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Consequence, by Ray S

Since the
beginning of time for the little I know, there have always been untold numbers
of situations that resulted in serious consequence to the doer or the doee.
Doubtless you may have a few situations of your own that might need to be kept
secret, or some sort of cleansing-emotional confession. So goes the state of
consequence = GUILT.
There are
some old tired consequences such as the ones found in the King James book or
the Talmud and the warnings by Nostradamus. “Watch out or there’ll be hell to
pay.” Think about your ticket and fine for overtime parking. Can you still be
sued for breach of promise? What about divorce or wedding vows?
Look what’s
happened to good old boys and locker room parlance. Here’s the question: when is
it sexual harassment and when is it dirty conversation between consenting
parties? What constituted sexual harassment of the male gender, present company
excluded or may be included—it depends on who, what, and when, and of course,
maybe?
The devil’s
in the details-how many times have we been beseeched to “REPENT” for the end is
coming? And don’t forget the little red warning light that comes on with the
message CHECK ENGINE, or EMPTY.
Presently
we citizen’s who are registered to vote in this November’s presidential
election are faced with some truly numbing consequences. But fear not because
our shining peroxide white knight has this ‘fixed’ election all wrapped up. You
can’t go wrong with Mr. Putin’s gang working the computers and the Fox Network
and Donald’s “fact finders” grinding out more lies, lies, lies. Oh sorry, I got
the wrong candidate, but that’s alright because the new Attorney General will
take care of those consequences.
About
global warming—another lie, and if some insignificant foreign second-rate NATO
countries do have a little seacoast shrinkage, we will threaten Russia to stop
producing nuclear and start shoveling Siberia into the Pacific Ocean to cool
things down.
What are
the consequences of all these lies about a little friendly groping? It was
pretty convincing preceding the last debate with the happy maidens attesting to
it was “Just like one big happy family.”
To top that
bit of showmanship, the Donald will present to the USA a joyful, giggling group
of 426 previous contestants of Trump reality TV shows. They will bear witness
to what has been sanctimoniously labeled sexual harassment by ship-jumping
party members; they all were extremely pleased and somewhat aroused by the
candidate’s attentions. Their payoff will be front step seats at the Trumpian
Coronation.
Every day
it gets more exciting. It has become a huge game of “Truth or Dare.” Hold on to
your bikini, Sister. Or better yet, “Truth or Consequences” and guess what?
This time no one tells the truth and every one of us gets the consequences.
P.S. do you have a valid passport for Canada?
© 17 October
2016
About the Author 

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Life before Ice, by Phillip Hoyle

It’s no
wonder Mom was happy to live in town where almost everyone had electricity in
their homes. Not so on the farm where she grew up just ten miles south of
Junction City.
When Mom
moved into town to attend high school, she entered a new world of running water
in kitchen and bath, flush stools inside the house, electric lights in every
room, natural gas stoves and heating systems, and refrigerators that could even
make ice. No wonder to me that she never wanted to return to the farm except to
visit her folks. And when she was being courted by a young man who wrote for a
newspaper, was buying into his father’s grocery store (that wonderful citified
substitute for a farm garden and fields), played the piano like a dream
(classical, church, and jazz), and sang with expression and in tune, it looked
like her life could become one of relative ease, say contrasted with her
mother’s.
In town Mom
could have ice every day—winter and summer: iced coffee (which she abhorred),
iced tea (great with meals in summer), and iced cream (need one say more?). She
could quickly get ice onto a burn, bruise, or swelling should a child need it,
and make better whipped cream by beating it in a bowl surrounded with ice, on
and on. And should she see a need for a large quantity of ice for any reason,
she could simply call the local Ice House and the Ice Man would show up to
deliver the size and style of ice needed. It took me years to understand any of
this; in fact, I just figured it out this year, 2016, my 69th year,
when I started writing about my early childhood.
My great
grandparents on both sides of the family rarely had ice and certainly had no
electricity in their homes. My grandparents grew up without electricity but
fortunately got some when the Hoyle’s moved from Dwight to Junction City,
Kansas in the 1920s and when the Schmedemann’s greeted the national rural
electrification program to Clarks Creek in 1947—the year I was born. I’m sure
the same was true of my rural Colorado in-laws as well. To my amazement, my
mother-in-law used to eat crushed ice a lot, even had her own ice crusher to
make it. For her the habit may have been some kind of celebration of what she
had missed in childhood and probably kept alive the hope that she might someday
retire to life in town. Eventually she did so and kept enjoying her shredded
ice.
My family
was lucky to have a refrigerator with a freezer compartment. It was rather new,
probably purchased the same year I was born. I say this because the folks’ old
refrigerator, a small one with a very small ice maker near the top, went out to
my maternal grandparents’ farm. Their lives surely got easier. By the time I
could make sense of anything, we in town were living high with running water,
city sewage, electricity, natural gas heat, a gas range and oven, a swamp
cooler, and a refrigerator with a freezer unit. This was luxury in our town.
Ice was made in cubes at home using trays with movable grids. Pull up the
handle and out pops the ice cubes, but watch out; they might be all over the
floor. Or you might have trouble getting them out at all. That’s when we’d run
water over them to begin the melting.
I take it
all for granted and do so love my Monday bowl of Guinness Ice Cream with
chocolate chunks, but that could be for the enjoyment of the ale flavor and
that of my favorite candy.
© 5 Dec 2016  
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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My LGBTQ Hopes for 2017, Pat Gourley

