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Leaving, by Betsy

My cycling adventure, an amazing trip across the country in 2005, has given me endless material for story time. Once again I call on my journal to remind me of the many places we found ourselves leaving and the experiences which followed the many “leavings” that took place. Leaving Dog Beach in San Diego, the tour’s place of origin, was by far the most exciting departure from anywhere that I can recall ever making. Reading from my journal: “Saturday, March 20: The first day we left from Dog Beach. We dipped our tires in the Pacific Ocean, rode out of San Diego and started up the coastal range. This was a 33 mile ride. It was a day of city traffic and then climbing. We climbed almost 2000 feet.” There are a couple of places where it was too steep for me to ride, so I had to walk, pushing my bike. This was the first of many such walks on this trip. Cycling clip-in shoes are not designed for walking. They have metal devices installed on the soles that clip into devises on the pedals. Once on the bike, shoes clipped to pedals, one is not stuck in this clipped-in position as a quick flick of the ankle releases you from the pedals. It turns out this is ever so handy when you come to a stop and have to put your foot on the ground.

Back to the journal: “Glenda, who is our oldest member—I thought I was the oldest—Glenda didn’t want anyone to know how old she was. She disclosed her secret to the Fox News people when they were interviewing us at the start of the trip on Dog Beach. Fox News is a bad choice when revealing something you don’t want anyone else to know. I guess she couldn’t resist the notoriety of being the most …whatever.” I remember how cold I was when we arrived at our first night’s stop—a place called Alpine, CA. Our accommodations provided a Jacuzzi which was most welcome. Another memorable departure on that cycling adventure happened a couple of weeks into the trip.

It was Sunday morning, April 3rd. We had been instructed the night before by our leader Susan as follows: “Now ladies, I know we are all tired having just completed a 90 mile ride today. But I want you to be alert enough to remember to turn your clocks back one hour as we switch to day light saving time at midnight. Now be sure to get up an hour early because we will lose an hour tomorrow. We have a long ride and i want everyone in before dark.” Yawning and stretching we all promised we would get with the correct time. We obediently turned our clocks back before going to sleep. Up an hour early in the morning and it’s pitch dark. Now breakfast is over and it’s time to saddle up and leave. We never leave in the dark. But we know we must because our leader told us we would lose an hour today so dark or not, we better get on the road. We LOSE an hour today. Let’s get going. Wait, a couple of the women have tires that went flat over night. That creates a serious delay for several of us. We need about 5 women to hold flashlights while four women fix the two flats. We’re finally leaving and it’s still dark.

It was about mid-morning coffee time, at the first SAG stop. After a few sips of the beloved beverage, it dawned on just about everyone at the same time: we actually gain an hour today. This is spring. Spring forward, right. We were supposed to turn our clocks forward an hour. We could have stayed in bed an extra hour. Where is leader Susan? I want to kill her. Moral of that story. Just because you are paying your leader to direct you, doesn’t mean you turn off your brain completely. We rode across 8 different states. That meant leaving California, New Mexico, Arizona, Texas, Louisiana, Alabama, Mississippi on our bicycles. I clearly remember celebrating our entry into a new state at the end of the day with drinks at dinner. Except for the state’s welcome sign on the road, leaving one state and entering another was more of the same: pedal, pedal, pedal. But it was exciting and satisfying to be able to mark our progress with a huge sign on the road as we rode out of Texas: “Welcome to Louisiana.” This was especially true after pedaling for nearly three weeks as we journeyed through the endless countryside. We thought Texas would never end. Texas was full of exciting encounters, however. First there was the border patrol outside of El Paso. We cyclist were not suspect, but Bo Peep our SAG wagon was stopped and searched. The search took a long time, too. That vehicle was full of supplies. Fortunately nothing suspicious. In Texas we encountered every kind of terrain and environmental condition known to man: mountain passes, magnificent wildflowers, dessert flat, wind, rain , heat, cold, cities, wide open roads with nothing in sight except fields and more road. The scenic terrain of the Texas Hill Country may not have been the longest or highest in elevation, but those hills were definitely the steepest. One thing that remained the same throughout the state of Texas was the rough surface of the roads. This I found to be very annoying and hard on my aging joints. “Chip-seal” they called it. I called it cheap road surface. For this one reason I was thrilled when we arrived at our last Texas stop. Tomorrow we would leave Texas. We were at our Super 8 Motel in a small town in East Texas having our usual evening map meeting to prepare for the next day’s ride. We were told by Susan to be alert when riding in Louisiana, the state we would enter tomorrow just after crossing the Sabine River. “ Louisiana has lots of dogs,” she warned—“loose dogs.

