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A Defining Word, by Ray S

Words are wondrous. They can say very much or they will tell
nothing. For instance:
Perhaps
Maybe
No or yes
Why, when and where
Radical and conservative
Gay and straight
Bi- and trans
Black and white
Under the heading of often used four-letter words:

Love
Lust
The “F word,” short for fornication,
sin or fun
The “S word,” short for natural
fertilizer
Did you ever wonder about the people locked up in windowless
padded cells that invent the pretentious words to the different brands of
automobiles? What is a lexus, elantra, exterra, ultima, infinity, passat,
tourage, cayenne, cayman, etc., etc.
What about all of those wonder drugs?

Cealis or Viagra
All the antacid remedies
Sleeping pills with names that are unpronounceable along with all their side effects
Call your doctor if it lasts longer than four hours or
doesn’t solve your distress in four hours.
I have fallen in love with that good looking everyone’s, man
or woman, hotel bedroom partner especially when the sponsor’s name flashes on
the TV screen.  No, it isn’t Viagra, but
something else like Chivgro??? Never mind, the sponsor’s name; just see if we
can get the number of that vitally mature handsome senior citizen.
This list could go on forever, but I’m afraid there is far
too much for me to define for you, so when you’re completely out of anything
better to do, you can take my place and define whatever you may choose to, and
“Happy trails” oops that has eleven letters. Better try “ciao,” (definition, good
bye.)
© 22
February 2016 
About the Author 
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House Cleaning, by Phillip Hoyle

I’m not against it, house cleaning; I
just am not very good at it, never thinking of the need until I can barely
breathe or company’s coming! I’d rather live in a clean place than a pig sty,
but I’ve been around a bit and know that standards of house cleaning vary
greatly from culture to culture, country to country, family to family, and for
me day to day. Sometimes I feel the need, other times I don’t even see the dust
or grime. I think of Quentin Crisp’s book The
Naked Civil Servant and take consolation that, as he claims, after
three months the dust doesn’t get deeper. It may be true, but then company is
coming and something has to be done.
House cleaning is not a favorite
task. Oh, I was trained to do it as a kid: to run the Electrolux and the
Johnson polisher, to do the dishes and take out the trash. I had to keep my
room neat, put away toys, return books to their proper places, and occasionally
run a dust cloth. Daily I made my bed although it was always an awkward task.
When I went to work at the family grocery store, I learned how most effectively
to use various kinds of brooms, how to dust and face shelves, how to mop and
wax floors, how to strip tile, and how to wash windows. Still, such tasks are
not my favorites.
During the past two weeks I’ve been
reading a book of Pawnee village life in the year 1876 (Gene Weltfish. The Lost Universe: Pawnee Life and Culture
(Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1965). I was intrigued with the
housekeeping work their semi-nomadic life required. They’d leave their earthen
lodges for a month for the summer hunt. In their absence fleas would take over,
so an advance party would return and start cleaning. They’d smoke the places
out several times to chase away the vermin and deodorize. In one scene the
women who were preparing their house complained that the fleas that summer bit
worse than the bedbugs. I thought of Denver’s current plight with bedbugs and
my fear we might get them since I check out books from the public library.
Fears aside, my house cleaning seems quite simple compared with what these
folks endured.
Mom was a housekeeper who must have
marveled at the modern home she and dad built just before their wedding, a house
with a gas furnace, gas stove, and hot running water. There were no trees to
cut and logs to carry in, no cows to feed and milk, no chickens to feed, to get
eggs from, and to dress for dinner, no garden to tend and reap, no necessary
canning chores. I recall seeing her canning set, probably a wedding gift in
those days, packed away in a box in the basement. I often wondered how one used
such tools. Smart woman, she married a grocer! Harvesting was a simple call to
the store. And I’ve mentioned the Electrolux, the electric polisher, all that
modern stuff. But life was not especially a picnic once the children came
along. Besides house cleaning and feeding the flock, she modeled clothing at a
department store, taught Sunday school, eventually led PTA and Girl Scouts
meetings, organized an evening youth group at church, and reared five children.
She served as a committee person with the Kansas Prohibitionist Party, attended
meetings of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, supported the Kansas
Children’s Service League, and after my sister Christy got polio, worked hard
for the Kansas March of Dimes. She trained her kids to do any number of
cleaning tasks and like a sergeant held us to our work with expectations
softened with humor. Housekeeping was easy for her, a woman who worked
efficiently in everything she did.
I married a young woman whose mom
very self-consciously had trained her to become a housewife as well as a good
citizen and good church volunteer. Myrna buzzed around the house with ease
keeping things clean, cooking, and preparing for company. I made it my task to
support her work by not leaving messes, picking up after myself, and assisting
in house cleaning anytime I was asked. I’m sure I was completely spoiled.
Many years later I had my own place,
alone. I was fifty years old. I immediately smashed together living and dining
spaces in order to gain an art studio, a place I wouldn’t have to clean up
daily. I rarely entertained but rather read, wrote, studied, did art pieces and
occasionally had sex with a guest. Later, in Denver, I had even less space to
mind. I got a sweeper, set up my art studio in one room and my massage studio
in the other. The regular presence of clients for massage served as my impetus
to do house cleaning. I’m sure I wanted Mom and Myrna to be somehow proud of
me.
I so tend to get into the moment of
house cleaning, a moment that takes me deep into a corner, for instance, a
stain or some other single task I’ve been putting off and attend to it with
such intensity I lose track of time and the rest of the things I had originally
thought I’d accomplish in the next hour. It’s a hazard of my personality I
guess. Oh well, I’m really not a house cleaner although I do a number of things
in the large house where I now reside. But I miss my two-room apartment that I
could really keep up with. Ten rooms seems excessive to me these days. Oh for
the good old days, but that’s really just a jest. I’d hate to get with it farm
chores, fleas, and bedbugs. So I do what I need to do and let the rest of it
go, oh until company’s on its way.
© 12 Mar 2013 
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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The Men in My Life, by Pat Gourley

