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He Was Bored, by Ricky

This is a story filled with physical violence, sadism, masochism, extreme pain, and a bit of courage. So naturally, it will be boring.

Once upon a time, or in other words, this ain’t no shit, there was a small, thin, appropriately proportioned 8-year old boy who lived at the time of this story in Minnesota. In order to save having to write boring descriptions of this kid, just imagine that he looked like an 8-year old me since what he looked like is not important to the story.

As I said previously, once upon a time, there was this boy who was terribly afraid of needles used to give shots. One day he was taken to this office to see a man, he was told was going to help him.

Upon entering the man’s office, he discovered that the man was supposed to be a doctor but not a doctor he had ever heard of before. This doctor was a tooth doctor or a dentist, if you will. The boy was not nervous or afraid of this doctor.

Once seated in a chair which resembled a barber’s chair which the boy was familiar with and so still was not afraid of anything, the world the boy was comfortable living in suddenly began to change.

The once nice and pleasant doctor dentist examined the boy’s teeth and said that he needed to fix one of the teeth today and another two teeth another day. He then produced a syringe with (what appeared to the boy) a mile long needle. Fear fueled by adrenaline filled the boy and he refused to open his mouth to admit the needle. After wasting several minutes pleading in vain with the boy to let him give the boy a shot in his mouth to prevent pain, the sadistic dentist began to use a drill to bore into the sick tooth.

The first time the drill hit the tooth’s nerve a scream of pain filled the room and probably the street outside too. It was a horrible scene to witness, a poor little child being brutalized by a dentist. Nonetheless, the boy persevered and the nasty dentist eventually finished the task and the boy left.

On the next visit, and for the rest of his life, the boy wisely accepted the brief pain of the shot and avoided the trauma of tooth pain, but he still dislikes being in the dentist chair.

© 28 April 2014

About the Author

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Ice, by Ray S

The invitation read:

Cocktails

6 PM
Friday, the 25th of November, 2016

Arriving a little after six that evening I was greeted by the hostess’s daughter and ushered to meet the other two guests. Maybe another man or two were on the way, but at this moment it looked like it would be my turn to respond politely, if not wittily and interestedly in what subject the ladies brought up.

Seated on the right end of the sofa sat Ms. Dorothy dressed in her robe looking very much like, I might imagine, the Dowager Empress. The opposite end of the sofa was occupied by Laura who also managed an occasional run to the pantry to replenish snacks or ice.

The cocktail table was set with an inviting selection of tasty foodstuffs.

All of this was surveyed by our hostess, Mary, who was in command of the most important part of the evening’s ritual. Here on a silver tray stood a tall glass cylinder and stir stick. Then the ice bucket and the necessary stem glasses. With a grand gesture Mary dropped each ice cube into the pitcher. Then came a bottle of Queen Victoria’s Best. No measure was needed. To my amazement Mary had a very practiced eye that resulted in four perfect double Martinis—olive or a twist, your choice.

The long glass swizzle stick gently massaged the gin and the ice cubes. Remember, “Always stirred, never shaken.” The other element of this communion of happy souls that surprised me was the absence of any Vermouth, however, rest assured no one but I missed it, and I survived.

© 5 December 2016

About the Author

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Assumptions, by Phillip Hoyle

The professor said to her students, “I don’t so much care about what you conclude as I do about what you assume.” She went on to explain that two people cannot actually discuss any issue until they discover what assumptions they share. If they do not have enough assumptions in common, they actually have nothing to talk about. For her, assumptions were at the heart of any matter.

Early in my church-related career I learned a process called Strategic Planning. It began with defining your goal. That would be the picture of what you hope to accomplish. The second step was to write out your assumptions about the project. Such assumptions might have to do with your own ideas that lay behind the goal and objectives, those of others who might be involved in the project, the available resources, and so forth. In group planning this look into assumptions might be brainstormed. That part would give the group a look at whether there was any hope for the goal to be pursued to its end. Sometimes the assumptions are not in accord enough to keep the group together. I used that process regularly in my work, and as a result amassed quite a number of files describing the assumptions that I held or assumed participants might hold. Those files went to the trash bin outside the church building when after thirty years I left that work.