At first blush my most
important Queer hope for 2017, and that would stretch to 2020, is that Donald
Trump remains the president. No, I haven’t lost my mind. I am very aware of
what a terrible indictment he, and his election, is of the tattered state of
our democracy. Though he is certainly racist, xenophobic and sexist in the most
despicable of ways his attitude toward LGBTQ folk was certainly muted during
the 2016 campaign.
If we loose Trump through
impeachment, early retirement or most likely a big myocardial infarction that
leaves us with Mike Pence. In addition to the negative qualities attributed
above to Trump we get a toxic dose of homophobia. Pence truly scares me. At
least with Trump I do on rare occasions see very human expressions on his face.
He is malleable around most things except perhaps his ingrained sexism. Pence,
on the other hand, is a zealot and I see in his steely gaze a real hatred for
all things Queer, feminist and just plain other. Catholic fundamentalism is
truly something to fear.
My second hope for 2017
is that we LGBTQ people do not further abandon our strong and to date very
productive sense of queer identity. Identity politics, fueled of course by the
powerful coming out process, has been at the root of our success. This has been
success, not only through self-acceptance in the form of our own internally
vanquished homophobia, but also success in the form of an emerging place at the
table of society at large. 
The main hurdle has
always been overcoming our own internalized homophobia.  The key to this has been a realization on a soul
level that we are different in many ways and that these unique traits are gifts.
We can and do exploit and extrapolate these differences to the larger society for
a profound mutual benefit. Harry Hay had it absolutely right in asking his
three questions of the early Mattachine: who are we, where do we come from, and
what are we for. Finding the answers to these questions is not a finite task
but an ongoing process that continues to evolve to our benefit and that of all
sentient beings.
My third and last hope
for 2017 is that our Story Telling group continues to thrive. Our sincere
participation in this group really is in part the antidote and juice we need to
steal our resistance in the coming Trump years. Whether we want to openly own
it or not our participation in this group is a revolutionary act that is soul
food for our ever-evolving queer identities.
Recent proof of the power
of this Story Telling collective of LGBTQ folks was the memorial for our friend
and comrade Stephen Krauss. The event was attended by a variety of individuals
and groups all of whom had been important in Stephens’ life. The Story Telling
group may well have been the most recent group he was a part of in his 70 odd
years.
The group was very well
represented at the memorial and I thought provided a loving and a very purple
patina to the whole event. Thoughts expressed by Gillian and Betsy and the
powerful readings by Lewis and John were all heart-felt testaments to how
quickly we as a group have come together in just a matter of a few short years.
It is one of our many queer gifts, our ability to coalesce quickly when the
space to do so is available, through shared life experiences, into a vibrant
and a truly supportive community. I sincerely hope this continues to grow and
thrive in 2017.
© January 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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Flowers, by Nicholas