Good grief where to begin
with this topic? It could certainly be the title of a book with many, many
chapters. As I have written in the past it has been the women in my life who
have had the most profound impact of substance. By that I mean they are the
ones who have most influenced and shaped my intellectual, philosophical and
certainly political bent. The one possible male exception would be Harry Hay.
For this piece though I
am not going to write about Harry but rather a person who has been in my life
for the past 38 years. This is a man who is now in his late 70’s who I first
met I think in the fall of 1978 or perhaps the spring of 1979 that bit of
history being somewhat fuzzy. We met for the first time and gloriously fucked
at the Empire Baths and then got together the next night at my house for a
repeat. That first night at the tubs I had picked him up in the showers and to
be honest it was his quite ample and thick cock that first caught my attention.
I really don’t think of
myself as a size queen and have thoroughly enjoyed many penises of all sizes
and girths over the years and know from lots of experience that it is not the
size of the member but rather the skill of the partner that makes all the
difference.  It is no longer the case but
in my teens, 20’s and 30’s the sight of a large, stiff dick was irresistible
with all caution thrown to the wind and if this appendage was attached to a man
who also knew how to use it, all the better. 
I really most enjoyed unwrapping a package that came with no assembly
required.
Over the next few years
we came to know one another quite well. I learned that he was married and lived
in rural Colorado. And most shocking of all he was a Republican! Amazing how if
the sex is really good party affiliation seems to rarely be an issue.
Our get-togethers were
always sporadic but consistent over the years and I came to truly appreciate
our genuine mutual love and his no strings attached generosity. I did meet his
wife on a couple of occasions. She is a wonderful, dynamic woman who he still
lives with him in a Western, rural and very Republican state. I never asked and
have no idea what she knew or did not. 
From the early 1980’s on, at my insistence, our sex became scrupulously
safe which turned out to be a good idea after I tested positive for HIV in
1985. He was always the top though so any risk to him and or to his wife was minimal;
latex sealed that deal, even with almost all play being just mutual masturbation.
The dramatic difference
in out worldviews and every day life has been a recurrent and at times a challenging
lesson for me. Our truly loving relationship has been a reminder to not take my
own politics too seriously. I do believe if we could get a majority of the
world’s men to lie naked with one another, even just on rare occasions, the
world would be so much more peaceful and less toxic in general.  Ah, the stuff of dreams.
Though I have only an
inkling of how closeted his life may still be I have always been very
protective of his identity and his hetero life. He has described himself to me
as gay but I don’t ever try to deconstruct that too much. As a good San
Francisco friend recently said in describing another queer theorist writing’s
in the Gay and Lesbian Review: “his
ramblings sound like Tourette’s with a PhD”. No need for me to risk being that sort
of analyst with my dear friend.
We most recently got
together a few days ago on a visit to Denver. Most of our time was spent
soulfully chatting about the recent suicide of a mutual friend and deeply
listening to one another grieve and shed a few tears about this loss.
There was a bit of naked
play on this visit, nothing to compare to 30 years ago of course, but still
enjoyable and generous on his part. No, I did not succumb to lecturing him on
the fact that his dick would work much better if he could get the animal
product out of his diet.  We got to the
point years ago where the quality of our time together was not predicated on
the rigidity or complete lack thereof of our hard-ons. Something that seems to
be a real barometer of many long-lasting gay male friendships I think.
Speaking only from a gay
male perspective here I think it worth mentioning the truly amazing and
literally millions of gay male friendship networks that are enduring and often
totally non-sexual that characterize so much of our queer lives. This is
something that truly differentiates us from many of them. Let me close
paraphrasing my favorite Harry Hay quote of all time: “the only thing we have in
common with the straight world is what we do in bed”.
© 27
Mar 2016 
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.
Posted on

Meaningful Vacation — Massachusetts, by Louis

I cannot remember the
lady’s first name, although her last name must have been Inman, but, sometime
in the 1970’s, she invited me to stay a week in Bridgewater and North
Chathamsport, Massachusetts. Her house was in Bridgewater and her summer house
was in North Chathamsport. I remember it was early October because we went
swimming in Massachusetts Bay, and the water was still warm. After the swim I
would return to her summer cottage and take an outdoor shower to wash off the
saltwater. The main event of the vacation was the Inman family reunion, which
was very well attended. Whoever these people were, they were my distant
cousins.
We then visited several
17th Century graveyards and found Inman’s, Aldrich, Jenks and
Winthrop gravestones. As time went by, I used to think about the original pilgrims
— what was in their minds? What made them tick? There is the version of their
first arrival in 1620 that we all heard in school, which was presented as a
patriotic story.
Much has been written
about the pilgrims, but the two books that I think best describe what the original
pilgrims believed in are Pilgrim’s
Progress by John Bunyan and The
Protestant Ethic by Max Weber, sociologist.
17th Century
Puritan society of the Massachusetts Bay Colony had its drawbacks. Gay people
were unmentionable. Most Jews and Quakers went to live in Providence, Rhode
Island where tolerance for different people was the order of the day. The
strength of the Puritan society depended largely on killing the native American
population. Religious non-conformity and political dissent were not tolerated. And
then the Salem witch trials came along in 1690. The Puritan neighbors were
constantly going to court and suing each other over small and large plots of
land, and water rights. The plentiful court records indicate why we have such
good genealogical records for that period.
It is true that the
modern version of Puritan society is a world-wide empire called the United
States of America, but does this world-wide empire live up to the standards of
the original Pilgrims? Do its moral drawbacks outweigh its so-called moral
superiority?
Bernie Sanders claims the
U. S. government has been corrupted by Wall Street. I would say that this is
one example of immorality that modern-day Puritans should disapprove of. The U.
S. empire tends to bully third world countries and has not solved the problem
of white people in the U. S. bullying black people and rich people bullying
poor people. Our foreign policy seems much too bellicose. Our whole capitalist
system seems to be based on greed rather than on sincere Judeo-Christian
moral precepts.
Protestant Work Ethic
From Wikipedia,
the free encyclopedia
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Cover of the
original German edition of The
Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism.

