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How Did I Get Here? by Gillian

How did I get here, to Denver?

The Queen Elisabeth ocean liner and the Greyhound bus.
Why? Because I was madly if secretly in love with a woman who was madly if secretly in love with a young Englishman finishing his Ph. D. at Ann Arbor in Michigan.

I would have followed her anywhere.

We left the port of Southampton on the South coast of England on a pouring wet day, surprise surprise, in October 1964. There were wild storms gathering in the North Atlantic but we were intrepid adventurers caring nothing for weather forecasts. Now at that time the Queen Elizabeth was the largest most luxurious ship afloat and the U.S.A not exactly uncharted territory so we were not quite jumping off into the wilderness, but we were in the spirit of the thing for sure.
This was indeed a magnificent ship and I was truly saddened when, in 1972, it sank ignominiously under mysterious circumstances in Hong Kong Harbor.

But I digress.

The crossing took six days and we had one relatively calm day at each end. The other four days made for one wild ride.
In 1955 “Lizzie,” as she was always affectionately known to the Brits, had been fitted with stabilizers. These cut down the amount of roll by over 50% but, because they head the ship directly into the waves, they increase the vertical displacement. The result, in the bow at least, is the feeling of constantly rising and falling hundreds of feet in an express elevator.

The bow was, of course, where the Third Claass bars and restaurants and ballrooms were located. We were referred to as Steerage passengers, however, because our cabins resided in the stern, within the endless roar of the huge propellers. (Though by that time, the official term had been changed to the more appealing Tourist Class)

1964 Cunard brochure picture

It never occurred to me to resent the luxury and relatively smooth ride of First Class. They could not possibly be having this much fun!

This endless elevator ride got to most passengers sooner or later but a handful of us, the intrepid adventurers, slid happily off our barstools, clambered bravely back on, and watched mesmerized as the huge windows pointed to the sky then sank seemingly forever beneath the water.

Each wave crest was accompanied by rather terrifying shudders and groans from the tortured body of the ship as it rested, horizontal for one moment, before crashing down into the trough.

The several sets of stairs were among our many activities. Going up or down them as they morphed from almost horizontal to vertical was certainly challenging, especially after an hour or two in the bar. Those with deck access were also pouring with water, adding to the overall fun.

I never got sick but my head felt as if it would explode after the first twenty-four hours in that express elevator. Each time we reached the wave’s crest it seemed as if the top of my head was lifted from the rest of my skull, then as we crashed it was pushed down behind my eyes and nose, my neck straining to hold it up.

In the narrow bunk at night invisible springs pushed up in the middle of my back, then a huge weight pressed down on my stomach. It was not conducive to sleep but the previous hours in the pitching bar took care of that.

After two days, the Captain decided we were ready for some variations in entertainment. Apparently, though none of us would have sworn to it, the storm had somewhat abated. We had lost time and, with a schedule to keep, would travel the rest of our way without the stabilizers, enabling us to regain some of that lost time.

I didn’t mention to anyone that my head was grateful for that turn of events, but little did I understand what lay in store.
The elevator rides certainly became less lengthy and a little less speedy, but were now accompanied by drastic sideways rolls seemingly every bit as pronounced as the vertical movements had been.

Serious sea-sickness prevailed.

Meals, for those intrepid explorers still with appetites, were nothing short of a circus. Wooden slats perhaps three inches high had been raised along the table edges to prevent dishes crashing to the pitching, rolling floor.
The Americans among us did reasonably well, grasping their plates in the left hand, their forks in the right, and shoveling in the food with all possible speed.

The Brits were a sad, hungry, helpless lot. We found it genetically impossible to eat without a fork in the let hand and a knife in the right. That left no hand available to retain the plate, which slid forward and back, left and right, at alarming speeds and gave little opportunity to capture your prospective meal. If you were really lucky some gallant American, having wolfed down his repast with comparative ease, would hold your plate for you. Otherwise you simply chased it around the table, knife and fork poised at the ready, as it careened like a pinball around the table.
With the stabilizers retracted and the storm abated, oh ha ha, activities resumed full pace. Can you even imagine playing ping-pong or pool under these conditions? Steerage, sadly, had no swimming pool but I had wonderful visions of swimmers being beached ignominiously on one pool side while the water sloshed back to the other.

The ballroom opened up and the live band played determinedly if rather staggeringly through all the favorite dance tunes. Now this was the age of touchy feely dancing when you actually had a partner whom you touched and, yes, there were proscribed dance steps.

The waltz and the foxtrot, remember them?
Slow, slow, quick quick, slow.

In that ballroom it was more like slow, slow, quick quick quick quick quick as the floor lurched, then wham wham wham against the starboard wall.

Followed by another sequence of slow, slow, quick quick quick quick quick and wham wham wham against the portside wall.

For the intrepid explorers, a laugh a minute!