I find flowers amazing. They appear delicate but yet can be
strong and resilient. Their shapes and colors vary wildly from the palest
shades to the brightest hews. I have tulips in my yard that are pure white and
some that are so deep a purple as to appear black.
I trace the progress of the season through flowers, what’s in
bloom, what is preparing flowers stalks and buds, and what has finished. Already
I have spotted tiny leaves breaking through the ground in my yard. Within weeks
flowers will appear.
When I lived in San Francisco, I marked the beginning of
spring with appearance in late February of the plum tree blossoms in Golden
Gate Park. Any day now, their pale pink flowers will appear breaking the dreary
coastal winter with their delicate brightness.
Here in Colorado, at the lower elevations, it is the
brilliant yellow of the forsythia that dares to announce Spring. Even though we
have many more weeks of winter, maybe even the worst of winter, ahead, these
tiny flowers will soon appear. I have two forsythia bushes in my yard. The
early one will show blossoms by the first of March. The other one is later by
about a month.
Around St. Patrick’s Day, I will uncover the planter boxes on
the porch and plant pansies with their delightful array of purples, yellows,
oranges, burgundies and splashes of white to brighten those late winter days.
Pansies love the cold and are beautiful in the snow. It’s the summer heat that
will kill them off.
Then some early daffodils will appear, starting what I call
their annual “death march.” I don’t know why this variety shows up so early only
to face hard freezes and heavy snow. But they persist and eventually bloom in
time for a spring snow to crush them. The snow won’t kill them, just bury them.
Fortunately, I also have later varieties with the good sense to wait until the
weather is more favorable.
Tulips are beginning to show up but they seem more patient
and wait out the winter weather to bloom later. A little bit of snow heightens
the brilliance of the colors in bloom. But it doesn’t take much to push them
all to the ground.
When it is safe to come out in late spring, the cherry tree
will overnight burst into white blossoms. And then the iris will show up. When
I was a kid, we called them flags because they bloomed around Memorial Day.
Maybe because of climate change, my iris seem to be almost finished by the end
of May.
Soon the roses will appear and the first bloom is always the
best. My favorite is the bright red rose near the back door.
When the warmth of spring begins to turn into the heat of
summer, the hawthorn trees flower. The white flowers are pretty but they,
frankly, stink. For two weeks, my backyard will smell of rotten fruit. However,
the bees love these malodorous blooms and the yard will hum with the buzzing of
thousands of bees harvesting what must be rich nectar.
All summer, my garden will be full of bees attracted to the
flowers on the herbs I grow. I use the oregano, sage, chives and thyme from the
garden but I think the bees get more use of my herbs. The little yellow arugula
flowers seem to be especial favorites.
I think climate change has altered the flowering time for the
lilies. They used to be a late summer flower with their oranges and yellows.
But now, it seems that they bloom by early July and are finished before August.
Maybe it’s the dry heat of Colorado, but late summer sees a lull in flowers.
And then in September, some come back to life—like the hot pinks and reds of
the impatiens—and bloom again before the cold returns.
Fall brings its own colors as the plumbago produces its
cobalt blue flowers along the front walk. And I know what time of year it is by
the shade of the sedum. Early summer, its flowers are white. Gradually, the
color turns to a pale pink. And in the fall, they deepen to a dark red and then
rust. It’s amazing to watch this one flower change color over time.
So, that’s the year in flowers in my yard.
© 13 Jun 17 
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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Why Donald Trump getting elected POTUS is not the Apocalypse or End of Days, as so many liberals claim, by Louis Brown

(1)                       
Most Democratic politicians and rank and
file Dems. Are “devastated” by DT’s victory. I’m not.
(2)                       
When I could not vote for Bernie Sanders,
I chose Jill Stein. But even she is overreacting in her revulsion for DT
(3)                       
DT claimed, for example, he is going to
impose tariffs on products, especially on automobiles that are imported here
from foreign countries especially when those products could/should have been
produced here. Buy American!
(4)                       
The allegedly pro-Labor Democrats claim
that protectionism is in the long run counterproductive because it impedes free
trade. Well, yes, when so-called free trade makes companies profitable, which
it does do, 99.9% of the profits, however, go to the upper 1/10 of 1% of the
population. The American working class gets unemployed and impoverished on a
massive scale.
(5)                       
Also, DT has hinted that he is going to
adopt Rand Paul’s isolationist foreign policy. I he does, that means peace for
a change. All we are saying is give peace a chance. What is the actual
difference between left-wing pacifism and rightwing isolationism anyway?
(6)                       
DT said he will do business with Bernie
Sanders when the time comes.
(7)                       
Most everyone has noticed that Hillary
Clinton goes to war at the drop of a hat while Barack Obama has fallen head
over heel in love with perpetual war in Afghanistan. The American people do not
want this war at least not forever. If HC got into office again, it would have
meant more and bigger wars and endless hostile trade deals.
(8)                       
In other words, DT is promising (at least)
important concessions to the real liberal left. We should be gratified not
“devastated.”
(9)                       
Over my life time, I have been told that
protectionism and isolationism are unworkable and extremely destructive in the
long run. Considering everything, this is exactly what we desperately need
right now.
(10)                 
Did you notice that Hillary Clinton’s campaign
attracted the approval and support of three undesirables: Meg Whitman, Michael
Bloomberg and Henry Kissinger? That should make you suspicious. “Be afraid, be
very afraid!” as Rachel Maddow puts it.
(11)                 
Bernie Sanders heroically and ultimately
unsuccessfully tried to dissuade HC from courting the favor of Wall Street and
its leaders. I think Bernie Sanders should think in terms of starting a third
political party, he should abandon the sinking ship that is and will be soon be
the “new” conservative Democratic Party, as it becomes more bellicose and
hostile to American working people, the Dem. Party will, next election,
definitely shrink dramatically in size and influence.
(12)                 
I thought the election campaign went on
too long; the word “hate” was used much too often.
(13)                 
Of course, Hillary Clinton did get more
votes than DT, yet DT is going to be President. That does seem unfair.
(14)                 
Anti-Trump Democrats repeated endlessly
that DT was a racist and hated and disrespected women. Personally, that did not
ring true at least not to my ears. DT is not a racist and he does not hate
women. In fact, in general, DT seems broad-minded and willing to negotiate.
(15)                 
My elder and elderly brother, until this
last election, voted Democratic, Democratic, Democratic in almost all
Presidential elections. In this past election, he voted for DT. DT appears to
be actually less of a rightwing reactionary than Hillary, if he follows through
with his campaign promises. If he does keep his promises, he will be reelected
easily 4 years from now.
© 12 Nov 2016 
About
the Author 