The Protestant work ethic (or the Puritan work
ethic) is a concept in theology, sociology, economics and history which
emphasizes that hard work, discipline and frugality[1] are a result of a person’s salvation in the Protestant faith, particularly in Calvinism, in contrast
to the focus upon religious attendance, confession, and ceremonial sacrament in the Catholic tradition.
The Protestant work ethic is often credited with helping to
define the societies of Northern Europe, such as in Britain, Scandinavia, Latvia, Estonia, the Netherlands, Germany and Switzerland. British colonists and later Germanic immigrants brought their work ethic to British North
America and later the United States of America. As such a
person does not need to be religious in order to follow the Protestant work
ethic, as it is a part of certain cultures.
The phrase was initially coined in 1904–05 by Max
Weber in his book The
Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism.[2]
The Pilgrim’s Progress from This World to That Which Is
to Come; Delivered under the Similitude of a Dream is a 1678 Christian allegory written by John Bunyan. It is regarded as one of the most significant works of
religious English
literature,[1][2][3][4] has been translated into more than 200 languages, and
has never been out of print.[5][6]
When I read The
Pilgrim’s Progress, I found it extremely entertaining; the bad aspect
of the book was its apparent emphasis on being narrow-minded and humility
meaning self-deprecation. It trivialized many aspects of Christianity such as
the sacraments. But it did explain how 17th century Puritans
thought.
© 21 Apr 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