No, we didn’t end up on Ellis Island but in a cold tin roof shed on Pier 41 with officials giving a perfunctory glance at suitcases and passports. Long before the age of terrorism.
Various jobs in various cities followed, until someone said, as I lamented the hot marshes of Houston, why not go to Denver?

So I did, and found God’s country.

I worked as a waitress at the White Spot café on Colfax, I sold clothes at the brand new May D&F store downtown, I slaved at the PizzaPlenty near DU.

I saved money for my return trip to a gray, still war-torn England.

“IBM’s hiring,” someone said, deftly twirling a pizza crust.
“Up in Boulder. Paying a fortune.”

And a fortune it was. $82 a week I started out at, four times what I had ever made since arriving in this land of opportunity.

I had found a home with beautiful scenery, near perfect climate, and I had a great job.

I never left.

The 1969 postcard I sent my parents upon my arrival in the USA

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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ABCs of Life by Donny Kaye

It seems that life is about mastery. In my mind, Mastery is not to be confused with perfection but rather the ability to actually experience life as it presents, moment-by-moment. Mastery connotes experiencing life effortlessly, without resistance and in the spirit of surrender. By surrender, I am not suggesting submission or irresponsibility.

There was a time when I experienced life in a very black and white manner, with little tolerance at all for the shades of gray that constitute actually living life as it presents. My personality needed knowledge and control to assure me that I was on some predetermined “single” pathway.

There is a part of me that would like to believe that life can be guided by a list such as The ABC’s of Life, however; my experience suggests that about the time I master A, B and C, life requires guidance from X, Y and Z!

If I were to create such a list, the wise one within would begin with ALLOWANCE. As I use the term allowance, I’m not thinking of the seventy-five cents a week for taking out the trash or cleaning off the dishes nightly from the dinner table. Allowance is a pre-requisite of being able to meet life’s challenges just as they present. Allowance is a way of looking at my life events not as obstacles to getting what I want but rather as stepping stones. Allowance cultivates trust. Trust that everything that appears appears as it must. Trust that comes through the experience of allowance, allows for certain things to fall away from my life as well as for certain things to come into my life.

The B in A, B, C, is just that, be! Being is about cultivating a capacity to be present to what is. Being allows for an informed response to what is, rather than the experience of constantly reacting with either agreement or disagreement. The constant reaction to what appears begins to lessen and a true sense of wonder serves as the lens for viewing life’s experiences.

Change is constant, becomes another critical aspect for me in understanding life. I have found that when I am able to surrender to the changes that are life, I am better able to stop resisting and instead, allow what life’s experiences bring to me. Change is constant! What must I do to create the ability to remain flexible in my thinking and my actions? To allow and be, requires flexibility and surrender to the realization that change is inevitable.

My years of experience in this lifetime, and quite possibly, previous life times, make the development of a full list, A-Z daunting and perhaps impossible to create. As an educator, I remember using excerpts with my staff from the book, Everything I Needed to Know, I Learned in Kindergarten.

As I look back on that listing of essential learning from kindergarten, I am reminded of the following ABC’s of Life, by Robert Fulghum:

  • Share everything.
  • Play fair.
  • Don’t hit people.
  • Put things back where you found them.
  • Clean up your own mess.
  • Don’t take things that aren’t yours.
  • Say you’re sorry when you hurt somebody.
  • Wash your hands before you eat.
  • Flush.
  • Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you.
  • Live a balanced life – learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work every day some.
  • Take a nap every afternoon.
  • When you go out in the world, watch out for traffic, hold hands and stick together.
  • Be aware of wonder. Remember the little seed in the Styrofoam cup: the roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody really knows how or why, but we are all like that.
  • Goldfish and hamsters and white mice and even the little seed in the Styrofoam cup – they all die. So do we.

Everything you need to know is in this list of ABC’s somewhere.

And then remember the Dick-and-Jane books and the first word you learned – the biggest word of all – LOOK.

LOOK! I must develop my capacity to witness my life, without bias or expectation, and always with a sense of Wonder for what is. Realizing that “what is” is precisely the life event that is needed for a certain life lesson.

I am not suggesting a naive or Pollyannaish outlook on life but the creation of a life which when viewed by the witness within is viewing the life experience with clarity, through a lens which does not distort, nor color everything as rose colored glasses might.

In David Whyte’s poem, “No Path”, he states in his opening line, “There is no path that goes all the way. Not that it stops us from looking for the full continuation.” To exist with an expanded sense that there is no one way, be it right or even direct, but the experience of life from the perspective that everything belongs is entirely possible and practical.