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

Poetry, by Lewis Thompson

When
Death Comes
–by Mary
Oliver (Oct 03, 2006)

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn; 


when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse to
buy me, and snaps the purse shut; 

when death comes
like the measle-pox

when
death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I
want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And
therefore, I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,


and
I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and
each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and
each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When
it’s over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When
it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I
don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I
don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

–Mary
Oliver
© 30 Jun 2014 
About
the Author 
I came to the
beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the
state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my
native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two
children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married
to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was
passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were
basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very
attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that
time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.
Soon after, I
retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13
blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to
fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE
Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.
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Muleshoes, by Jude Gassaway

Interesting
spell check fact:  the correct spellings
are horseshoe and mule shoe; I am talking about shoes for a mule, not pumps for
a drag queen.
MULESHOES
Knowing
the difference between horseshoes and muleshoes might be esoteric knowledge,
yet it might occasionally come in handy. 
A horse’s hoof is circular in shape and a mule’s hoof is a long
oval.  A blacksmith-forged, custom-made
iron shoe reflects the shape of each hoof.
In
June 1974, as a newly minted field geologist, I got a summer job in Death
Valley. The Tenneco Company had recently purchased borax mining and mineral
interests from the Kern County Land and Cattle Company. This included an
operating borate mine in Death Valley National Monument, a borate processing
plant in nearby Nevada, and numerous mining claims and prospects in the
region.  We were hired to relocate and
reassess the mineral properties, and to search for new mineral prospects.  Field geologists are always looking for
things, and some discoveries are real surprises.
The
dozen summer hires found lodging in the Amargosa Hotel, Death Valley Junction,
at a cooler elevation than the valley floor. The hotel was a formerly exclusive
establishment.
I
have never seen a bathroom with such elegant tile work.  We had full access to the unused hotel
kitchen, especially the refrigerators. 
Outdoors, the tiled swimming pool was filled to the brim with wind-blown
sand.
The
hotel’s phone number was Death Valley #3. 
Another unexpected find, this was the last twelve party telephone system
in the USA.  To use the phone, you held
the receiver to your ear and wound the crank. 
When the Operator answered, you told her the phone number you wished to
be connected to.  As you continued your
call, you’d occasionally turn the crank in order to keep the central battery
charged.  Also, you got used to hearing
clicks on the line as the other party-line members listened in.
There
was no radio or TV reception in the area, and the party-line was a way for
far-flung neighbors to keep in touch and to be entertained.  And we, the summer geologists, were the
newest game in town.  We learned to use
the more private dial-up phone at the Tenneco plant in Nevada, some nine miles
away.
Another
discovery was Stateline, the bar en route to the plant.  It was run by Sandy, formerly the head hooker
at Ash Meadows Brothel, now closed.  The
menu was cocktails, beer, coffee, top ramen, and hard-boiled eggs.  The naked lady painting behind the bar,
rescued from the whorehouse, had been painted by Marta Becket, the ballerina at
the Amargosa Opera House.  But that’s
another story.
Tenneco
sent me and another geologist on reconnaissance to the southern Mojave Desert
for July and August.  At 2000 feet,
Barstow was much cooler than Death Valley Junction.  At night, it cooled off to below 100
degrees.   I had to borrow a sleeping
bag!
In
the Calico Mountains, we followed Mule Canyon Road to the abandoned town of
Borate (1894-1907).  Mule Canyon is a
narrow canyon in soft shale, cut by iron-shod mules pulling iron-clad wheeled
freight wagons.  Borate’s open pit borax
mine yielded 900 thousand tons of ore. 
One principle use for borates then, as now, is for laundry and cleaning
products (Boraxo).
The
site of the town dump, now piles of rusty cans and wire, is called “Tin Can
Alley”.  All that was left of the town
were several dirt streets and a few pieces of concrete foundation. There were
many broken bottles and bits of iron, suggesting that bottle hunters had
already explored the site. I found many waist-high cone-shaped piles of loose
dirt with bits of broken glass scattered about the townsite.  The whole danged town had been sifted by the
bottle hunters.  Sifted!  Dang!
We
moved on to look for rock outcrops with promise of borax. That’s why we were
there.  A short incline led to a flat
railroad bed.  Rails and ties had been
removed many years ago.  The narrow bench
was all that was left of the Borate & Daggett Railroad.  Soon we found a pile of rusty artifacts: the
dump for the blacksmith’s shop.  Lying in
the twisted metal scrap were a dozen used muleshoes. Wow! TWENTY MULE TEAM
muleshoes.
Relics
that had been missed by the relic hunters. 
A bonanza!
© May 2017
About
the Author 
Retired USGS Field Geologist.
Founding member, Denver Womens Chorus 

