranteed!

What about that ever present, in your face, obvious global phenomenon that is profoundly affecting almost everyone: CLIMATE CHANGE. Now here’s a sign of the times that should have everyone’s attention. Yet there are deniers who say it is not happening in spite of the 98% of the scientific community who exhibit proof that it is a fact. Here in Colorado the warm, dry weather we so often enjoy day after day does not directly affect most of us in a negative way. But tell those 300,000 people without power on the east coast today as I am writing this–tell them that storms are not bigger, more prevalent, more violent, than even ten years ago. However if you are ten years old I suppose it seems normal.

Finally, I could swear that much more time is spent for commercial advertising on television and radio than in the old days. Sometimes I’m tempted to time it. It seems it’s about fifty-fifty to me. Half programming, half advertising. Thanks to modern technology and the digital age, however, there is a way around it–another sign of the times. Video recording and that most important button on the remote, the mute button.

What did we ever do without those remote control devises? Imagine getting out of the car and manually lifting the garage door. Unthinkable! It’s even harder to imagine getting up from the sofa to change the channel on the TV or to turn the thing off. Well, I guess all the signs of the times are not for the worse.

What is your sign? 

Lakewood, 2013

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.