About the Author

Donny Kaye-Is a native born Denverite. He has lived his life posing as a hetero-sexual male, while always knowing that his sexual orientation was that of a gay male. In recent years he has confronted the pressures of society that forced him into deep denial regarding his sexuality and an experience of living somewhat of a disintegrated life. “I never forgot for a minute that I was what my childhood friends mocked, what I thought my parents would reject and what my loving God supposedly condemned to limitless suffering.” StoryTime at The Center has been essential to assisting him with not only telling the stories of his childhood, adolescence and adulthood but also to merely recall the stories of his past that were covered with lies and repressed in to the deepest corners of his memory. Within the past two years he has “come out” not only to himself but to his wife of four decades, his three children, their partners and countless extended family and friends. Donny is divorced and yet remains closely connected with his family. He lives in the Capitol Hill Community of Denver, in integrity with himself and in a way that has resulted in an experience of more fully realizing integration within his life experiences. He participates in many functions of the GLBTQ community.

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Solitude by Betsy

The joy and the pain of being alone: for me, a lesbian, solitude is the perfect word to apply to the coming out experience. I suppose one could say coming out is a process–an on-going experience–never ending. But I am thinking of the beginning of the process. The early days.

The pain was all-consuming. The pain was around a part of me that was waking up, like the pain in a limb that has been in a cast for months and then suddenly released. I was becoming conscious of the fact that life as I was living it would be emotionally unsustainable for me. I was waking up to the fact that my lifestyle as I knew it would be coming to an end. Now some people might welcome such a happening, but for me there was a pervasive sadness about it. Because my life had been comfortable, I was surrounded by a loving family–husband and three children–friends, and I had a career which was productive and satisfying. Any and all of these things would be seriously threatened by revealing my secret and coming out of that safe, but dark, lonely place called the closet.

All of my relationships at home, socially, and at work were in perfect order. All, that is, but one. My relationship with myself was out of order, unhappy, downright painful. What a lonely place this is. Lonely because I have a secret about myself and I am the only one who is aware of it. Once I consciously acknowledged my sexual orientation, my true state of being, I found myself in a very empty, uninhabitable space even though I was physically surrounded by people I loved or just enjoyed being with. I did not really enjoy being with myself. I longed for another life so very distant from where I was in time and space it seemed. I had to make the journey to that distant place. My life depended on it. I will have to hurt some people initially in order to get there, but I had to take those first steps. Staying here would eventually be even more hurtful for myself and those I love. This is the forsaken, isolated,negative place of solitude.

Solitude is not always a negative place. In 1985 when I had just started the process of coming out of that lonely closet–I signed on to a leadership course with Outward Bound. The course took the form of a ten-day trek through the wilderness of the Canyonlands National Park in Utah. We would travel by foot a distance of about 25 miles. This would require learning some climbing techniques, orienteering, pathfinding, and hiking some days long distances with heavy packs on our backs. Some of the climbs and descents, it turned out, were life-threatening. But we all made it.

Somewhere in the middle of the trek we were to experience three days of solitude. We were each directed to our own isolated location where we would stay for 3 days and 2 nights with a sleeping bag, tarp, enough clothes to keep warm during the chilly nights, enough water for the duration, the clothes on our backs, and a pen and paper. Nothing more. No electronics, no reading, no listening devises, no food.

It was an experience I will never forget. Looking through the notes I made at the time, I am reminded of the lessons learned from the three days of solitude.

1. Even at the age of 50 something, I can sleep on slick rock and be comfortable enough to actually sleep.

2. I am “lost” for a moment upon rising in the morning when my daily routine is absent. No toothbrushing, no coffee making, the program required that I stay in this spot. All this requires a different mind set. I must think about what I am doing here in this place of solitude.

3. It is worth while occasionally to put myself in a different place, perhaps an isolated place such as this, to think about the meaning of my existence and keep a meaningful perspective on life.

4. Busying about is a way of hiding from things I don’t want to deal with and a way of hiding from myself.

5. Security and comfort do have value, but keep them in perspective. Don’t be afraid to take risks and to be my own person.

6. I have no food and I haven’t felt hungry. Conclusion: it is not the empty stomach rather it’s the stimuli (food) that causes this well-fed person to feel hungry.

7. Three days and two nights of solitude in the wilderness is a valuable and unique experience. Don’t forget it.

I normally do not write poetry, I haven’t been inclined to read much poetry.
But in solitude in the wilderness I was inspired to write this:

SOLO

Solo, stop, sit, sleep
Don’t busy about
Nothing to be busy about
It’s time for a drink
It’s time to think
Our lives are in this canyon land
We will leave them here
We will take a new route
Back to the old

So solitude can provide for a beautiful place offering a positive experience or it can be a dark, painful place of misery. In either case both solitudes had great value for me. The result was that my life improved. The lesson from those experiences for me, a person who does not spend a lot of time alone is: savor and value your time alone and use it wisely.

9-23-13

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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The Party by Will Stanton

The Party, Part 1 of 2

My 16th birthday.
No mention.
No gifts.
No guests.
No party.
No recognition.

No love.

The Party, Part 2

Later, a different time, a different place.
My partner arranged a party.
A celebration in our home.
A dozen friends attending.
Birthday cards, some affectionate, some humorous.
All dressed up, dinner for all at a French restaurant.