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Choices, by Gillian

Choices
are what we all make, constantly, throughout our lives. Most of the obviously
huge ones we all recognize as such: marriage, divorce, babies, changing jobs or
homes, coming out, retirement, suicide. Meanwhile the innumerable tiny choices
we make go almost unnoticed; tea or coffee? Should I watch ‘Gone with the Wind’
yet again or the Bronco game? Or is now a good time for a nap?
Sometimes
we will say, ‘I had no choice’, ‘I’ve run out of options’, which of course is
never true. Except for a few who are tragically unable to make choices, or
incapable of following up on them, we always have options. What we really mean
is, there are no good options to choose from. Our transgendered friend
Margaret, who came to this group for a while, says she reached a point in her
life when she had to change this ‘wrong body’ she inhabited or kill herself.
Period. No other options were available. But still, she had a choice; just not
a good one. I guess that’s how it is with all suicides; heartbreakingly, it’s
their last best choice.
When
I talk of my own coming-out process I sometimes say it never felt like I chose
to come out. It was something that happened to me. I was swept up on this
runaway train, going wherever it cared to take me. But I know that’s not
strictly true. I had a choice. I could have thrown myself, at great risk of
serious psychological injury, off that train. I simply chose not to.
But
choices are not always what they seem. Apparently small ones can turn out to be
huge; literally a matter of life and death.
A
month ago, over three hundred people chose the same course of action.
Hey, lets go to Pulse
tonight. It’s Latin Night y’know?
Yeah, we’re planning on
it.
It was great last
year. 
I know Tony and Luis are
going.
Non
of them knew they were choosing a night of terror. Fifty of them did not know
they were choosing to die.
I
am invaded by sadness for the terrible losses of that Orlando night. I am sad,
of course, for all who died, and for the many who were seriously injured. I am
sad for those who loved them. I am sad for all who survived, though physically
unscathed, to live with what must be terrible psychological traumas. I am sad
for the entire LGBT and Latino communities, whose tribes have been attacked. I
am sad for the crazed shooter, so lost and astray that he felt compelled do
such a terrible thing. It was a choice, of course. He could have chosen one of
oh so many other ways to go. But most of all, I think, I am sad for the parents
who found out, in one nightmare moment, 
that their son was dead and that he was gay. (I say ‘son’ because the
majority of those killed were men, though lesbians died also.) I can imagine
little worse. I learn in the same instant that my son is dead and that I never
really knew him. And now I never will. What choices of word and deed did I
make, that my son was a stranger to me and I didn’t even know it?
But,
whatever right or wrong choices we might make, our ability to chose is of great
importance to us. Our free will gives us at least some slight feeling of power;
of control over our lives. And for others, power is found in the act of taking
away our ability to chose. The classic example of that battle would be the
abortion issue, which seems as if it will go on forever.
At
this very moment, combining thoughts of choices with my sadness engendered by
the Orlando tragedy, I finally get the connection. My very sadness is a choice.
A terrible thing happened. I can close my mind to it: forget it, shove it down
deep and not think about it. Not good. I can be very very angry. But I’m doing
my best to give up anger. But sadness is OK; not fun, but it seems like a
reasonable reaction. So I chose it. But it came over me in too dark a cloud;
with too much weight. I have felt overwhelmed by it. And now, just knowing it
was a choice has mitigated it’s hold on me. Even as I type, I feel it lifting,
becoming a much lighter, less overpowering, form of itself.
Once
again, writing things out has helped me deal with, lessen, change, and
understand, emotions. But it’s not just the writing. So again I thank you all
for this wonderful group – for your caring and sharing and support. That’s
where the real magic lies.
© Jul 2016 
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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Setting Up House, by Gail Klock