My most recent use of this process me occurred a number of years ago when I was recruited to lead “Telling Your Story” at the GLBT Center of Colorado. I had been in the group for a few months and thought I had better clarify my own assumptions about my participation, what I had observed about other participants, what I had picked up from the originating leader, about how the setting would affect the group, about the meeting time, about the Center’s interest in the project, about the elder aspects. I wanted the program that I had found to be significant to keep working well for me and for others, and I wanted to clarify for the SAGE program director what to expect from me. I asked the director to review my assumptions about Participants, the relationship of the group to the Center, and the process of storytelling.

One past SAGE director suggested one important assumption, saying it was better to come to a group on Monday afternoon than to stay alone in one’s apartment drinking. I suppose that would come under the category Assumptions about Participants.

Not long after that assumption was shared, another one surfaced from a “Telling Your Story” participant. He assumed that we would want to publish our stories. I’m still chewing on that idea and doing a lot of work.

There was another assumption, one I thought better and truer. When I told my artist friend Sue that we weren’t an activist group, she said, “Phillip, anytime you get a group of Senior Citizens to tell the stories of their lives; that’s activism.” Her perspective came from working several years in a Senior’s living and care center. I suspect we haven’t yet covered all the assumptions possible. Perhaps these last few assumptions are more points of view related to what we have accomplished together as a group.

© 27 March 2017

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Assumptions, by Louis

Phase out Football and Boxing 

About thirty-two years ago, I am in a sports bar, and the conversation of several beer-drinkers inevitably turns to football. The four or five other guys at the bar look at me, see a 40-year old man, and assume:

(a) I am obsessed with football games;

(b) I am knowledgeable about the biographies and careers of the top 20 most famous football players.

(c) And I have a fervent belief that these 20 most famous football players are excellent rôle models for American youth.

I said as little as possible during these conversations. What I really believe is:

(a) Excessive interest in football games is gradually turning into a mental illness, something like mass hysteria;

(b) I know next to nothing about the biographies of the 20 most famous football players, and I see no reason in particular to show any interest in their biographies;

(c) If you ask me, “successful” football players are not wholesome rôle models. Why is it admirable for a man to engage in a violent sport in which his bones will be broken and repetitive violent blows to his head will result in his suffering various types of dementia and motor impairment?

Pretty much the same can be said of boxing. Broken bones, dementia from brain concussions, paraplegia, quadriplegia and even death. Two guys punching each other in the face, I do not find admirable. In a word these two violent sports, football and boxing should be discontinued. Make love, not war.

The polls indicate that public interest in football is declining. Thank God. I think fervent promotion of football and boxing and other sports is part of a deliberate campaign or process of dumbing-down the public or, in a word, “a conspiracy.”

We should be led by intelligent people with a good sense of moral and ethical sensitivity. Like the authors of Telling Your Story. As opposed to punch drunk boxers, as likeable as Muhamed Ali was.

Years ago the hippies promoted the idea of non-violent, non-competitive sports. I think that idea should be developed further. The game should promote the idea of cooperation. Team A should not try to defeat Team B but join up with Team B and collectively say cure cancer.

In itself, football is a clever game. Make it into a parlor game like Monopoly or Parcheesi. Nothing wrong with that.

A lot of reasonable people agree with me, I know.

When I was 25 years old, a bosomy woman, looking for a boyfriend, intentionally pushed her bosoms on my back and side, assuming I would get excited or something. She was looking for a boyfriend in a direct sort of way. Nowadays most people have stopped assuming that a guy is necessarily heterosexual, and that one can guess what his deep personal motivations are. That’s progress.

© 3 March 2017

About the Author

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

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Doors, by Lewis Thompson

There have likely been a few million types of doors throughout history and many purposes for which doors have been employed, privacy and security chief among them. The most important thing to know about any door, however, is not what it’s made of or how large or small or how old or intricate its design. No, the only thing that really counts when it comes to doors is whether they are open or closed.

You can tell a lot about a person from knowing how cautious they are about keeping their doors locked. One person on my floor locks her door even when she leaves her apartment to do her laundry at the other end of the hallway.

Some commercial enterprises advertise that their doors are always open. This past weekend was the occasion of the annual Doors Open Denver–a chance to see parts of the city that may not normally be accessible to the unwashed.

In the history of Western Civilization, the most famous door was probably the stone that covered the entrance to the tomb where Jesus’ body was placed following his crucifixion. Had it never (as legend has it) been mysteriously opened, one of the world’s great religions may well have never taken root.