Camaraderie, friendship, and happiness.
A gift presented.

And the greatest gift of all, love.

© 1 January 2013

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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Elder Experiences by Ricky

When I was a young boy, parents and teachers always were giving orders some of which were demanded by society of that era. Parents and teachers both believed they were giving sound and correct instruction or at best directions on how to survive family and school life without receiving any physical pain as a result of not heeding their words; corporal punishment still being in vogue. Some youths were naïve enough to believe everything their parents or teachers would tell them. Of course those youths never got into trouble, but they did pick up some quite erroneous views of the world. Those of us who were skeptical about what the adults were saying learned the hard way the difference between an order and good advice; but we also learned early-on in life that not everything we were told was true.

I was definitely one of those who was smart enough to know some things I was told simply did not make any sense. Unfortunately, I was not smart enough to avoid pointing this out to the adults in control of my life so I received many physical corrections until I learned to keep my mouth shut… which I never did. What I did learn was to not say anything loud enough to be heard…sometimes.

Like many children of that era, I was constantly reminded whenever I would “screw-up” that I must always, “listen to your elders.” Naturally being a smart ass even at 4 or 5 years old, I just had to ask, “What’s an elder?” I was politely told that it was someone older than I was. I gave it a brief thought and then asked, “How much older?” They were not amused. I was finally told how much older after the spanking for mouthing-off to my father. I was not amused by the irony.
Also at a very young age I was taught, or so they thought, to eat everything on my dinner plate and become a member of the “clean plate club;” not to be confused with the Mickey Mouse Club, although they expected me to believe there really was a “clean plate club” and it would be nice to be a member. So I listened to them and obeyed. I enjoyed being a member of this club for a long time until that fateful day when I decided to voice my opinion (justifiably based on my gag reflex) that sometimes it just wasn’t possible to maintain membership each and every day based upon what exactly was placed on one’s plate.

That day was the first time big chunks of stewed tomatoes were presented for my taste buds to enjoy. I took one chunk and began to chew and swallow, when to my surprise and consternation, I nearly threw up as the mashed chunk made a valiant effort to slide down my throat which was trying very hard to close off and deny entry. I definitely did not want to make a mess so I desperately made the supreme effort and forced the offending blob to go down, but my throat didn’t like to be forced to obey one little bit. Therefore, in an extremely short time it notified my brain that it was through taking orders from me concerning swallowing stew tomato chunks; my brain duly noted the rebellion and notified me that it would be very prudent to refrain from eating any more of them. I readily agreed. This whole event took no more than 8 seconds from start to what I instantly planned to be the finish; closed book; a done deal. Boy was I in for a nasty surprise.

My super intelligent adults sitting at the same dinner table happened to notice the look on my face as I was facing this challenge and one of them leaping to an obvious conclusion said, “Is there something wrong?” Refusing to follow my first instinct of “keeping my mouth shut” to avoid punishment, I plowed ahead oblivious to the danger and told them that the stewed tomato chunks make me want to throw up. In their I-am-your-elder-voice I was told it couldn’t be true because I loved sliced tomatoes plain, with salt, or with sugar. Not only that, but I loved tomato catsup, tomato juice and tomato soup. All they said about liking tomatoes was true, but I could not understand why they did not believe me about gagging.

Consequently, in a display of their superior elder-wisdom and by virtue of their position of authority, I was told that I must clean my plate anyway. They then returned to eating their dinner and I sadly returned to eating mine. After they were done and I only had the offending large pile of stewed tomatoes left (well it was really only about four large chunks) I protested again and even resorted to some tears, but to no avail. Resigned to my fate I valiantly managed to eat two more pieces.

Little did I know that those two pieces strengthened my throat’s determination to stay closed and weakened my ability to force the issue. My brain just watched from the sidelines watching the battle between reflex and will power. Just eating those two pieces took me about seven or eight minutes and my elders expressed their opinions: first that they were right I could really swallow them, and second that I was just stalling, and third to hurry up as it was past my bed time. I put the second to the last piece in my mouth, chewed a bit and swallowed. At this point reflex overcame will power and my entire dinner returned to my plate.

The elders learned three things that night: their “wisdom” just might be flawed; they could still learn some things even if from a child (I was their first born so they really did have a lot to learn about kids); and that father does not always know best. From that night on I was never again forced to eat anything I didn’t want to eat. I learned that I could win a battle of wills, if I was in the right, which thinking still led me into trouble because I never learned which battles that I was on the right side of until I was old enough to leave home by joining the military.

Having won the “food fight” on a major technicality, I gave in to the next food issue which came up shortly thereafter. My family would frequently spend the evening with my dad’s sister’s family which included dinner. I had already had issues with the types of vegetables my aunt would serve; namely yellow squash and green beans. Now these two foods did not make me gag but to me the taste and texture was disgusting, which is probably a contributing factor in my elders refusal to believe me about my gagging over stewed tomatoes.