There are no laws requiring people to keep their dogs under control in Louisiana. They love to run out at you and nip at your ankles.” “Oh dear,” I thought. “I think maybe I’ll bargain for more rough road in preference to loose, angry dogs. “Just look them in the eye and firmly yell ‘NO.” was Susan’s advise. Our leader’s counsel did nothing to ease my anxiety at the time, but I found on the couple of occasions when the foreseen event actually took place, the firm ‘no’ worked.

Leaving Texas felt good that time. A few weeks later leaving the Florida panhandle and approaching the Atlantic coast felt different. It was bittersweet. We were all aware this adventure was coming to an end. At this point in Florida I was having trouble focusing on anything other than pushing my pedals. Again from my journal: “It hasn’t fully registered in my head the fact that we have just ridden across the country 3165 miles. I expect it will sink in at some point, or maybe not. It’s a bit overwhelming. No question about it, it was the trip of a lifetime and a most extraordinary experience and a most extraordinary group of people.” Over the 58 days we made 52 departures from locations across eight different states. On those early morning departures, I was never more motivated to leave a place and so totally focused on arriving at the next place. I’m glad I have the day to day journal of the trip. I’m also grateful for the occasional appropriate story time topic to push me to get out the journal and relive some of the magical moments.

© 7 November 2016

About the Author

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

Many people relate to gay men via stereotypes and pejoratives. Among those epithets are the words “twisted,” “bent,” “weird,” “queer,” “pervert,” “homo,” and so forth. Straight males relate to lesbian women mostly using the words “hot” or “I want to see some action;” a typical male double standard. I don’t know much about the type of problems lesbians face in the post WW2 world except from what the female members of our story group have revealed. However, I do know what damage those pejoratives did to me and other gay boys, teens, and young men.

Called by those names and bullied, some boys, teens, and young men chose to end their lives rather than continue living with the abuse and hopelessness. Unloving parents threw others out of their homes but they survived into adulthood only to face abuse by other adults who did not love or provide them with security. HIV and AIDS claimed many who escaped or lived through the bad times.

I consider myself fortunate. I was very naïve about same sex attraction and its portent for my future. Like many gay adolescents, I was confused as to why I was not interested in girls as puberty began. All my friends were finding girls very desirable. I desired to play sex games with boys more than girls.

My home life was not idyllic but neither was it oppressive. My parents were simply not around most of the time. We never talked about sex at my home although my mother and I exchanged “dirty” jokes once. (Her’s was funnier.) I did not act gay. I like to play sports for fun and not just to win at all costs. In high school, I mostly hung out with two smart friends and I was the oldest boy in my scout troop. I even wore my scout uniform to school one day of each Scout Week while in high school. Nonetheless, no one ever teased me or called me any gay related pejoratives.

My mother must have either known or suspected I was gay. I never brought up the subject of girls or spoke of dating a girl or taking a girl to a school dance. I did have bi-weekly sleep-overs with one or two of my neighborhood peers. I believe she suspected me because twice, without my knowledge or permission, she “arranged” for me to take the daughters of some family friends to school dances I was not planning on attending. Another reason I think she suspected is because she was so surprised when she received our wedding announcement six years after I graduated from high school. The point of all this is that I survived into adulthood and even survived marriage.

However, I did not survive without emotional and mental scars. Very few people survive unscathed from growing up closeted knowingly or unknowingly. At the time, no gay could serve openly in the military. I served 16-years, 9-months, and 11-days while closeted. The stress of exposure within marriage or military service takes a toll on one’s psyche. Whether in the military or not, whether married or not, projecting a false identity warps a person’s real identity into something unnatural. It is like forcing a square peg into a round hole or damming and diverting a river into a constricting canal.