The Women in My Life, by Lewis

I.  TRUDY
I
think I am on safe ground in saying that I am likely the serendipitous product
of the unlikely coupling of a lesbian with a man who never seems to have had a
prurient thought in his lifetime.
I
wrote extensively about my mother back on December 2nd of last year.  Back then, I did not delve into the
circumstantial evidence for my mother’s lesbianism.  I will wade into that somewhat sticky thicket
today, however, as it is the earliest historical instance of the almost
fantastical history of the women in my experience.
Let
us turn the imaginary clock back to May 15th, 1939.  The scene is Pratt, Kansas, a place scarcely
touched by the Renaissance, let alone the Enlightenment.  Married to Bernard for 12-years with
children, B.J., aged 10, and Joyce, aged 8, Mother filed for divorce on the
grounds of “extreme cruelty”.  The Divorce Agreement goes on to claim that
“unfortunate differences and disputes have arisen between the parties and
they have separated with the intention of living separate and apart from each
other during the remainder of their natural life [sic]”.
The
only complaints Mother ever expressed to me about Bernard were that he was an
alcoholic and once came onto their porch distraught and tearfully imploring her
to take him back.  She berated his lack
of manliness.  My half-sister and
-brother, who continued to see their father until his death, told me that he was
not an alcoholic.
Here’s
where the Divorce Agreement gets bizarre: 
“There have been two children born of this marriage…They are now
living with the husband and he is to have the care and custody of said children
in the future.  In this connection the
said husband agrees to be responsible for the support and maintenance of said
children.  It is further agreed that the
wife shall be permitted to see and visit said children and said children are to
be allowed to see and visit with her.
“It
is further understood and agreed that the husband and wife, since their
marriage, have accumulated but little real and personal property…and they
have some personal property, including an automobile.  All of said property is to belong to the
husband, except any items of personal property belonging to the wife.”
Then,
comes this little tidbit:  “…[T]he
said wife does hereby release and discharge the said husband from all
obligations of support and from all claims and duties arising out of their
marital relations.”
Within
a year-and-a-half, my mother had married again, this time to my father.  It was his first marriage.  I’m not certain of the date of their first
meeting, but I do know where it took place. 
Dad had an office on the second floor of the Sears department store in downtown
Pratt where my mother and another woman operated a beauty parlor.  At some point in this interval between
“Hello” and “I do”, Mom’s business partner unceremoniously
departed for California.  My suspicion is
that Mom got caught in a gay tryst and surrendered all rights to parentage and
property to silence Bernard.  That would
also explain the sudden departure of mom’s business partner for the west coast.
Since
I have covered some of this ground before, I will not repeat myself.  Suffice it to say that for as long as I can
remember, Mom and Dad slept in twin beds. 
From the time I was six, Dad dressed in another room.  I never remember seeing them kissing or
hugging or showing any form of physical affection during their 49-year marriage.  Was Mom gay? 
Dad?  Both?  Neither? 
Perhaps they were perfectly suited marital partners–each as cover for
the other at a time when being gay was strictly verboten.  I’ll probably never know for certain. 
II.  JOYCE
Joyce
was Mom’s second child by her first husband, Bernard.  I have mentioned her before in one of these stories
as the young woman who gave me such a thrill when she stayed overnight in my
bed when I was about 3 or 4 years old. 
She was truly beautiful and a dear, sweet person.  I adored her and so did my mother.
As
long as I can remember, Joyce was married to Moe.  Moe was an engineer on the railroad.  They lived in Pratt.  They had two children, a boy, Damon, followed
a couple years later by a girl, DeeAnn. 
I was an uncle at the age of 9. 
When they came to visit, Mom and Joyce would go shopping and I would
play with my niece and nephew.  We all
got along famously.
When
she was 55, Joyce was afflicted with pancreatic cancer and soon died.  It was a terrible blow to the family, and my
mother in particular.  I will treasure
her memory forever.
III.  SANDY SUE
Before
I started school, my best friend was Sandy Sue. 
She lived in a corner house at the far end of the block.  She had a basement where we could play
hide-and-seek.  Sometimes, when other
kids were around, we would play spin-the-bottle.  On one occasion, Sandy Sue and I were in the
basement playing with matches.  Somehow–I’m
pretty certain I had a roll to play–a wastebasket was set on fire.  The flames shot up as high as my head.  We both panicked.   Sandy’s mother must have heard something or
smelled smoke because she came running down the stairs and put out the
fire.  I was sent home, now as a persona
non grata. 
IV.  JUDY
When
I was half-way through kindergarten, my parents moved into a small ranch house
with three bedrooms so my maternal Granddad could live with us and Dad could
have an office at home.  On moving day, I
was standing in the front yard taking in the new surroundings when I heard a
voice approaching from behind.   It was
Judy.  She was what they used to call a
tomboy.  She grew up with three older
brothers and liked to do things that boys like to do.  Although I was pretty shy, we became the best
of friends.
I
should have known by then that playing in basements invited risky behaviors.  When we were about 10–Judy was 12 days
younger than I–we were playing hide-and-seek in her basement when she said,
“Let’s play doctor!”
“How do you play
‘doctor’?”, I naively queried.
“Well, I’ll be the
doctor first and you’ll be the patient, then we’ll switch”, she
replied.  “You’ll start by taking
off your clothes.”
“Oh, no,” I blurted
out.
“Don’t worry.  I do it with my brother and he doesn’t
mind.”
“If you insist, I’m
leaving.”
“OK, I won’t
insist,” she said.
I’ve
often wondered whether, had I not been so unaccustomed to being naked in the
presence of others or had I not been an inchoate gay boy, might I have
responded differently to Judy’s entreaty.
When
we were 5th graders, Judy and her family moved to Wichita.  Much later, on a visit when we were 19, she
proposed to me.  By that time, I
understood why “playing doctor” with her had not aroused my
curiosity.  I told her “No”,
once again.  By that time, her family was
living in Evergreen, CO, and I saw her only infrequently.  She married, then divorced, then married
again and is now living in Arvada.  We
are still friends though no longer close.
V.  JANET
After
graduating from the University of Kansas with a Mechanical Engineering degree
in January of 1970, I took a job with Ford in Dearborn, MI.  For the first time in my life, I had neither
school nor friends to keep me busy.  I
had lots of time to think about who I was and where my life was going.  I decided to get some professional counseling.  After many visits, I told my psychologist
that I was sexually attracted to men. 
His advice was to tell me that I would be happy if I simply found the right
woman.  Within less than a year, I had met
a woman and we started dating.  I was
very uncomfortable and must have telegraphed my discomfort.  It only lasted a couple of months. 
Soon,
I was feeling secure enough in my orientation that I wanted to come out to my
parents back in Kansas.  I told my
therapist that I was thinking of writing them a “coming out” letter.  He said that would be a terrible mistake, so
I didn’t.
About
six months later I went to a Christmas party attended by clients of my
therapist’s two group sessions.  I struck
up a conversation with a young woman who was a member of the other group or,
should I say, she struck up a conversation with me.  Her name was Janet and we talked for two
hours.  Like Judy, she was extroverted,
very down-to-earth, and knew her own mind. 
Not liking to linger at parties, I politely excused myself, said my
“goodbyes” and left.  As I was
getting into my car, a man known to both Janet and me came rushing out of the
house with a note in his hand.  It was
Janet’s phone number.
Well,
I did call her a few days later.  We had
many interests in common and began to see each other regularly.  I even told her of my interest in men.  Janet had been “around the block”,
shall I say, sexually, having once been a member of the Sexual Freedom League,
an organization formed in 1963 in New York City which, to quote Wikipedia, “existed to promote and conduct
sexual activity among its members and to agitate for political reform,
especially for the repeal of laws against abortion and censorship, and had many
female leaders”.  The fact that
Janet had been raised in a Polish Catholic family but had rejected the Church
while still in college for its sexism, only made her more attractive to me.
Within
three months or so, we were having sex regularly.  I can remember driving to work from her
apartment after spending the night wondering if my co-workers could detect the
odor of our coupling. 
We
were about to have sex in my bedroom on one day that July of 1972 when Janet
asked me if I was still attracted to men. 
I answered truthfully, “Yes”. 
She then wanted to know if I was still committed to marital monogamy, a
subject we had discussed at length.  I
answered in the affirmative.  She was
happy with that. 
We
married that fall in the Unitarian Universalist Church in Rockford, IL.  The minister had been at the Detroit UU
Church when we first met.  Her family came
from Michigan, mine from Minnesota and Kansas, so the location was a good
compromise. 