When I was a boy, we had a small ranch house with a single-car, attached garage. The roll-up door was not powered. I used to catch grasshoppers, pull off their hind legs and put them in the track of the open garage door and then close it so that the roller would pass over them. Did you know that grasshopper guts look like long orange grains of rice?

It seems to me that some people are like closets full of treasures behind locked doors. It’s as if they believe that exposing themselves would tempt others to do them harm. Or perhaps they think that others would be disappointed in what was revealed. I used to be one of these people, shut up behind a closed door. I thought if others could see me in the light, they would think I was ugly. But, at long last, one person gently knocked on my door and invited me to come out. I found out that opening the door let the light in and the fear out. Now, I always try to leave the door unlocked with a welcome sign on it.

© 27 April 2015

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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Birthdays, by Gillian

The only problem with birthdays is, there are waaaay too many of them; both vertically and horizontally, if you get my drift.

Vertically, the number is ever-increasing because the average longevity is ever-increasing, at least in what we choose to call the ‘developed’ countries. But the overall world life expectancy has also risen. According to my favorite go-to website, Wikipedia, worldwide life expectancy has risen dramatically just in our lifetime, from 48 in 1950 to 67 in 2010. Since 1900, when it stood at 31 – well, you can do the math – it has more than doubled. In short, many lives are enjoying way too many birthdays.

Horizontally, there are many more humans to enjoy this increasing number of birthdays; exponentially more. Not quite in our own lifetimes, but between 1900 and 2000, the world population increased from 1.5 billion to over 6 billion; in one hundred years an increase three times greater than the entire previous history of humanity. The graph depicting this is an amazing picture.


https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Longevity

But I took a break from writing this and now it is November 9th 2016. The day after Election Day. Two days after my birthday, so I’m happy to say I was able to enjoy the anniversary of my birth before disaster struck.

Today I feel nauseated, have a pounding headache, and cannot stop crying. How did this terrible thing happen? I remind myself that Clinton won the popular vote, but much good that does. I remind myself that, with almost half of all eligible voters not voting, and half of those who did vote voting for Hilary, Trump voters comprise only 25% of the eligible voters of this country. But much good that does.

My next birthday will be my 75th – a kind of semi-significant milestone. I wonder what horrors will have befallen us all by then. I fear for myself, for our country, and for the world. I am not alone. My cousin in London e-mails that she is ‘deep in the slough of despond’ which, I reply, is a mighty crowded place about now.

Now it is Sunday the 13th. On Friday evening, Betsy and I went to the usual Friendly Friday gathering of our HOA. Officially we had ended Friendly Fridays for the year when we put back the clocks, but many of us felt a particular need for comfort this week, so planned one more.

One of our neighbors was handing out safety pins, and introduced us to the Safety Pin Movement. Here at least is something we all can do now, with minimal effort and cost, to show solidarity with each other – all of us in fear from Trump’s promised oppressions.

According to a post on Twitter, here is what the safety pin signifies – the message it sends to those who see you wear it.
If you wear a hijab, I’ll sit with you on the train.
If you are trans I will go to the bathroom with you.
If you’re a person of color, I’ll stand with you if the cops stop you.
If you’re a person with disabilities, I’ll hand you my megaphone.
If you’re an immigrant, I’ll help you find resources.
If you are a survivor, I’ll believe you.
If you’re a refugee, I’ll make you welcome.
If you’re a veteran, I’ll take up your fight.
If you’re LGBTQ, I won’t let anyone tell you you are broken.
If you are a woman, I’ll make sure you get home OK.
If you’re tired, me too.
If you need a hug, I’ve got an infinite supply.
If you need me, I’ll be with you.
All I ask is that you be with me, too.

I have never before thought of the safety pin as a great weapon, but perhaps at this moment it is.

It is at least one small, non-combative, way to begin to push back.

Otherwise, all we have is the popular misquote of Tiny Tim at the close of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol –

God help us, every one.

© November 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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Raindrops, by Ricky

I have never liked rain or the drops in which it arrives. I know some will chastise me by pointing out, “But farmers need the rain to grow our food.” I’ve even used that phrase to my children as they grew; another case of like parent, like child. Nonetheless, I don’t like rain.