The only way to insert a square peg smoothly into a round hole is to trim the corners of the peg. This can be done with care and concern using something like sandpaper or it can be forcibly hammered. Either method damages the peg and/or the hole alike. While damming a river and forcing it into a new channel or canal can bring benefits, when the levy or canal overflows or breaks, havoc results. It is the same with people. When a person forced to bend or squeeze their identity into someone else’s mold or lock-box, confusion, resentment, anger, death, or a broken “spirit,” can occur. Even one of the foregoing conditions could result in a broken person.

People allowed to have their real identity publicly on display without ridicule, will grow, undamaged, and flower into the person they were born to become.

© 23 February 2013

About the Author

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Fitness, by Ray S

To hear today’s Story Telling challenge word, “Fitness”, is the main reason I have come here today. That, and of course the opportunity to be with my friends, and as always to learn how they might deal with the weekly word-subject.
But first, I must acknowledge the previous week’s referral to the usage of the adjunct “ness,” by a highly revered member of this group. I wonder how the term “gayness” is so cliché and the other word encumbered with that addition. And then to find today’s subject standing proudly with its “ness” hanging out for everyone to address. However, did this come to pass?
Personally, after reading the current title, besides being quite uninspired (as is evidenced herewith) the best I can offer is—“I was fit to be tied.” Is that cheating? Or perhaps, it was neither fit for man or beast.” Note the absence of “ness.”
With due respect for my compatriots’ sincere efforts, I look forward to how you have fittingly risen to this occasion.
Meanwhile, I will obediently find a dark hiding place to fit my “ness’s.”
© 31 July 2017 
About the Author 
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Hope, by Phillip Hoyle

I moved to Denver determined to live my life as an openly gay man. There is a fifty-year long story behind that statement. I won’t go into it here, but my mind was made up. I knew I needed come out publically. I certainly wanted whatever kind of gay life I could construct in an urban context. Of course, I also had other needs: a job, a place to live, some friends, a connection with a church as a participant (not as staff), and a change of scene to mention only a few of them. I wanted and assumed I would be able to see these needs met to my satisfaction. In less than three months I had enrolled in massage school to learn a trade that would sustain me, rented an apartment, moved in, and started meeting people: students in school, members in the church I had settled on, and eventually in my neighborhood. I did more things such as joined as a member at the Denver Art Museum, got a library card at Denver Public Library, started writing another book for the publishing company I worked for part-time and set up my art studio and massage space in my tiny apartment. I was on my way.
I was having a wonderful time in my new gay world, exhilarated by a sense of freedom I had never before experienced, looking at my day-to-day life with a sense of awe. What would happen next, I wondered. My art matured, my small book went off to the editor, my education changed my perception of the human body, and the city kept opening me to the potential of new wants. I was not greedy, but I did keep myself busy.
Toward the end of my fourth year here, after schooling was completed, my massage practice was proving rewarding, and I was enjoying a number of friendships, I met a man one day at a bus stop, a man who moved me deeply. I wanted to get to know him. I saw him three times on the bus and knew I wanted his friendship. But then he disappeared. For weeks I kept my eyes opened. The season moved from early to late spring. Then I saw him again. I gave him my phone number and encouraged him to call me so we could meet for breakfast or lunch. I really wanted his friendship whether he was also gay or not. I wanted him in my life.
Two months later I heard his voice on my phone. He asked me to call. I did. We began to talk. My want changed. Here’s what I wrote in my Morning Pages the morning after his phone call: “I am pleased, maybe even thrilled. Rafael left me a message. Then I left him a message. Then we talked. [Among other things] he said he wanted us to be friends.
That’s when my feelings changed from want to hope. I wrote: “I want him to touch me. I want to share some kind of love with him. I hope it will work out to be something fine.”
In my usage hope seeks so much more than does want, more in terms of deepest desires, persistent needs, and long-term effects on one’s life. It wasn’t that I quit wanting, but I then began living with an expectation of so much more than any other man had provided me or been able to receive from me. My feelings opened up into a romance the likes of which I had never before entertained. I’d always assumed romance to be a rather hokey and fairy-tale cultural construct but was suddenly living into a dream I had never expected. I had never been so moved and never had received nor given what this new friendship, partnership, love life, and cohabitational thrill that my too-brief time with Rafael Martínez provided. Even though our romance lasted just over four months, its affects and effects linger in my memory, in my body. My mourning his death is balanced with memories of our weeks together.
© 4 December 2017  
About the Author  
Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general, he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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Rolling Thunder, by Pat Gourley