That
night, there was no latex involved in our love-making.  By Thanksgiving, Janet began spotting.  Something was wrong.  I have already told this story, so I’ll spare
you now, except to say that we lost that child. 
Eventually, luck being with us, we had two children, a girl and a boy.
I
was absolutely true to my word and remained faithful to Janet throughout the 26
years of our marriage, as she was to me. 
Oh, I had a rich fantasy life and that kept me going, so to speak.  We both had careers, she as an elementary
school teacher and I as an automotive engineer. 
Neither of us lived to work, however, and no housework nor child care
activity was beneath either of our dignities.
As
time went on, however, I found it increasingly difficult to sublimate my gay
inner persona.  I began to focus more and
more at home on my hobby, thinking that merely being “present” was
parenting enough.  It wasn’t, though it
took me many years to figure that out–at a cost of much pain to my kids.  I won’t dwell on this now.  That will be the subject for another Monday
afternoon.
Let
it suffice to say that Janet and I are still friends to this day, despite
divorcing in 1999.  Janet stated emphatically
that she would never remarry and she has held true to that conviction.  She lives close enough to both kids to see
them regularly.  She spends her time
playing clarinet in three community bands, taking watercolor classes, and
visiting friends.  She has a number of
serious health issues and is scheduled for hip replacement surgery in December.
For
a quarter century, we were as close as any man and woman I have ever
known.  She brought me blessings by the
bucketful.  I couldn’t have asked for a
more loving companion and partner. 
LAURA/CALIX
I
have already written about Laura’s difficult delivery using forceps on her head
while the doctor pulled the delivery table, a nurse, and me across the delivery
room floor.  I also told about the first
time I held her in my arms when she was less than a day old, removing the
hospital gown I had been given only to find a blob of baby poop on my dress
shirt.  Yes, it was very early in my
daughter’s life that I knew who was calling the shots.
Calix
was not the name Janet and I gave her at birth. 
That was “Laura”. 
“Calix” is the name our daughter assumed when she became an
adult.  Other than both consisting of
five letters, the second of which is ‘a’, the two names could hardly sound more
different.  It was just another milestone
on her journey toward becoming her own person.
Is
it a rule of parenting that, if one of your children is neat, punctual,
compliant, unassuming and shy, the other will be passive-aggressive, messy,
contrary, and stubborn?  If so, how much of
that is rebellion, how much life experience, and how much luck-of-the-draw?
In
1980, Janet and I, with our daughter about to enter kindergarten, moved from
Detroit to the tony suburb of Grosse Pointe Farms, where Janet taught 4th
grade.  For the 7-1/2 years we lived in
the big city, we had not had so much as a lawn sprinkler stolen, although it
had been slightly unnerving to watch the tree limbs drop to the ground as the
next-door neighbors and their friends fired their guns into the sky on New
Years’ Eve.
Five
months after moving in, Janet and I attended a Detroit Symphony Orchestra
concert.  The baby-sitter we had hired–and
her parents–were known to Janet through her teaching.  The girl was 13 but kind of new to
baby-sitting, certainly new to us.  After
the concert, we had been invited to the home of one of Janet’s fellow teachers for
coffee.  Driving home around 12:30 AM, we
could see from a couple of blocks away flashing red lights in the vicinity of
our house.  As we pulled into the drive,
the side door opened and a plainclothes policeman approached the car.  He ushered us inside.  There had been some trouble.
Earlier
in the evening, a woman known only superficially to Janet had been in the
emergency waiting room of a local hospital with a couple of friends.  They were trying to get her committed for
psychiatric care but needed the signature of a second doctor because it was
without the patient’s consent.  At some
point, the distraught woman had simply walked out of the hospital and took off on
foot in the direction of our house.  She
had gone nearly two miles when a neighbor noticed her in the middle of the
street, shedding clothes as she went. 
The neighbor called the police. 
We had left the side porch light on. 
Whether that was what attracted the woman to our house or not, I don’t
know.  She walked up to the side door naked
from the waist up and rang the bell.  I’m
sure she was verbalizing, as well.
When
the baby-sitter saw her, she turned back and ran to the kitchen, where there
was a phone.  She called her home.  Her dad answered.  Meanwhile, the woman broke a small window
glass in the side door and let herself in. 
She walked up to the sitter and began running her fingers through the
girl’s hair, upon which the babysitter dropped the phone and ran out the
door.  At this point, the woman began
rummaging through the kitchen drawers, looking for something to use as a
weapon.  All she found, luckily, was a
pair of vegetable shears.  She set out
looking for a victim. 
The
babysitter ran screaming toward a couple across the street walking their
dog.  She tried to tell them which house
she had come from but, in her panic and unfamiliarity, wasn’t sure.  At just this moment, a cop car came down the
street in response to the phone call reporting that a woman was taking off her
clothes and dropping them on the street.
The
distraught woman walked right past the bedroom where our two-year-old son was
sleeping to the far end of the ranch house and into Laura’s bedroom.  Waking her, she knelt over her and began to
make mostly superficial stab wounds over Laura’s face, torso, and near her
vagina.  The most serious of the wounds
penetrated Laura’s lower lip.
When
the police entered the house, they saw the woman wielding the scissors while
repeating, “I have to kill the children”.  It took three officers to wrestle the woman
to the floor and put her coat back on to take her away.
Laura
was not seriously hurt physically.  All
of the wounds healed on their own except for the one to the lip, which required
a stitch or two.  At the commitment
hearing for the woman, I sat just in front of her husband, who whispered to me that
all women are just a hair away from mental instability once a month
anyway.  She was committed to a mental
hospital for 90 days, after which she was released to the care of her loving
husband.
Janet
and I sought counseling for Laura immediately. 
Some of the advice we got was less than useful, though we did not
realize it right away.  I’m sure some of
it did more harm than good, including setting up a point system to reward good
behavior and punish bad.  Laura had
always been late for everything, slow to dress, having to be coaxed to get
ready for school, on and on.  She started
sucking her thumb and continued doing it into high school.  It caused her mother and me no end of
frustration.
In
high school, Laura befriended a girl who also was an outsider.  Their relationship was so close that other
kids thought they were lesbians.  Our
son, Nolan, two years younger, was teased about that when he started high
school.  In their senior year, Laura and
the other girl had a falling out.  The
other girl brought a knife to school and threatened Laura with it.  Laura became depressed.  She was hospitalized and diagnosed with PTSD,
probably from the incident when she was four.
Calix
was a talented poet and artist.  She went
on to college hoping to teach philosophy but ran into a brick wall when it came
to writing term papers.  She not only had
PTSD but also ADD and Generalized Anxiety Disorder.  At age 38, she is still a year away from a
bachelor’s degree and works for $9 an hour at a clothes cleaning establishment.
Four
years ago, she married the love of her life, Scott.  He works at Walgreen’s as a clerk though he
holds an MBA which he earned online. 
Together, they made $25K last year and have, between them, over $70K in
college loan debt.  They are living
almost from hand-to-mouth and their future is far from bright.   They seem happy, though they cannot afford
to have the child they so much desire, and I am happy for them.  It’s nothing like the life Janet and I wanted
for her but it will have to do.
EPILOGUE
There
is another woman who has played a critical role in my life.  She was my son’s girlfriend back in
2008.  Her name was Jasmine.  Nolan has a penchant for dating women with
exotic names–Alethea, Jasmine, and Destiny among them.
One
night in late February of 2008, Jasmine came to confront Nolan in his apartment
after he had sought to break off the relationship.  Jasmine picked up a knife and stabbed Nolan
in the throat, just missing his carotid artery by 2 mm.  He ran down the stairs and into the attached
garage.  He got into his car and pressed
the garage door opener.  Jasmine followed
him to the garage and used the button near the inside door to close the garage
door again.  She still clutched the
knife.  Nolan got out of the car, ducked
under the closing door and ran from neighbor to neighbor, barefoot, pajama-clad
and bleeding in the snow, seeking help. 
After several rebuffs, an elderly woman let him in.  Jasmine was tried and went to jail for four
months following a plea bargain, despite evidence that she had used Nolan’s
computer to research the anatomy of the human neck, including the location of
the critical artery.
I
believe I am truly unique in the fact that both of my children were at one point
in their lives stabbed by emotionally distraught, if not downright loony,
women.  I think that gives me a somewhat
unique perspective although I have no idea as to what.
© 24 Nov 2012 
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.
Posted on