This is my third and final attempt at writing this piece on
“Setting up House.” I struggled with it twice yesterday, both attempts were
wiped out with the delete key. I woke up this morning asking myself why it was
so hard, what was the struggle all about. As all of you in this room know
getting words down on paper requires an act of God, well not quite, but it does
kind of require a coming to terms with yourself. My first two attempts
sufficiently covered the superficial aspects of setting up house, all the
details were there, but none of the heart. I am attempting to reach into my
soul and rectify it with my brain to get to the emotions of this piece.
“Setting up house” represents to me the essence of life, the
determining of how I am going to live my life. Am I going to set up house by
myself and find contentment in the doing or am I going to attempt to set up
house with another, and perhaps realize my hopes and dreams. When I’m honest
with myself I know I desire the latter as I am a social person and I really
enjoy being in a loving relationship. I had a couple of dreams lately which
relate to this topic. In the first one I was trying to get out of Golden on a
highway, but I didn’t know which road to take. The one I was on led to a
flyover which was very high and narrow with an arc so great at the top I
couldn’t see where it was leading. I wasn’t sure if it was the right road to be
on, but I knew if I could focus on the road and not on the frightening aspects
of the path itself I would be okay. I awoke at this point and began to analyze
this dream before the details of it escaped me. I knew why I was leaving
Golden, it was where my former partner and I had lived with our family, and our
family as we knew it then no longer exists. Much of the setting up house which
we had done so well unraveled. We, my partner and I, had not paid enough
attention to the infrastructure of our dwellings. The road being high and
narrow spoke to two of my fears, height and confinement. The “focus on the road”
aspect of the dream is literally focusing on knowing that “I am”. I lost sight
of my existence when my little brother Karl died, when our family crumbled
under the grief. I thought I could regain my mother’s love and attention by
giving her back her happiness. In the process, I gave up myself as I tried to
anticipate what her needs were, if I was only good enough I would make her
happy and she could return to the loving mother she had been before she lost
her baby. I tried to “set up house” at the age of four, almost five. The
materials I used worked for the time being, they were at that time the best
available. But it was a bit like using asbestos, the long-term damage was
potentially greater than the original benefits gained. I’m using better
building materials now which are being supplied by more informed builders, not
a four-year-old, but sessions with a very skilled psychologist, Vivian
Schaefer; readings by authors such as Brene Brown and Eckhart Tolle, which are
supplemented greatly by the thoughtful discussions Betsy and Gillian and I have
concerning the meaning of these writings, particularly Tolle’s; and by the
relationship Trish and I are forming. Without Trish, very little of the
progress I am making would be taking place. It is not possible to develop
relationship skills without relationship and both Trish and I are bringing the
integrity needed which allows us to grow.  Through these efforts I am regaining my awareness
of myself and my emotions and the infrastructure of my life is being rebuilt.
My other two dreams involved the living spaces I was
occupying. The first one was rather shabby and run down with locks on the
exterior doors which a man was trying to break into. In the next segment of the
dream I was living in a new apartment which had very secure locks, but was
incredibly small; as I looked around the rooms I realized there was space for
cooking, but no space for a bed. Upon awakening and further analyzation of
these dreams I recognized the locks I have use in life are perhaps not as sturdy
as I expected them to be, but rather false providers of security. I tried for
too many years to protect myself and my emotions by locking them up, which in
reality created a less safe environment. The small safe living quarters allowed
me access to provide sustenance for myself, but it did not allow for a bed,
which was the metaphor for an intimate relationship.
From these dreams, I would conclude that “setting up house”
requires unlocking the emotions within. In order to be safe in a relationship I
must be aware of my own needs, wants, and desires. I must also allow my
vulnerabilities to be known, because they are the infrastructure which left
unacknowledged will destroy the housekeeping. It is unreasonable and unfair to
think another person should be able to intuit my areas of insecurities and thus
respond in the understanding, loving manner I am hoping for.
When Lynn and I set up house there
were never any conflicts over where we lived, the décor, who would do what
chores, landscaping, the amount of money each of us was contributing, or any
other domestic decisions. We were building our lives together, knowing each
person was making a fair contribution and accepting and respecting the fact
that together we would be happier and have more. We lived in rental properties
for the first eight years and finally acquired the finances we needed to afford
our own home. The first house we lived in was designed by my brother Eric, as
he said, to compensate for how horribly he had treated me when we were kids- I kiddingly
told him it was partial payment. Lynn and I did a great deal of the work on the
house ourselves in order to make it affordable, we insulated the house, worked
with the electrician as a gofer, stained all the wood in the interior, painted
and wallpapered all the walls, and did all the landscaping. It was a lot of
hard work, yet exciting at the same time. We did a good job with the
housekeeping aspect of “setting up house”. We had a lot of love and respect for
one another, but we didn’t have enough internal integrity to support the
housekeeping for the duration of our lives. We didn’t know how to be vulnerable
with one another, we used strong locks which provided false security.
I want to combine the aspects of my
relationship with Lynn which contributed to our long-term relationship and our two
wonderful daughters, with my internal integrity which allows for the “I am”.
This combination will provide the most beautiful house I have ever set up. It
is the house I have been seeking for the past 65 years. I have no doubt I will
find it as long as I stay focused on the road which will lead me there and not
allow my fears to distract me. Slowly, I am unlocking the rusty locks which I
put in place many years ago and I am finding the unshackling to be rather freeing.
I’m still a fledgling beginning to test my wings, but I trust the inner
strength which I know is within me, that which will allow me to soar like a
hawk.
© 12 Sep 2016 
About the Author 
I grew up in
Pueblo, CO with my two brothers and parents. Upon completion of high school, I
attended Colorado State University majoring in Physical Education. My first
teaching job was at a high school in Madison, Wisconsin. After three years of
teaching I moved to North Carolina to attend graduate school at UNC-Greensboro.
After obtaining my MSPE I coached basketball, volleyball, and softball at the
college level starting with Wake Forest University and moving on to Springfield
College, Brown University, and Colorado School of Mines.
While
coaching at Mines my long-term partner and I had two daughters through
artificial insemination. Due to the time away from home required by coaching, I
resigned from this position and got my elementary education certification. I
taught in the gifted/talented program in Jefferson County Schools for ten
years. As a retiree, I enjoy helping take care of my granddaughter, playing
senior basketball, writing/listening to stories in the storytelling group,
gardening, reading, and attending OLOC and other GLBT organizations.
As a retiree,
I enjoy helping take care of my granddaughter, playing senior basketball,
writing/listening to stories in the storytelling group, gardening, reading, and
attending OLOC and other GLBT organizations.