“If the thunder doesn’t get you the lightning will.”
Garcia/Hunter
Several thoughts came to mind with the topic of Rolling Thunder. I opened this piece with a short line from the Grateful Dead song called The Wheel.  One of my all-time favorite Dead tunes and its reference to thunder. Thunder, when associated with a rainstorm, is often rolling in nature and often accompanied by lightning and then a real downpour. Lightning is, of course, the cause of the thunder despite the fact that you might hear thunder and then see lightning. Things are not always what they seem.
I got to experience a rare thunder and lightning storm on my last trip to San Francisco this September. It was so spectacular and unusual for that city that it had people out in the streets trying to photograph the lightning with their phones. Coming from an area where such storms are common and a state with a high per capita number of lightning deaths I opted to stay inside.
I could use “Rolling Thunder” I suppose to characterize my longstanding and truly at times epic flatulence. Certainly, for the past several years, I have made a conscious effort to increase my fiber intake. My daily fiber goal is at least 40 grams with 25-30 often recommended but the average American gets only 15 grams. This can at times result in farts that seem to go on in a truly rolling fashion particularly at night in bed though I can produce any time of the day. Exercise seems to stimulate often-inopportune gas production, so I find myself these days seeking out little-used exercise machines off in an isolated corner of the gym or turning on one of the large fans if available. Then being able to fart to my heart’s content. The use of the fan makes it difficult for other gym goers to pin down the culprit.
Unwanted farts also seem to roll out when meditating and sitting on my Zafu. This is not an issue when home alone. However, when joining the evening Zazen at the Zen Center recently in San Francisco I would find myself discreetly farting into my cushion hoping for a silent escape of air and with the expulsion being into four inches of cushion an unnoticed event. As a matter of course though I believe if the setting is appropriate that farts should be released with gusto and this seems to enhance the volume. I suppose Roaring Thunder might be more appropriate for such occasions rather than Rolling Thunder.
So, before people start moving away from me here in group I’ll change the topic and share a couple of other “Rolling Thunder” references that came to mind for me in addressing this topic. The first being the Rolling Thunder Revue which was the name of a rock and roll tour in the mid-1970’s featuring Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, and many others.  Several theories existed as to why Dylan chose that name. Some thought perhaps he was referring to the Native America Shaman named Rolling Thunder. With the Vietnam War still raw and fresh in the American Psyche maybe he was referring to the code name for the disastrous and genocidal aerial bombardment by the United States of Vietnam that took place from March of 1965 through October of 1968. When asked about the urban mythology that had sprung up around the name Dylan had a much more mundane explanation. He had been sitting on his porch one day before the tour and a storm was approaching ushering in a rolling burst of thunder that seemed to stretch across the sky: this being another small blow to those who would make Bob Dylan America’s conscience.
I have included a link here to a short piece on lightning safety from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA)
Lightning Safety – NOAA
Lightning strikes resulting in death are rare and one erroneous assumption many people have is that they disproportionately happen to golfers, perhaps wishful thinking on the part of some people upset with our country’s current leadership (POTUS). This is however incorrect with three times as many strikes happening to fisherman in boats than golfers. Overall only 10% of lightning strikes result in death per data from NOAA.
Besides the potentially negative karmic repercussions of hoping POTUS will give up golf and take up fishing it would be much more productive to continue to pursue peaceful resistance. Never being one to shy away from a cheesy metaphor I would like to think that the progressive sweep in the recent elections was a real Rolling Thunder and harbinger of great change to come.
© 12 Nov 2017 
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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Deep Blue Sea – Plot Summary, by Louis Brown