Bricks, by Gillian

My mother, not
someone I would identify as a religious person, used to read me stories from
the Bible. She favored the New Testament, particularly the Parables. I think
she believed, quite rightly in my opinion, that they would have a more positive
influence on me than Fairy Tales, many of which seem to be about little girls
coming to bad ends through little or no fault of their own.
Occasionally she
chose readings from the Old Testament, and one of these was the tale of Making
Bricks Without Straw. (This is how it is generally thought of, anyway, though
to be accurate that is incorrect. Pharaoh did not tell the Israelites they had
to make bricks without straw but rather that straw would no longer be provided
for them; they would have to get it themselves.) I suspect that she liked the
tale because, in this post-war time of severe rationing, she felt that she
spent her life trying to create the necessities of life without the basic
ingredients.
Be all of that as
it may, it was my introduction to bricks.
The house I grew up
in, like most homes in rural Britain, was made of local stone, not brick nor
wood. Various ambitious British monarchs building various ambitious fleets of
wooden ships had depleted British woodlands almost to the point of oblivion.
Brick was expensive. Stone was frequently there for the taking. The problem is,
rough-hewn stone such as that of my childhood home, is rather like a badly-cut
jigsaw puzzle. The pieces don’t fit together well, and require great amounts of
mortar to keep things stable. The mortar requires constant repair, and even
with that the incessant rain finds it’s way into and through the walls. The
house was always cold and damp.
When I rode the
local bus to to the local town, with it’s burgeoning suburbia, I looked upon
the brick homes with envy. Perhaps they did, as my mother said with sniffing
disdain, all look alike. But that look was warm, and snug, and cozy; none of
which adjectives could be applied to our home. They were, perhaps, 150 years
younger, but that failed to register. In the event, I moved from English
fieldstone to American wood siding and never did live in a brick house until
Betsy and I got together. Over the twenty-eight years we have been together we
have had three houses, all brick, and all living up to my dreams of warm and
cozy.
In the Britain of
my childhood, I’m not sure about nowadays, we would call a certain type of
person a brick. Ooh, you really are a brick! you’d say to the kind
neighbor who, unasked, took your children to her house for a few days so that
you could go to bed with that awful flu. He’s such a brick, you’d say,
about the friend who was always there to lend a practical hand in times of
trouble. A brick is someone thoughtful, kind, reliable, generous. Betsy is a
brick. It’s a large part of why I love her so much.
Several years ago I
signed up for a tour of Lakewood Brick Company. It was scheduled to start quite
early in the morning, and we lived in Park Hill at that time, so I left home
about 7.00 a.m.  There was surprisingly
little traffic about. Was it some holiday I’d forgotten? Rather than wondering
about it I gave thanks for quiet streets which gave me time to pop into the
grocery store to get a snack for lunch. The store somehow had an odd feeling to
it, rather the way the roads had. The few customers all seemed to be standing
in little groups engaged in serious conversations rather than actually
shopping. I was getting a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach.
‘What’s going on?’
I asked two employees who stood muttering together.
‘Oh! Haven’t you
heard?’ They stumbled over each other to give me the news.
‘A plane crashed
into one of the New York sky-scrapers,’ said one.  ‘Only, then there was another crash so they
don’t know what’s happening,’ added the other.
I forgot lunch and
went back to the car to listen to the radio. Clearly what they had told me was
what was being reported, but all in total confusion. The newscasters obviously
had no clear picture of what exactly had happened and what continued to happen.
The only certainty was; it was not good. It was serious. It was some kind of
national emergency.
What to do? Should
I go back home? To do what? Would they cancel the Brick Company tour?
Uncertainly I
turned through the high fence gates and parked, to be joined in the next few
minutes by a few other cars. The tour began as scheduled but with about a
quarter of the number expected. Those of us who had turned up gave it our best
but it was hopeless. The man leading the tour tried, but was clearly
distracted. He wasn’t concentrating on what he was saying and no-one was really
listening. Cell Phones kept chiming and chirping. The recipient would listen,
disconnect, and pass on the latest to the rest of us. Pretty soon, by some kind
of unspoken but unanimous decision, we gave up and went home through streets
that were, if anything, even more silent than before, to sit at home and stare
in horrified disbelief at our televisions along with everyone else.
Where we live now
is not very far from Lakewood Brick Company. We drive past it quite often.  But no matter how many times I pass it, it
never fails to take me back to that terrible day which so changed this country,
and indeed the world, forever.
Until I started to
write this piece, I don’t think I had ever realized that bricks actually loom
quite large in my psyche, one way and another. Amazing what you discover about
yourself writing these little Monday afternoon vignettes.
© 12 Oct 2015 
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.
Posted on