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The Knitters’ Dilemma, by Cecil Bethea

The scene is a comfortable living room – like its owner a bit
worn and dowdy who is sitting on a sofa with two wing back chairs at either
end.  A plastic grocery bag lies beside
him.
Bert  (Looking directly at the audience)
Good afternoon!  My name is Bert
Wilson.  Because I’m a junior and Dad was
called “Al”, I got the rear end, which is pretty much the story of my life.
Well, you all are
probably wondering why we’re here.  There
is a story.  I’m a member of a men’s club
called the Prime Timers.  If you’re nice,
you’d call us a group of mature gentlemen involved in various social
activities.  If you’re not nice but are
bitchy –like so many people-, you could call us a gaggle of gay geezers doing
only God knows what.
Anyway a
few of us are working on a project to raise money for the club.  While we don’t advertise the fact, we all
like to knit, it’s a bit like masturbation –enjoyable but not discussed. Anyway, we’re doing a project to raise money. 
We are making what might be called, shall I call them, stocking
stuffers, actually they are called cock socks. 
Hate that term.  Sounds like
something you’d buy in a really depressing discount store.
(The door chimes “There’s
Gonna Be a Hot Time in This Old Town Tonight”) Come on in whoever you are; the lock is off.
Ben   Some day you’re going to say that to the wrong man.
Bert  Is
there such a creature as a “wrong man”?
Ben   Just think how
often we’ve fallen in love before the third drink with some guy in a bar.
Bert  There
you go again dragging up the past.
Ben   We all know you think that truth is a greatly overrated
virtue.  Listen, I went by Playtime Toys and talked to
Mike, the manager; he’d like to get a dozen of the cock socks, but on
consignment.
Bert  Consignment?  What’s that?
Ben
We let him
have them.  For each one he sells we get $7.50.  Any he doesn’t sell we get back.
Bert  Is he honest?
Ben   He’ll sign a contract.
Bert  Exactly what sort of place is this Playtime Toys.
Ben   You know.  He sells
sex toys.
Bert  No, I don’t know! 
I get along very well without gadgets. 
Besides what were you doing in Playtime Toys?
Ben   He also sells porn.
Bert  Now that’s understandable.  Wonder where the magazines get all those good
looking young men who are willing, no, anxious, to take off their clothes to be
photographed.  I never see any such
creatures while strolling in the malls, at Safeway, or on 16th
Street.
Ben   You should sport a $100 bill or maybe even a $50
on your lapel.  Sometimes, I hear, a hot
meal and a warm bed will do the trick.
Bert  Really?
Ben   At least, that’s
what I hear.  Is Adam coming?
Bert  Yes.  He has a ride with Ned, that new member who was
at the luncheon Wednesday, so he might be on time, 
Ben   Unlikely.  Adam will be too late for his own funeral.  (The chimes peal) I might be wrong.
Bert  Come on in.
Adam   I do believe I’m on time.
Ben   Probably nobody else will believe in that miracle.
Adam   There you go again being cynical and telling the world.
Ben   Not so much cynical as realistic.
Adam   No matter.  This is
Ned.  Remember him from the luncheon
Wednesday.  He sat by me.  Somehow during the conversation, it came out
that he knits, so naturally I invited him to join us.
Bert  Ned, who taught you how?
Ned  My grandmother.  She babysat me.  To keep me still she taught me how to crochet
pot holders.  Everybody, no matter who,
got a pot holder for Christmas. 
Eventually I graduated to afghans. 
Pot holders became dull so she taught me how to knit.  As they say, the rest is history.
Bert  My story exactly except it was Aunt Amanda.  She was a fine seamstress.  Women came all the way from Laurel to have
her make them dresses.
Ned  Laurel?  Maryland?
Ben   Lord, no.  He’s
from the metropolis of Hot Coffee, Mississippi. 
Bert is the only man I know who can turn ‘shit’ into a five-syllable
word.
Ned  Five?
Ben   He sort of skids on that ‘i’.
Bert You all quit talking about me.  I’m thinking we should get a name other than “cock
sox”.  That sounds so common.
Ned  Hardly common.  I’d say downright rare.  For example, is one of us wearing a cock sock
now?
Adam   It’s not that cold outside.
Ben   I’d never thought of using one like long johns.
Bert  You all know what I mean – a classy name with just a hint
of naughtiness.
Ned  What about ‘Gilding for the Lily’?
Ben   Maybe ‘Gift Wrap’.
Adam   ‘Camouflage’.
Ben   ‘Almost There’
Ned  ‘High Hopes’
Adam   ‘Manhandler’,