Deep Blue Sea is a 1999 science fiction horror film, starring Saffron Burrows, Thomas Jane, LL Cool J, Jacqueline McKenzie, Michael Rapaport, Stellan Skarsgård and Samuel L. Jackson. The film was directed by Renny Harlin and was released in the United States on July 28, 1999.
Cast
Saffron Burrows as Dr. Susan McAlester
Thomas Jane as Carter Blake
Michael Rapaport as Tom Scoggins
Stellan Skarsgård as Jim Whitlock
LL Cool J as Sherman
“Preacher” Dudley
Samuel L. Jackson as Russell Franklin
Synopsis
At Aquatica, a remote former submarine refueling facility converted into a laboratory, a team of scientists searches for a cure for Alzheimer’s disease. Fluids [hormones] from the brain tissue of three Mako sharks are harvested. Unknown to the other scientists, Dr. Susan McAlester and her partner Jim Whitlock have violated the code of ethics by genetically engineering the sharks to increase their brain size, they have attempted to achieve their objective, but at the expense of making the sharks smarter, stronger, able to swim backwards and more dangerous.
After one of the sharks escapes and attacks a boat full of teenagers (but fails when shark wrangler Carter stops it), Aquatica’s financial backers send corporate executive Russell Franklin to investigate the facility. To prove that the research is working, the team removes fluid from the brain tissue of the largest shark. While examining it, Jim is attacked by the shark and his arm is bitten off. Brenda Kerns, the tower’s operator, calls a helicopter to evacuate Jim, but as he is being lifted the cable jams and Jim falls into the shark pen. The shark grabs the gurney and pulls the chopper into the tower, killing Brenda Kerns and the pilots. As the others try to figure out what made the explosion, one of the sharks uses Jim’s body as a battering ram to smash an underwater window, flooding the facility and freeing the other sharks. Jim is killed by asphyxiation. Susan confesses to the others that she and Jim genetically altered the sharks.
Susan, Russell, Carter Blake, Janice Higgins and Tom Scoggins make their way to the top of the center. The sharks use this as an opportunity to whittle down their numbers. While delivering a dramatic speech emphasizing the need for group unity, Russell is dragged into the water by the largest shark and killed. While climbing up the industrial elevator, a ladder falls and gets wedged between the walls of the shaft, leaving them dangling over the water and the second shark. Aquatica research assistant, Janice,  loses her grip and falls; despite Carter’s attempts to save her, the shark kills her. The cook, Sherman “Preacher” Dudley, is attacked by the first shark but kills it by throwing a lighter into the kitchen’s oven that had been turned on. He then encounters Carter, Tom, and Susan.
Traumatized by Janice and Russell’s deaths, Tom goes with Carter to the flooded lab to activate controls to open a door to the surface. The largest shark attacks them, killing Tom. Meanwhile, Susan heads into her room to collect her research material, but while there, she is ambushed by the second shark. She narrowly escapes by climbing onto a table and disconnects a nearby power cable, taking off her clothes, and electrocuting the shark in her underwear, destroying her research in the process. Carter, Susan, and Preacher go to the top of the research center through a decompression chamber and swim to the surface. Preacher is caught by the third shark and dragged through the water, but swims to safety after stabbing the shark in the eye with his crucifix, causing it to release him.
Carter realizes that the third shark is trying to escape to the open sea, and that the sharks made them flood the facility so they could escape through the weaker mesh fences at the surface. In an effort to distract the final shark, Susan cuts herself and dives into the water. When she attempts to climb out, the ladder breaks and she is killed by the shark. Carter dives in to try to save her but is too late.
Grabbing hold of the shark’s fin, he is pulled through the water. Preacher grabs hold of the harpoon and shoots the shark through its dorsal fin, but the spear also goes through Carter’s thigh. As the shark breaks through the fence, Carter is attached to the shark by the harpoon. He tells Preacher to connect the trailing wire to a car battery, sending an electric current through the wire and to an explosive charge in the harpoon, killing the shark. Carter managed to free himself in time, and he swims to the wreckage of the facility, joining Preacher in time to see the workers’ boat en-route on the horizon.
© 21 Nov 2017  
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.
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Resist, by Gillian