Vibrations of Time, by Carlos

A
ghost abides in my house, although the word ghost is hardly the appropriate
word to use, for I think both he and I prefer to use the word spirit. He is an inconspicuous
energy that lingers around me like the aroma of mint tea on a frosty day or the
taste of orange blossom honey on a warm croissant. I have only seen him once, a
snippet of a shadow that appeared in my periphery vision and was gone like a
summer beam of light. I was working in the garden and happened to look up at
small window above the staircase, catching him as he spied down on me. He is a
fine-featured, tall gentleman dressed in what looks like an Edwardian morning
coat and silk ascot. And although I dismissed him as an overactive imagination
borne perhaps from too many hours under the summer sun or from the expectation
that a spirit should after all reside in a Victorian home, I have never, until
now, spoken of him. I’ve given him the name John, and he seems most content
that I should name him so.
This
is not to say that John has always been a quiet energy, satisfied to waft
through the air like the first sublime notes of Karl Jenkins’ Benedictus. When I first moved into our 1888
Queen Anne, she looked like a dollhouse that had been touched inappropriately
by too many who had taken from her, but never loved her unconditionally. The
windows were broken, and the rooms frigid. Her fine details were gone, ripped
out and sold or simply discarded and replaced by the more modern contrivances
of evolving tastes. As for her garden, only two century-old maples and two
weathered apple trees remained, no doubt, an attempt by early homesteaders to
tame the wild grasslands of a former time. Nevertheless, our attraction to each
other was instantaneous, like two would-be lovers who meet on a quiet dance
floor and see each other’s souls through the haze and shadowy darkness. Putting
an offer, and finalizing the closing, within weeks our destinies were linked.
On my first day in my proud, but sad, house, I sat on the floor and envisioned
hopes and promises yet to be birthed. I sat in terror, pondering whether I
would be worthy enough to respect her and restore her faded self-esteem. Upon
moving in, I immediately hanged my treasured cuckoo clock upon a wall, taking
great joy in calibrating the weights every week to enjoy the automaton’s hourly
call. It became a symbol of my own nesting.
Often
the vibrations between house and me were at odds and tenuous, much like a newly
wedded couple in an arranged marriage. She was suspicious of my intentions; I remained
dubious as to whether I could do right by her, whether I could be faithful to
just one. The energy within the house was impudent, challenging me as though to
undermine me and determine my reaction. 
After the water pipes froze and water fountained throughout the first
floor one frigid winter night, I repaired the damage and remained, proving to
both us that I was not about to retreat in spite of our apprehensions. As I cleaned
from the deluge and pulled up nasty, old carpeting, I connected with the past,
discovering sheaves of 1920’s vintage newspapers, now soaked, that had been
laid down by a former tenant to insulate the floors. Later, she tested my vows
as when during a small dinner party, I shame-faced discovered I had served gritty
sand in our soup bowls. Thinking I had been guilty of not washing the
vegetables, I, to my dismay, ladled out a chunk of horsehair plaster from the
ceiling that had unexpectedly fallen into the kettle. It was not long after
that that John’s presences made itself known. One night something touched my
toe as I lay in bed. I spent a few sleepless hours in a frigid room, not sure
whether I was more frustrated with the blustery winds that tumbled and shrieked
through the dark hallways or the unwarranted caress from the unknown. When I
demolished the upstairs walls, since they were but cheap cardboard sheathing
unceremoniously nailed down between rows of wood furring strips, giving the rooms
a prison-like aura, John was angry, perhaps because he thought that like others
before me, my intentions were to dismantle his world even further. I heard him
stomping angrily upstairs with fury, convincing me I was about to be pummeled
by a would-be intruder. However, when I ran upstairs to investigate, the sound
ceased; he had retreated. Over the ensuing years, the energy in the house gradually
changed to a live-and-let-live ambiance as I jacked up foundations, replaced
floors and windows, brought the plumbing and electricity up to code, and
strengthened the bones of the house. Eventually, chandeliers and fretwork,
stained glass and tile, roses and violets and sweet woodruff gardens graced my
home, mirroring her former self and solidifying my intentions to honor a
promise made when I was young and naive. Years earlier, I had concluded that
John did not care for the raucous sounds of my cuckoo clock since as long as
the clock chimed, his presence lingered nearby; thus, I decided to put the
clock in storage.  I suspect that in
doing so, I finally banished him, for the energy in the house became peaceful and
sedate, a true nest of repose. Yet, in truth, I missed his child-like antics,
his protective aura that pushed away suitors who were not good enough for me,
but welcomed those bathed in an evanescent light. Today, although he never
reveals his presence and rarely leaves a calling card of his ethereal essence, I
know he is still as close as my heart. Ever vigilant and circumspect, I know he
watches protectively over the house, over my now husband and me. We felt his
presence reaching out the night our Jonathan died as though reminding us that
death is a return back home, with a promise of reuniting. I feel his presence
as he keeps guard over me in the garden, trying to coax another poppy or
hollyhock to reveal the scarlet garment encased within her burgeoning bud. I
feel his presence when I am afraid of death and tired of living. Sometimes in
the middle of the night, I walk downstairs and meditate, and although always unobtrusive,
he waits nearby, shielding me from evil. Because I’ve come to understand his
intentions as being altruistic and benign, I’ve decided to unpack the cuckoo
clock and restore its warbling mechanic bird.  It is time to let him know he is not banished;
it is time to restore him to his rightful place in our home.
Our
home remains a work- in-progress, as well as a financial behemoth. More
important, however, it is a haven, a reminder that past sunbeams continue to blaze
and undulating rhythms continue to resonate, reminding me that I am but a
traveler temporarily away from home. I rejoice that time’s vibrations echo in
my life; I acknowledge energy’s immortality. I suspect that when I finally
awaken from my slumber, John, whether he is real or simply an abstract,
metaphysical self-deception, will serve as a reminder of the bewildering
ripples of time. Thus, I conclude that oscillations of time and space ultimately
act like concentric circles radiating from their source, the effect expanding
outward until equilibrium is again restored.
© 23 May 2016 (Denver) 
About
the Author 

Cervantes
wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.”  In spite of my constant quest to live up to
this proposition, I often falter.  I am a
man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have
also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic.  Something I know to be true. I am a survivor,
a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite
charming.  Nevertheless, I often ask
Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth.  My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to
Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the
Tuscan Sun.  I am a pragmatic romantic
and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time.  My beloved husband and our three rambunctious
cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of
my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under
coconut palms on tropical sands.  I
believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s
mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty.  I am always on the look-out for friends,
people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread
together and finding humor in the world around us.
Posted on

How Being Lesbian Has Directed My Spiritual Journey – A Journey to Serenity, by Betsy