Bert  Remember; we’re not trying to name a new perfume.
Ned  I once heard them called penis
cozies.
Ben   How many guys
have ever seen a tea cozy much less know what a cozy is?
Bert  I prefer penis cozy to cock sock because it sounds so warm
and snugly.
Ned  Well, now that problem is solved;
we can get to work.
Adam   I’m more than half way through one.  And Reggie, that guy from Calgary, gave me a
custom order for a gift.  Wrote the
colors and the size on his business card. 
(He pulls the card from his wallet, reads, and then exclaims)  My God!
Bert  What’s the matter?
Adam   He wants a cock sock in Kelly-green with amethyst blue
trim and 20 by 6!
Ben   That’s positively equine.
Ned  Sounds more like elephantine.
Bert  Those colors are garish. 
Wait just one minute! Did you say twenty by six?  No one has ever seen one that size; has
anyone ever heard of one? 
Ned  That would be a treasure in a
museum.  
Ben   Or in a porno film.
Adam   The very wonder!
Ned  I think you should verify
those dimensions.
Ben   On the other hand if they are wrong, he could use the
thing for a tote bag.
Bert  That would be an awful lot of Kelly-green and amethyst
blue.  I think you should call to check.
Ben   Try to get the other guy’s number.
Adam    (Dialing) Hello, Reggie. 
Adam Swithin.  I’m just checking
to see if I got you order right.  My eyes
aren’t what they were.
Never did meet a Dorian Grey either.  Now, you have down here on your card Kelly
green…
Oh!  He is.
That’s not too common.
All over!
I’m sure he is. 
And you want amethyst blue for the trim?
They are? 
That must be nice.
Now about the size, I read it as twenty by six
(Disappointed) So that’s it ,
I didn’t know that. 
Well, I just wanted to be sure  
See you at the luncheon Wednesday.  Good bye.
Well, that man is besotted or crazy or vice
versa.
Ned  Go ahead and give us the details
Adam   Firstly, Reggie, like I said, is madly in love with an Irishman.  That’s why he wants the Kelly green.
Ben   Never heard of showing your patriotism by wearing a Kelly-green
cock sock.
Ned  You’ve never been in the baths
after a St. Patrick’s Day Parade.  I did
decades ago in New York.  Still suffer
from post-traumatic stress syndrome.
Bert  What about the amethyst blue?
Adam   That’s the color of Shawn’s beautiful eyes.  His hair is red, everywhere.
Ned  When the lights are out you can’t
see, so the colors don’t matter, but you can feel a lot.
Ben   Tell us.  We are
waiting with bated breath.  Whatever that
means
Adam   Like I said, Reggie is from Calgary.  Up in Canada, they use the metric
system.  So, it is in centimeters not
inches.  Respectable but not marvelous.
Bert  But what does all this mean?  Centimeters? I don’t understand.
Ben   It means that Shawn’s prick is about 7 ½ inches by 2 ¾.
Bert  That’ s nice but certainly not 20 X 6.
Ned  Oh! How the glory has departed.
Ben   Miracles do not happen in the modern world.
Adam   But I can still daydream.
Bert  Seeing one that
big would be like that old saying “See Paris and die.”
© 17 Oct 2010 
About the Author 
 Although
I have done other things, my fame now rests upon the durability of my
partnership with Carl Shepherd; we have been together for forty-two years and
nine months as of today, August 18th, 2012.
Although
I was born in Macon, Georgia in 1928, I was raised in Birmingham during the
Great Depression.  No doubt I still carry
invisible scars caused by that era.  No
matter we survived.  I am talking about
my sister, brother, and I.  There are two
things that set me apart from people. 
From about the third-grade I was a voracious reader of books on almost
any subject.  Had I concentrated, I would
have been an authority by now; but I didn’t with no regrets.
After
the University of Alabama and the Air Force, I came to Denver.  Here I met Carl, who picked me up in Mary’s
Bar.  Through our early life, we traveled
extensively in the mountain West.  Carl
is from Helena, Montana, and is a Blackfoot Indian.  Our being from nearly opposite ends of the
country made “going to see the folks” a broadening experience.  We went so many times that we finally had
“must see” places on each route like the Quilt Museum in Paducah, Kentucky and
the polo games in Sheridan, Wyoming.  Now
those happy travels are only memories.
I was
amongst the first members of the memory writing class.  While it doesn’t offer criticism, it does
offer feedback.  Also, just trying to
improve your writing helps no end.
Carl
is now in a nursing home; I don’t drive any more.  We totter on.