As we get older we tend to deal less well with change. We don’t like it. Unfortunately, at this stage of life, changes are all too frequently thrust upon us by forces we are unable to resist.
But I tend to see myself as someone who has never liked change – very much a status quo kind of person, even when I was younger. Thinking about this topic for today, I am forced to wonder why I see myself that way. I left home and went away to college, I emigrated to another country, I got married and then divorced. Finally, I completely changed my vision of myself by accepting and then embracing my lesbianism, embarking upon a lifetime commitment, and eventually marriage, to another woman. I have had something like twenty different addresses throughout my life. This does not really sound like someone who resists change.
Perhaps in fact what I did was fail to resist change. I didn’t initiate it. I didn’t own it. I simply went with the flow, falling in with the plans of others. It was not until I came out. morphing into the real me, that I truly began to take responsibility for my own life. Coming out in itself was, of course, my first and greatest resistance. There can be little more challenging than pushing back against your very self, or at least the self you always thought you were.
Ever after that sea change in my mid-forties, I have been much more cognizant of, and proactive about, change. Not all change is good, not all change is bad. Sometimes we resist change, sometimes we resist remaining the same. And, inevitably, we can never all agree on which is which. Change can also be very deceptive. The voters who gave the world both Trump and Brexit, insisted they were voting for change. In fact, they were for the most part resisting change, or perhaps hoping for things to start moving back in time, to return to a former world, which is change of a sort I suppose. Trump supporters want to return to a time of high-wage car factories; a land where coal is king. Brexit supporters hunger for the days when the British invaded other countries, rather than the people of those countries surging into Britain. Britain first. America first. In both countries, there are large segments of the population resisting any kind of positive, forward-moving change.
But it all depends, of course, on what your own vision is of positive change. I feel like I have been resisting, pushing back, against changes I thought to be negative all my life. Though, as I said before, in my earlier life I fear I did very little thinking, and more especially feeling, for myself. At least I can say, in my own defense, that I chose those I followed along with, very wisely. All the protests I took part in then are the same ones I would choose now, now I am the real me. I resisted nuclear missiles both in the UK and later in the US. I protested against the Vietnam war for what feels like forever. I marched for support of AIDS victims for another forever.
Now I am resisting as I have never resisted before. And now it is I who resist change. I resist Trump’s evil changes not only in protest marches but with daily actions; phone calls and e-mails dispatched at a rate I never before dreamed of. Since election day 2016 I feel that I am living some awful nightmare from which, every day, I am ready to wake up. I just hope this particular resistance is not yet another of those forevers.
© March 2017 
About the Author 
I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30-years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years. We have been married since 2013.
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Marriage, by Ricky