I was recently reminded of the
huge respect I have for the 12 Step Program when I attended an Al-anon meeting
as a guest.  I had some knowledge of the
12 steps from some previous experiences, but have never actually worked the
program. 
I was amazed to hear a member
share that he was thankful for the alcoholism in his family as it is because of
that that the man had been introduced to the 12 steps program.
For the next couple of days, I
attempted to draw parallels in my life to what I had heard in the meeting and
to apply my experiences to some of the steps. 
It finally occurred to me that I could make an analogy with my
experience of growing up gay and coming out.
Consider the first step, for
example.  “We admitted that we were
powerless over alcohol and our lives had become unmanageable.”  Apply this to coming out, I mused.  I acknowledged, accepted that I was
homosexual and powerless to change that fact.”
Growing up pretending to be
straight, living the life-style of a heterosexual person can be seen as
resistance to nature itself. A self-imposed resistance put in place by societal
norms and the culture around sexual behavior of the time.  Admitting, that is, giving in to the reality
that I am homosexual, not heterosexual, accepting this fact and being totally
aware of it could be seen as the first step to take in managing a large problem
in one’s life. Clearly I prefer using the word “acknowledge” or accept” to the
word “admit” in this context. Making others aware of our true self reinforces
one’s resolve and strength to manage that life and to live honestly.
Being gay, of course, is not a
direct parallel to abuse of alcohol. Although there are those who may see
homosexuality as an addiction and something of which one should diligently work
to deny him/herself and to be rid of.  Fortunately,
it appears that most people today know better. 
Today we are anxiously waiting to see whether our Supreme Court wants to
be included in that majority group.
Step 2: “We came to see that a
power greater than ourselves restored us to sanity.”  I see my sexuality as part of my Being and my
being represents, according to my belief, the power of God within me.  This is not something I control any more than
I can control the color of my eyes, the shape of my face, or any other aspect
of my tangible or intangible form.
Steps 3, 4, and 5 further
reflect the healing effect of acknowledging who I truly am both in word and
life style.
I’m going to skip step 6—“We’re
entirely ready to have God remove these defects of character.”
However, I can see
interpreting this as a supplication to God to forgive me for not honoring my
true self at an earlier time in my life.
The rest of the steps are more
directly applicable to issues other than coming out/being out. However, I see
them as very powerful concepts to put into practice for any one any time.
I also was reminded of the
Serenity Prayer which is used to open and close the Al-anon meetings.  I have a miniature of the Serenity Prayer on
my bedside table.  It’s been there a long
time and I usually forget it is there. I am very happy to be reminded of its
powerful words—very appropriate for GLBT’s—and I hope to remember to utter them
or at least think of them every day.
“God, give me the strength to accept what I cannot change,
The courage to change that which I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.”
© 10 Jun 2015 
About the Author 

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

A Defining Word, by Will Stanton

OK, so I know that two words are a term, not a word; but that is what I have chosen to write about, a term: “sexual preference.” I have chosen those two words because, over the years, they have been used so much, yet they certainly are not defining words.

Yes, I know what people usually mean when they employ that term when asking, “What is your sexual preference?” Most likely, they mean “straight or gay.” I usually answer, “I’m not sure. It’s hard for me to choose between blond or brunette. One day, I lean toward blond; yet, on other days, I’m drawn to dark-brown hair, maybe even black.”
A person’s preference may have little to do with sexual identity. For one example, I can conceive of a person born homosexual whose preference would be to be heterosexual. And of course, someone’s preference might be to a person of the opposite gender.
In addition, a person’s preference may be a partner who is young, or old, same race or different race, very good-looking or, instead, a very good person, looks being of less importance. Many gay guys seem to be preoccupied with the size of male genitalia. Other people could not care less, placing far more importance on someone’s other attributes.
In order to avoid confusion or misinterpretation, I prefer communication to be as precise as possible. Therefore, because genetics and brain structure are major determinants of each person’s drives and attractions, I suggest that the more logical term should be “sexual orientation;” and this is what I use if the subject comes up in conversation. Even then, that term is not completely defining, for people are complex and of varied natures.
And, as long as we are talking about commonly used terms, a little bell goes off each time I hear the frequently used term “bisexual.” My having involved myself for several decades in human behavioral treatment, the term “bisexual” always connotes for me a possible biological influence in someone’s nature or physical structure. After all, human sexuality is not binary, that is, either heterosexual or homosexual. Someone’s nature or orientation lies somewhere on a linear graph. For those individuals who may engage in sexual relations with people of both heterosexual and homosexual orientation, perhaps a more accurate term would be “ambisexual,” rather like in baseball, a “switch-hitter.” Or, if you would enjoy something more humorous, you might use the term “heteroflexible.”
Finally, generally I avoid popular, overused labels when describing people. People are far too varied and complex. Labeling people hinders the process of getting to know and truly understand someone. Besides, for those persons fortunate enough to have become self-actualized and broad in their interests, sexual orientation is only one part of a human, complex personality.
© 02 February 2016

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.

Posted on

True Colors, by Ricky

Oh say, what is truth? Can you describe for me what color is? Is it true that we all see the same color when looking at an object? Can colors lie? In normal daylight my car looks to be colored either burgundy or brown depending upon what angle one is looking at the vehicle. In twilight, it looks black. So what is the color of my car? Is it burgundy, brown, or black? Officially the manufacturer states the color is burgundy. Thus under different lighting conditions and angles the color shifts, in essence, lying about itself.

Electromagnetic radiation has many frequencies. Visible light is but a small range of those frequencies. The cone structures in our eyes perceive those frequencies and pass the information on to one’s brain where we “see” images containing what we call color. If you and I both could see just one specific Ångström of light, would our brains interpret it as the same shade of whatever color the frequency represents? Or, because of differences in our brains, do we each “see” slightly different colors?
What is true about colors? In my youth, the color red was for firetrucks, stop signs, and anger. Now firetrucks are safety-green or yellow. Back then, yellow was for cowardice, warning, and jaundice. Nonetheless, I Am Curious Yellow made it into the movies. Green is for: go, money, cheese on the moon, grass on the other side of the fence, and envy. Blue has always been for: eyes, the sky, depression, music, and calm. Violet is used to name little girls, a flower, and as a young female character in Ronald Dahl’s book, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Brown is used for dirt, a comic character named Charlie, and of course—yummy chocolate.
One place where colors are “true” is when they are lined up in a rainbow. The colors are always lined up the same each time. They are dependable and bring me a feeling of happiness whenever I see one. 
Colors are very useful. English has many “colorful” words, if they are used correctly. Two such words are Crayola Crayons. When used as nouns, they bring children and adults some joy when making colorful pictures on paper or walls or floors or white shirts.
Before you think up some other colorful words for this lame piece of fluff. I’ll quit writing about it. See ya’ll later.

© 29 February 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