My dislike began at a very early age. When it rained, my mother would not let me go outside to play. When I did manage to sneak outside, I would end up totally soaked before my mother made me come back inside, followed by being placed in the bath tub to get clean. I always felt that I was already clean, just wet. However, the bath did replace the chill with warmth. Perhaps I deliberately got wet, and thus chilled, just so I could take a warm bath. Somehow, that doesn’t seem probable.

In elementary school, my teachers took over for my mother and forbade going outside when it was raining, thus ruining many a recess. Strangely, in the winter months, we could go out and play in the snow and eventual slushy-snow getting very wet and cold. No warm baths in school. We had to sit in our wet clothes and shiver until a combination of room temperature and body heat dried our clothes enough for us to warm up.

High school brought no relief from the “no outside activities when it was raining” rule. However, I was in complete agreement with staying inside. I had joined the Boy Scouts when I was in 7th grade and personally experienced a couple of campouts where it rained. Being wet and dirty with no chance of a bath or shower and sleeping in a damp sleeping bag, permanently changed my outlook about playing in the rain. From the second such campout and beyond, I HATE being outside and wet. Then came Deborah.

I first met Deborah on December 21st 1968 at the home of my current crush and her best friend. We eventually began dating and on our first date, we visited the Florida Caverns State Park near Mariana on the panhandle of NW Florida. On the day we arrived the sky was mostly overcast and threatened to rain at any time with brief moments of sunshine. We had a two-hour wait before the cavern tour group for which we had tickets would begin. As it was lunch time, we decided to have a cookout and eat before the tour.

We had no matches or lighter and Deborah was nonplussed and began to bemoan the loss of a cookout fire. I was upbeat and not bothered at all by the lack of such fire-making tools. When Deborah asked me why I was still gathering various twigs, sticks, and kindling to lay in the grill, I told her I learned in the scouts how to make a fire without a lighter or matches. She did not believe I could do it and because the wood appeared too damp to burn. Naturally, I felt that she doubted my truthfulness and challenged my ability and skill. I had done this many times in the scouts so I was supremely confident I could do it again. Confidence riding on the back of knowledge.

I was only 2 or 3-years out of my scout troop and in the glove compartment of my car was my homemade flint “stick” and a scout pocket knife. The wood was all arranged and ready. I told Deborah to watch and learn. I drew the knife blade across the flint sending two hot sparks into the tinder. After two-seconds the tinder exploded into flame igniting the kindling and the cookout fire was lit and we ate a hot meal. After that event, she thought I could do anything, like walking in the rain with her.

After we finished eating and cleaning up the trash, it began to lightly rain. We were under trees so it did not get to us in quantity but it did begin to run off the leaves and cause drops of water to drip down. As it turned out, I learned that day that Deborah loves to walk in the rain as long as it isn’t too much. She learned that I HATE to get wet outside. The result: I walked with her in the rain and ultimately enjoyed the time and conversation. The rain did stop and the sun came out so, we were dry by the time we entered the caverns with our tour group. We had a great time, but I still HATE getting wet outside. I wish the laws of Camelot prevailed here so, “The rain may never fall ‘till after sundown…”.

© 3 Apr 2016

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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The Drain, by Ray S

Finally the rain softly and lightly announced its arrival. Little by little the drops became bigger and more insistent. Finally it fell with full force pelting the window panes. A couple of claps of thunder and just as suddenly as the cloud burst had come, the clouds opened up and there was the sun again.

With umbrella in hand I left the house headed for my office. The sidewalks were all shiny and washed and gutters were still flooded with the tidal wave headed for the drain.

The walk to the office gave me the time to reflect on the long ago rainy time when we were six or seven. Four of us were playing “Kick the Can” in a vacant lot near the edge of town. A rainstorm like the one today came up and being caught all drenched, all of us simply stripped naked and proceeded to dance in the rain like little elves escaping the wolf in the forest.

The merriment was in full blast until a local constable arrived on the scene at the behest of the self-appointed morals squad, Mrs. Templeton. Hers was the only house near our play field.

We were rounded up with wet clothes in hand and sternly lectured to on the lack of morality and the nasty, dirty actions we were participating in.

Actually the thought of sex hadn’t even caught up with us at this age, except casually taking note of each others’ endowments, if even noticeable.