I was married once.  It lasted for 27-years and 9-months until she passed away from complications of breast cancer on 15 September 2001.  During the years we had together, we found peace, joy, love, companionship, comforting, support, advice, acceptance, hope, security, solutions, and problems to overcome.  In other words, we were best friends.
We had four children, three girls, and one boy all of whom turned out to be decent people.  During their growing up years, our family did many things together.  My military work schedule did not always make it easy to plan for family outings, but we made it work.  We took weekday or weekend trips to nearby tourist sites wherever we lived.  Included in the activities were trips to children themed museums, movie theaters, parks, bowling alleys, camping, and ShowBiz Pizza.  When I had my annual 30-day leave, we would go to “exotic” places like Disney World, Mt. Rushmore, Crazy Horse, Lettuce Lake, Lake Tahoe, Tucson, Gulf Coast Beaches, the Redwood Forest along US Highway 1, The Donut Store, Fjords Ice Cream Store, Storybook Island, and Waterton National Park in Canada.
Deborah and I always supported the children in whatever appropriate activities they wanted to try.  Before we even had our first child, we decided that our home would always be open to their friends and available for use for parties and other activities.  (That way we would always know where they were and what they were up to.)
Deborah and I came from family situations that were not optimal and dysfunctional to one degree or another.  Thus, we were committed to having a home where life was supportive of children through all ages of growth so our kids would not have our issues.  It worked out well.  They all have their own issues not even remotely similar to ours but perhaps still, a result of our efforts not to make the same mistakes our parents made.
Sadly, due to my early childhood and adolescent traumas, I cannot say that I was “happy” in the marriage.  I have experienced joy when each of my children were born, but “happiness,” I’m not sure I’ve ever truly experienced it from age 8 onward.  Beginning about a year before Deborah’s death, I even began to question myself as to whether I had even really loved her.  Her death provided me with the answer, “Yes.  I loved her then and still do.”  However, true happiness still eludes me I think.  On the bright side, I am over the 10-years of major depression that followed her death.
Nonetheless, I believe that my married life was good for her and me, my sexual identity notwithstanding.  Raising four children from infancy to adulthood is an experience every decent person should experience for there are many opportunities for happiness (or very pleasant feelings at least).  Certainly, there are too many emotionally damaged people, for which parenthood would result in disaster for the children.
Some gay men have never been inclined to marry a woman or to become fathers and are quite satisfied with their lack of offspring.  I respect everyone’s decision not to marry or procreate, just as I hope they respect mine.  I have heard that many gay men “look down upon” married or ex-married gay men for being “cowards” and living in the closet of a “straight” society and culture.  I have only two things to say to them.  First, I repeat that I enjoyed every minute of my marriage and children and I’m glad for the experience.  The second thing is, “Get over it.”  We are all free to pursue our own visions of “happiness” and one does not negate the other.
Genesis chapter 2, verse 24 describes God’s joining Adam and Eve in what is considered marriage.  Except, the way it is worded and punctuated it appears that it is Adam who is “speaking” the words not God.  And recall that the King James version, which I am referencing, was not written directly by God, but by a group of scholars who argued over the interpretations and the meaning of the words (from the original sources) that were being translated.  Consequently, opinions of people with egos, theories, religious training, and “agendas” may have distorted the facts recorded in the original documents and then placed in the Bible.  So, what is true?
I do know this; before Deborah and I could be married, we had to obtain permission from the State of Utah to be joined in matrimony by an authorized minister of a religion recognized by the State.  In other words, the marriage ceremony was religious in nature but authorized by a Civil Government—in effect, a civil union with a religious ceremony.
Our nation’s Declaration of Independence proclaims to the world the reasons we are no longer British citizens and our land is no longer British colonies.  It also proclaims that all “men” are created equal and have the inalienable right to pursue happiness.  Our Constitution prohibits discrimination and one of its purposes is to protect the minority from the tyranny of the majority.  Recently, the U.S. Court of Appeal affirmed a lower court’s ruling that the Defense of Marriage Act is unconstitutional because it denies rights to legally married same-sex couples that legally married opposite-sex couples have.  Of course, all of the gay and lesbian community and many in the heterosexual community already knew that, but the bigoted religious extremists continue to spew lies and hatred (anti-Christian behavior).  Isn’t that exactly what we should expect from religions whose preachers are paid by the congregations and who must, therefore, preach what the congregation wants to hear in order to keep their jobs.  After all, no one wants to pay a minister to tell them each week that they are vile sinners and religious bigots.  Jesus never taught a Gospel of hatred, so why do the (so called Christian) extremists?
Preaching a Gospel of hate is not a Christ-like behavior; and when taught to children, constitutes child abuse.  So, why isn’t the government prosecuting for a child abuse hate crime?  When preachers use the pulpit to teach hatred and tell lies about political candidates to influence the votes of their congregations (which is against the law), why isn’t the government revoking their tax-exempt status?  Persecution of gays and lesbians by religious extremists reminds me of the WW2 Nazis of Germany.  Is that where America is heading?  Are the Jews next?
Perhaps Stonewall should not remain just “history.”  Perhaps there should be protest marches on those congregations of “non-Christian” believers who profess Christian values, beliefs, and lifestyle but are, in reality, self-righteous bigots.  If they actually read and understood the Bible’s teachings, they should understand that it condemns their behavior and makes plain their “sins.”  The Book of Matthew, chapter 23, verses 27 & 28 describes and condemns them perfectly; Jesus says,  Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees [the religious bigots/extremists of their time], hypocrites!  For ye are like unto whited sepulchers, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men’s bones, and of all uncleanness.  Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, but within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity.”  I believe we can locate them mostly in the South or in the GOP, but march on them wherever they are found.
That fruitcake preacher who wants to put all gays and lesbians behind a 100-mile electric fence and feed us until we all die natural deaths has the right idea but the wrong target group.  All the preachers and teachers of hate and their supporters and followers should be behind that fence until they all die out.  The world has seen enough hate and it is time for all hate to cease to exist once and for all.  Then, as the song says, maybe everyone can “Sleep in Heavenly peace.”
© 3 June 2012 
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 was sent to live 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 9-11-2001 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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Dancing with the Stars, by Ray S