My parents and I had a few dinner table discussions about this during previous visits. After the above event, I was told that I didn’t have to eat all the green beans and squash, but I must eat at least one “bite” of squash and one green bean and to push the stuff around a little, occasionally, to make it appear that I’m interested in eating it. I did listen to them this time figuring winning one out of two was a pretty good split and I knew that the green bean and squash would not make me “sick”. I also liked the idea of fooling my aunt about liking what she fed me. So the elders and I both learned to compromise, but I didn’t realize it until I was much older.

12/5/2013

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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A Place Just Right by Phillip Hoyle


In contrast to some other members of my family, I’ve never been over-attached to any one place, for to be so seems somehow contrary to my nature. But one time I found myself living in a place just right. It happened when I moved with my family to Albuquerque, New Mexico. There I discovered a small city large enough to explore, exotic for me in its social and cultural mix, with an Old town that took me away from the day-to-day by offering me a world of fantasy and comfort. A city of visual contrasts including mountains, deserts, volcano cinder cones, lava flows, ancient peoples, Territorial and Pueblo revival architecture, an 18th century church dedicated to San Felipe de Neri, tall modern buildings, US Route 66 running right through its middle, home of the University of New Mexico with its Lobos. A city of museums, festivals, sports, arts, and more, Albuquerque hosted the annual Balloon Festival, but more than that, hot air balloons drifted over the city whenever the conditions were just right and they often were. And Albuquerque was home to the New Mexico State Fair with all the things one might expect from a Midwestern fair plus a strong Native American and Hispanic American presence.

And people just loved living there. And I was there in the right city working in the right church. Close to the university and just a block off Route 66, that church had become more democratic than any I’d ever worked in. A liberal and educated perspective dominated, and I fit in there having found a place and job that seemed just right.

In Albuquerque I could exercise my western and Indian fantasies, view art every day, enjoy mild weather, and eat green chilies regularly. And I moved there at just the right time of my life, when our children were ready to desert the nest and fly away. So Myrna and I were left alone with a wonderland to wander and explore. And we did so: two stepping our way through a cowboy world, running around with several groups of colorful friends, experiencing a diversity of activities and relationships we had never before found. The dynamic of the two of us discovering activities together was a most important factor in my feeling that I was in a place just right.

Something fine happened to me there in Albuquerque, yes something delightful and very costly to the new camaraderie Myrna and I were beginning to enjoy. I turned and turned like a Shaking Quaker until I found a place just right for me on the Kinsey scale. I was no longer worried over the concept of the scale—you know, the science of it all—but began celebrating my position between its #3 and #4 markers. Concepts were still present, of course, after all this is my story. I looked at the scale like a preference of conscious ego states on the Jungian-based Myers-Briggs Type Indicator and in my preferred bisexual place connected with my friend Ronnie and then with another man. The affairs were meant only to be “additions to the report” of my life, certainly not “a correction” to it. But there I was feeling all just right with myself and my buddies. The affairs ended when I left New Mexico but the feelings accompanied me to Colorado and eventually to Oklahoma and pushed me into a life away from my family. I had been to a place just right and nothing else felt like home. Oh, by this I do not mean Kansas where I grew up, not that kind of starry-eyed “There’s no place like home,” but rather, some other place just right, a relationship within me and with the rest of the world. And that feeling continues in various and exciting modes in Denver, my new place just right. And even in this board room at the GLBT Community Center of Colorado where when gathered with the other storytellers each Monday afternoon, I feel just right. Yes, a place just right.


Denver, July 8, 2013

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen practicing massage, he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists and volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot

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To My Younger Self by Nicholas

Frequently, I have conversations with myself. This is one I imagined between myself now and myself prior to coming out. It’s kind of a distillation of thoughts and counter-thoughts that occurred years ago or last month or yesterday. It’s a dialogue for one person.

Remember those walks we took, long meditative walks through the leafy, green forests of Ohio where the ground was wet and the air was wet with summer heat and I felt free, I said?
We spent hours walking softly through the soft shade of the soft forest just taking in the quiet, said he.
And i: You always had an independent streak, like the day you took off on your bike to crash through the neighborhood boundary and go riding through other neighborhoods in the city.
And he: You later took that desire for independence out into the world, to get out, to seek out, to discover and explore.
And i: We went into the city, we rode the Rapid into downtown, we went places to look at books and eat ice cream.
And he: You were courageous.
And i: That was courage?
And he: You didn’t have to.
And i: You were curious. Alone but always curious.
And he: But independence turned into loneliness, unloved and unloving, on my own. Things could be different.
And i: Yes, things could be different. I came to my senses, finally coming to myself. Yes, I had to.
And he: Eager to join the world, not just travel through it.
And i: I started seeing meanings and patterns that told me who I was, why I was, and who we were. I was brought up to see meaning, to find meaning, and suddenly it was there.
And he: It was a busy time, full of thoughts and actions never before taken or taken seriously. Hush, I said, listen, don’t talk, be quiet.
And i: We went to the woods and the river.
And he: I found release. Release to be a kid and play and release to grow up and own it. To make decisions and own them and own what followed.
And i: I found love, to be loved and to be loving.
And he: And I found love where I hadn’t thought it could be found before.
And i: Coming out was really a coming into: coming into love, relationships, fun, community, history.
And he: You won’t leave me now, will you?
And i: I won’t leave you and you won’t leave me because I can’t leave you and you can’t leave me.
—An homage to William Faulkner

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.