Another thought while walking, another time maybe five or seven years later evidencing the discovery magic of puberty and all of its causes and results. You could liken it to Pandora’s Box or letting the Genie or Johnny out of the bottle. With no thanks to Mrs. Templeton and later Sister Charles/Ophelia, some of we heathens began our long residence in the closet. I always envied my friend with the power and conviction to never get into a closet. He never needed to for he had always known who he was and the gay road was his high road. Some of us strayed down a path of conformity and even various degrees of happiness, then only to find the “honestly real me” before it was too late to live a liberated life.

At the intersection waiting for the “WALK” light I looked down at the curb and gutter to see the rain water and my memories wash down the drain, to wait for another rainy day and maybe the very right man to steal my heart away.

© 28 November 2016

About the Author

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Maps, by Phillip Hoyle

I like maps. They remind me of a map game we played at home when I was a kid. Mom would get out some old geography books and world atlases and hand them out to us older kids. Then she’d say, “Find the Europe map.” When we all had one she’d say, “Prague,” or “the Volga River.” She might say find the Asia map, and then call out, “The China Sea,” or “The Bay of Mandalay.” Her challenge for the South America map might be, “Asunción,” or “The Amazon River.” The first one to find the place—and show it to her—was the winner. The winner would then pick out the next place name, a river, city, country, sea, ocean, continent, and so forth. One of the special challenges of the game was that the maps were not the same, so a river might not be named in one of the books. I suppose it trained our pronunciation and our ears for the language suffixes that might indicate a location by country. The teacher in Mom created a number of these games for her children to play, but I especially liked the map game. 

Map-like Art Cards by Phillip Hoyle 2017
Migrating birds.

Now I paint on maps, print on maps, sometimes even write on maps. I collect them from brochure racks in tourist places and at rest stops along freeways. I tear them out of magazines and occasionally buy one at a convenience store. I look for them in antique shops and secondhand stores. I sometimes cover them with thinned gesso or acrylic paints to make a ground for a mixed media work. I splatter them, pattern them, block out spaces, or tear them in order to match some traveler’s dream. I print on them, draw on them, paint on them, glue other things on them and in so doing create places of memory or worlds of fantasy. Most of my map messages are personal, a few political. With these maps I travel, juxtaposing unusual images, feeding some internal need that is often unclear to me, the artist. I go to places in my art, places that feed me, soothe me, please me, challenge me. I often don’t even pause to look up the name of the place. I wonder what my mother would make of these map games I now play. But I know of all the unusual people I have befriended, she would be the most likely to understand.

© 20 March 2017

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Winter Shades, by Louis

Winter shades means for me memories that kept recurring this past winter which was like so many others. To catch up, I also missed, I noticed, the prompt for Feb. 27, “Where I was on 9/11.” I would like to respond to that prompt also. I assume that the prompt “Backseat of the car” was for March 6, which I also missed but to which I would like to relate my reaction.

Memories

“Where I was on 9/11”: 72-16 = 70-14 = 66, so that I was 66 years old when that happened. I was still employed at the Division of AIDS Services in the New York City Human Administration. I was taking the Q-65 from College Point headed for Flushing where I was planning to board the Long Island Railroad stop, located at the corner of 41st Avenue and Main Street. This train was bound for Manhattan but was stopped at 61st Street (which is still in Queens County). Before boarding the train, while still on the Q-65 bus passing through a swampy road, I had a good view of far-off World Trade Center Towers, since, where I was there were no tall buildings. I saw a large volume of smoke coming out of the side of one of the twin towers, and I thought to myself it will be a technical feat to fight a fire so far up on a sky-scraper, meaning I did not at that point know the whole story, and did not learn until much later. Still that would make me an eye-witness though I was not actually in Manhattan at the time so avoided getting poisoned.

I was kind of happy I did not have to work that day. A surprise day off. Whoopee!

I returned to Flushing where I visited the gay sauna where I had a few regular boyfriends. I met one and had a very good time. It is kind of embarrassing to admit that I was enjoying myself while three thousand people were suffering and dying. But who knew?

Backseat of the Car: my father, DeWitt Brown, repaired air conditioners, TV’s and refrigerators for a living. He also repaired and collected junk cars. One John Doe worked for my father, and one evening I sat with him in the backseat of one of my father’s junk cars, we talked, and we had our honeymoon. In a trite sordid way, it was quite romantic, I thought.

©13 March 2017

About the Author

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