Thursday morning, God or the Gods in the heavens had their priorities set for the occasion and the sun shone mightily.  
The “house” was packed, it was SRO. The devout, the devoted, those titillated by remembered “tittle-tattle”, all gathered for the celebration of a good friend who had found another path to follow, an everlasting journey, more than likely in a bright red Mercedes with a WARHOL license plate.
The paraphrase of an old Tin Pan Alley tune, “the hip hooray, the ballyhoo, that’s the lullaby of Broadway.”
It was solemn godly, holy, prayerful, and joyous at St. Andrews house this day.
For those of the uninitiated, the opening production was splendid theatre; for the true believers, it was as it should be: elegantly proper and appropriate. It was like an opening night and a closing night combined, and the star was taking his curtain calls.
Memory time recalled a fascinating career in so many public endeavors, the many people and places of a life well lived. A loving family and, of course, the names (and sometimes even the addresses) of scores of friends and their circumstances.
The remembrances offered by friends at Telling Your Story were so very heartfelt. To me, none could have been more poignant than Orville’s “Amen.”
The pomp and circumstance concluded. The mourners are left with their thoughts and grief, or loving joy. On this latter note, I know that there now is a shining new star “Dancing with the Stars.” The houselights have dimmed, the curtain has fallen, this show is over, but his star sparkles brilliantly in the firmament forever.
Goodbye, dear friend.
(Author’s note: Irreverent as I may appear, no disrespect of the Church and its traditions and dogma are meant. It’s just that I knew Randy Wren as a happy, wonderful showman and sensed his love affair with the theatre. Amen.)
© 24 Jul 2017 
About the Author 

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Hooves, by Phillip Hoyle

Hooves are more a fantasy than a reality for me, the sound of hooves on the ground more a live radio show trick than an experience of being near live horses. I guess that is part of my city life upbringing although our city had the grand population of 20,000 and sat in central Kansas. There were real horses nearby.
I remember my grandfather Schmedemann’s team of horses that pulled the hay wagon during bailing. I sat on Grandpa’s wagons and imagined flipping the reins to make those huge animals pull me, but due to their size, I kept my distance. I remember their stalls in the north end of the stock barn and the leather strips they wore on their backs to keep the flies off while they worked. I don’t recall just when they were no longer around, sometime in my mid-childhood, but I’m sure I learned the phrase “sent to the glue factory” around then. I don’t know if it was at all true. I did like their large hooves and the shoes they wore.
I recall real hoof sounds from horses in hometown parades, the Cheyenne Wyoming Frontier Days in 1959, and other parades and rodeos in following years, right up to Denver’s Pridefest Parade I started watching in 1999.
The only horses I actually rode besides the pony in a pony ring at an Estes Park resort were likewise in Colorado years apart, two trail rides. The first when I was a teenager I recall in vivid detail. The trail master shouted, “Pull your reins to the right,” to us not long after we’d begun the climb above the Big Thompson River. I didn’t understand or was too preoccupied with my daydreams not to even have heard him. My horse probably didn’t know that much English or looked to see the trail master. She walked the path several times a day all summer long but that afternoon saw off to our left the small bear that concerned the trail leader. I didn’t know what was going on but remember my horses’ hooves clattering on the rocks as she tried to push ahead of other horses on the trail. That’s when I heard the follow-up command shouted at me. “Hey you, pull your reins to the right,” and to everyone else again, “Don’t let them see the bear.” I did so and finally realized the problem. Both the horse and I were okay. The bear was probably laughing. Of course, I’d never even heard of a laughing bear.
The other ride was with a youth group I led. We were at a resort on Grand Mesa. Most of the kids wanted a trail ride. I joined them and held my very young daughter in my lap. About two minutes into the ride she fell asleep. I held her close to me as we went up and down steep slopes, jerking and jostling with the rhythm of the horse. She slept calmly the whole ride while my arms got very, very tired.
I can still play gallop like we kids did in childhood but I rarely do so these days. My grandkids grew up. I have some great grandkids but don’t know if they will ever want to play horse. Maybe I’ll find out at Christmas.
© 9 October 2017  
About the Author  
Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general, he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com