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House Cleaning by Michael King

I don’t clean house! I did have a housekeeper when I was working. One of the great surprises was when my last wife and I separated and I got an apartment. It took a few days for it to dawn on me that everything would be just as I left it. No one cleaned up after me. This was quite an awakening. I had never cleaned house and didn’t know how. I’m quite capable of making a mess and do so often. Merlyn keeps his apartment almost like a showroom. I wondered why it didn’t bother him more when my place would become a mess until he told me that the woman that he lived with for twenty-eight years wasn’t a very good housekeeper.

I‘m really not as bad as I used to be, I do dishes while cooking, somewhat keep the things picked up especially in the living/dining area and don’t let the bathroom get too bad. The chair in the bedroom, however, often has coats, sweaters shirts, pant, socks, etc. piled high with a few that have fallen onto the rug. I usually get that mess taken care of when I do laundry.

In the apartment building where I live the management does inspections of the fire alarms, the faucets, doors, stove, fan, plumbing and whatever is on their list. The apartment needs to be clean, so fortunately since these inspections occur every few months for one thing or another, I usually have a somewhat presentable home. It seldom takes more than 30 minutes to whip it in place except when they do the maintenance and annual inspections where they might look in the closet where I shove everything that I don’t know where else to put them. Now that is not unclean, just one hell of a mess.

Merlyn knows better than to clean up after me. He is so wise. However when it’s time to get everything up to snuff for either a major inspection or the family coming over or some special guests, he pitches in and we move the furniture to vacuum and then I dust and tidy while he helps with the bath or moping the kitchen. It doesn’t take long. With the bed made I don’t feel like I can relax in my own home. I love to prop up a half dozen pillows and lounge in the bedroom either writing, figuring, watching TV or just relaxing. The result of that messes up the whole image.

Now I know the difference between housekeeping, house cleaning and putting on a show. I only put on a show and only then when I feel I have to. I am aware I feel more comfortable when my surroundings look lived in but beautiful and with some since of order. I want everything to fit in its place, every chair at just the right angle and so on.

Now with this cleaning thing, I only use Dawn Dish Liquid to clean everything except for Windex and once in awhile Spic-n-Span. I am very sensitive to the scents used in most cleaning products. I must use a special laundry detergent or I break out with hives. With many cleansers I have breathing problems. So does Merlyn. I like a clean environment but not the smell of one. And I definitely don’t want a bad odor. I like to air out the apartment and if I want to create a pleasant aroma I’ll boil ginger or cinnamon or cook something that smells nice.

Since house cleaning is something I wish I could afford to not have to think about once I’ve properly instructed the professional on all the peculiarities I have. But I don’t have that luxury and if I did I might lose my privacy and have to wear clothing and then I’d have to hide the toys and the porn and who knows what else.

Other than absolutely necessary I don’t clean house.

© 31 March 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.

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The Shooters: A book review by Louis

Telling Your Story theme of the day: Reading

Plot Summary of The Shooters (2008) by W. E. B. Griffi,

Genre: International spy thriller

Style of writing: soap opera, episodes based on quickly shifting scenes.

Carlos Castillo was an officer in the Department of Homeland Security. Then there was a Presidential Finding that authorized the setting up of another agency, the Office of Organizational Analysis in reaction to the assassination of some important ambassadors in Uruguay, Paraguay and Argentina, one of whom was Ambassador Jack Masteson. Carlos Castillo’s middle name is Guillermo. He is the son of Jorge2 Castillo who, when he was stationed in Germany in the U. S. Army, had sex with a German woman who later became pregnant. J2C did not know she was pregnant and was shipped off to Vietnam where he died in combat.

12 years passed and the unnamed mother of Carlos learned she was soon going to die of pancreatic cancer. She goes to local army base and inquires about Jorge2 Castillo’s whereabouts. She learns he died in combat in Vietnam. For his first twelve years Carlos Guillermo3 Castillo was named Karl Wilhelm3 zu und von Gossinger. In other words, he was a German boy growing up in Germany in an impoverished German aristocratic family. Even when he was older, he was blond and fair-skinned, Nordic. Still he was half “Texican,” the grandson of Juan (Don)1 Castillo and Doña Alicia Castillo. A “Texican” means a native of Texas whose ancestry is Mexican especially those who were living in Texas when Texas was still part of Mexico.

Don Fernando1 Castillo was wealthy and owned a Learjet, that is, he was also an airplane pilot.

When Karl Wilhelm’s mother contacted this elderly Texican couple, Doña Alicia flew to Germany and met her grandson whose existence she did know of until then. Karl’s mother was bedridden. Karl’s impoverished German family could not really help him. Of course, Karl was technically illegitimate and was a minor embarrassment. Dona Alicia took right over, took good care of Karl and dying mother. Once mother died, Doña Alicia brought Karl back to Texas where he was of course renamed Carlos Guillermo3 Castillo and where he spent the rest of his childhood, that is, in San Antonio, Texas.

As a result of his childhood in Germany and his subsequent service in U. S. military, CG3C speaks English, German but also Hungarian. As an adult, CG3C worked in the American military, he was a Gulfstream airplane pilot, and all his colleagues called him Charlie. Many other characters in the novel have first name Charles or Charlie. So when reader reads Charlie said this or that, he has to be aware of which Charlie is being referenced (which can get complicated). One of CG3C’s colleagues, Alfredo Munz, is German, so he calls CG3C “Karl”. Other of his colleagues call him “Ace.” Reader gets confused.

Before entering military service in the U. S. Army, CG3C went to West Point as a cadet. He and a fellow cadet, named Randolph Richardson, let’s call him RRIII, frequently played dirty tricks on one another. This led to a serious dispute between the two that resulted in a hearing before the Cadet Honor System Tribunal. RRIII lost his case but never forgave CG3C and his cohorts. And vice versa.
Later CG3C went to Fort Rucker, Alabama, to learn how to fly an updated version of the Gulfstream super airplane and again met RRIII and his fiancée, Bethany2 Wilson, daughter of Harry Wilson, deputy commander at Fort Rucker, Harry Wilson had an important connection with CG3C and that was that he was copilot in the Vietnam War with CG3C’s father, Jorge2 Castillo. The name of Bethany2 Wilson’s mother was Bethany1 Wilson. Both women called themselves “Beth” just to confuse the poor reader even further. B2W and CG3C were of course at odds with one another since her future husband and CG3C would never really get along with each other and she sided with her future husband, RRIII. After a while, however, CG3C and his colleague, TomPrentiss, recounted his biography to B2W and she was so impressed, let her guard down, and she started getting attracted physically to CG3C and eventually had sex with him. They were both of course hush-hush about their romantic interlude, their tryst.

Once the Office of Organizational Analysis was set up, CG3C was sent to Uruguay to protect the Masterson family. Jack Masterson a U. S. ambassador to Uruguay was assassinated in a massacre that took place on the Estancia Shangri La, located in central Uruguay and owned originally by Jean-Phillippe Lorimer, the son of another retired Ambassador who later on in the novel went down to Uruguay to live in his late son’s estate, estancia, despite OAA’s opposition. His son had been assassinated. Presumably, all these assassinations were committed by drug lords.

The novel does not discuss specifically how CG3C was held accountable for his technically unsuccessful task of protecting the Masterson family. He was sitting with his innumerable colleagues in a safe house, a mansion in the Pilar suburb of Buenos Aires, called Nuestra Pequeña Casa. It had originally been purchased and set up by two CIA agents, Paul and Susanna Sieno. While he and his colleagues were sitting in the quincho (a sort of fenced in patio), assuming they were operating in complete secrecy, CG3C’s dog Max detects the presence of an intruder, Colonel Jacob (Jake) Torine, a black U. S. Air Force Colonel who tells them he and a significant number of local U. S. Air Force personnel inferred why and how CG3C’s “secret” operation was all about. CG3C and company were horrified that their so-called secret operation was virtually public knowledge. A bit later, Colonel Jake Torine was inducted as another officer of OOA. Torine was actually motivated to ask for CG3C’s assistance in preventing harassment of his fellow USAF personnel by drug lords.

Once Torine showed them that their operation was not all that secret, they had to return to another safe house in Alexandria, VA. Once things cooled off, they returned to Nuestra Pequeña Casa. CG3C and company, that is, the Office of Organizational Analysis, were sent back to Argentina, to Nuestra Pequeña Casa, safe house, to retrieve Byron J.3 Timmons, the grandson of Byron Timmons Sr. who was a close friend of the unnamed POTUS, and POTUS owed him a favor. Byron Timmons Sr. was a retired chief of police of the Chicago Police Department. BJ3T had been kidnapped by local drug lords, tied up in a secret location with two other Uruguayan anti-drug police officers. 
Until recently, the drug lords never killed drug enforcement or any other law enforcement officers in Argentina, Uruguay and Paraguay. BJ3T with two anti-drug trafficking Uruguayan police officers were turned by their kidnappers into drug addicts themselves. The three were tied up with hands over head to a cable above their heads and were injected intraveneously at regular intervals with heroïne.

During the course of the novel, after much hopping from air base to air base, CG3C returns to Fort Rucker, Alabama, and, in order to observe the damage wrought by Hurricane Katrina along the gulf coast, jumps in an airplane, accompanied by RRIV, son of RRIII, and RRIII’s father-in-law, Commander Harry1 Wilson. They fly east first along the southern coast of Alabama then the Florida pan-handle coast. CG3C even lets the 8 year old RR-IV pilot the airplane for a few minutes, of course under his close supervision. One of CG3C’s colleagues takes a picture of this outing on one of his cell phone photography devices.

On this reconnaissance flight were CG3C, RR-IV, Niedermeyer (one of CG3C’s colleagues), Commander Harry Wilson, RR-IV’s maternal grandfather. Later Niedermeyer shows the photos to CG3C, and RR-IV uncannily looks a lot like CG3C. Coup de foudre, CG3C realizes he is RR-IV’s real father, and RRIII does not even know or suspect the truth. If he did know or find out, then what? CG3C writes a report on what he found out in an encrypted message to himself on his laptop. His grandmother, his abuela, Doña Alicia Castillo nagged him about not having a family. Little does she know she has a great grandson. RR-IV is of course the result of CG3C’s romantic interlude with Beth2 Wilson, and Commander Harry1 Wilson is not aware either of his grandson’s actual paternity.

CG3C’s superior is General Bruce J. McNab at Fort Bragg in North Carolina, but CG3C is given so much leeway and independence that General McNab’s input into the plot is minimal. CG3C is actually directly responsible to unnamed POTUS. To reiterate, the OOA or Office of Organizational Analysis was set up in response to the Presidential Finding which gives it legal authorization to set up clandestine operations on foreign soil. The Presidential Finding came into being as a reaction to the assassination of U. S. Ambassador to Argentina, Jack Masterson.

CG3C recommends that a fleet of Huey helicopters, being kept originally in Fort Rucker, Alabama, be flown to Jacksonville, Florida, where they were to be landed on an aircraft carrier, the Ronald Reagan. Once on the Ronald Reagan, they could be transported to a certain point off the coast of Uruguay. Three different officials are hostile to CG3C’s mission, and they are Milton Weiss of the CIA who feels CG3C’s mission is going to interfere with his mission of interdicting illicit drug sales in Argentina, Uruguay and Paraguay. Eventually these illicit drugs, mainly heroïne, are smuggled inside of cruise ships. CG3C requests permission from José Ordoñez, Uruguayan Policía Nacional Chief Inspector who tells him, in so many words, that he would rather that he, CG3C, and his operation stay out of Uruguay altogether, but he does not enforce his real wishes, and CG3C is able to plan to refuel his Huey helicopters in the Lorimer estate in central Uruguay, the Estancia Shangri La, which previously was the seen of a massacre one of the victims being Ambassador Jack Masterson. His other 3rd nemesis is Liam Duffy, Commandant of the Argentine Gendarmería Nacional, some of whose anti-drug police operatives had recently been assassinated by drug lords. Duffy was originally an Irish cop from Brooklyn, NY. He would rather CG3C and his operation not conduct business in Argentina at all.

To make a long story short, OOA does send in the helicopters and rescue the three anti-drug police agents, including Byron3 Timmons. He had been turned into a drug addict, but was subsequently detoxed.

Moral of story: Despite one’s intense desire to act on one’s patriotic instincts and on one’s general need to enforce the law and out manuever criminals, in this case, South American drug lords, one’s efforts can be foiled by human foibles, politics and in-fighting inside the establishment of the powers that be. CG3C does triumph in the end, however.

9-26-13

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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Solitude by Lewis

Solitude is not a condition of being but a state-of-mind. Sometimes, all that is needed to achieve solitude is to close my eyes and turn my focus inward, much like meditation. It can be done in elevators, doctors’ offices, and even in the waiting room of the Bureau of Licensing office for the Secretary of State. About the only time I don’t engage in the practice is when driving. (Solitude and traffic do not mix well, whether you are driving, biking, or walking.)

There is a womb inside of me where my feelings go to grow. Feelings need nurturing, much as a baby does. When ignored–that is, not cuddled, stroked, doted upon–they fail to thrive and even fester. When listened to, coddled and swaddled, they can provide a ray of light to penetrate the forest of everyday existence. When deprived of such nurturance, they cause me to lose focus, feel disconnected with what really matters, and can even lead to self-abuse.

There is no external salve for the soul that can substitute for solitude–not alcohol, nor drugs, nor hyper-activity. Jesus said, “When you pray, do not stand on a street corner and make loud noises; instead, go into a closet and do it quietly.” It is when I am alone with my thoughts and feelings that I feel closest to the divine.

September 23, 2013

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and 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.