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Compulsion, by Ray S

Let’s see, where do I start? And for that matter does
anyone care?
Answer: Well I do, or I wouldn’t spend the moment to
write about it and let you know how my roommate and I had the be-Jesus scared
out of our innocent little WASPish souls.
Late springtime in central Florida where our school
was lost on some country crossroads. As soon as dinner time was over, everyone
returned to their dormitories to do assigned homework and then lights out at
9:30.
“Hey Billy, they said at dinner announcement time that
those students who wished to could attend a tent meeting—something called a
revival. We just needed to sign up with Mr. Butler. Do you want to go? I don’t
know what they do, but they sing all those goofy church songs like Brighten the
Corner, In the Garden, and Jesus Loves Me. Stuff we never did when I was home.
It wasn’t a difficult choice to make; we could be
excused from homework. So began our big adventure into the world of being born
again. Trouble with that idea was that as two fourteen year olds we had never
known our moms didn’t already do the job once. Did they leave a part out and
these folks could fix it for you? I wondered if they could repair my Ranger
two-wheeler; make hair grow on my chest.
The tent was full of people stomping and crying and
waving their hands, and some were even dancing—which was not allowed at the
school. And it sure was awful hot in that tent.
Billy and I slipped inside, by the rows of chairs with
their swinging and swaying occupants, close to the tent wall and tried to
disappear. I had never seen people in this state except that time my big
brother took me to the movies to see “Reefer Madness.”
The singing stopped and the people sank into their
chairs. Then a big man dressed in a white suit, a little black string time with
beads of perspiration running down his forehead began shouting something about
hellfire and brimstone—whatever that was.
We both started to wonder why we were here and what
had we gotten ourselves into. And how could we escape? When several ladies all
dressed in flowing white dresses—sort of like angels I guess—passed among the
crowd holding out little baskets. Then they all sang a song and swayed a lot.
The big man cried out for all the little ones to come
forward to receive the word. We tried to shrink into the tent wall. This was
all so different and now we were being compelled to participate in an activity
totally foreign to anything we had ever learned.
They made us kneel down and mumbled something. Then we
were pushed aside to make room for more lambs being led to whatever. At this
point Billy and I found an opening in the crowd and headed for the tent
entrance.
Once into the cool evening breeze, heavy with the
scent of orange and grapefruit blossoms, our familiar world came into focus and
we had escaped from the clutches of hellfire and brimstone. The experience
being such that if that is the way Jesus loves you, we politely declined. Stick
with God is Love.
In more recent days when we are sometimes blessed with
our own reasoning, I acknowledge any number of compulsive actions—some bad and
some really great, at least at the time.
But ever since that formative religious compulsion, I
have learned to think for myself and find my own direction to “salvation,” if
that is on the timetable. All ashore who are going ashore!
© 9 November 2015 
About the Author 
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Remembering, by Phillip Hoyle

I
remember a religious educator from years ago who sometimes surprised me with
his rather creative thoughts. (Of course, I’m still trying to recall his name; perhaps
William something.) He once asserted the main resource anyone has in education
is memory. He illustrated his perspective by the example of having boxes and
boxes, files and files of resources such as books, curriculum designs, manuals,
art supplies, costumes, play scripts, musical scores, recordings, movies, and
so forth, but if you don’t recall—that is remember—what you have put away, you
won’t be able to use them.
I
learn more and more about this perspective every day. Just last week I thought
I would wear a particular sweater, but when I opened the storage box where I
thought it was, the one under the chair in the east alcove of the bedroom, the
sweater wasn’t there. I searched the stack of sweaters I’d been wearing, the
ones I’ve been stacking in the chair next to the bed but it wasn’t there, not
even at the bottom of the stack. I looked through the stack of clothes atop the
little chest of drawers in the closet, the one where I keep my sweat shirts and
a few other items, but it wasn’t there. Then I recalled another storage box
under the bed and pulled it out. There I found three sweaters—one I didn’t even
know I owned, but none of the sweaters was the one I thought I was searching
for. I chose one of them to wear, but as I write this story I can’t recall the
sweater I originally thought I was looking for. Was it brown, red, green, or
blue? Bulky knit or smooth? Solid or patterned? Cotton or acrylic? Pullover or
cardigan? Button-up or zippered? I have no idea, no memory.
So
I conclude my friend was right. Oh I found a resource, but it wasn’t the one I
remembered. The problem I face may be one complicated by old age. In sixty five
years I’ve worn so many sweaters—ones I liked and wish I still had (of course none
would fit, but I’m not talking about that)—so many that now I’m confused enough
that I go looking for resources I know but just don’t recall what decade I had
that box, or in which church I kept those particular boxes, or now even that
there is another box of resources under the bed.
Memories.
I have floods of them and at this point sometimes feel overwhelmed by them. So
last week, when I got tired of wearing to Storytime my four sweat shirts (two
of which appear exactly alike to the casual observer) and my five sweaters (I’m
sure I wanted at least to look different than usual on Monday afternoon in case
my story seemed too much the same old thing), so I remembered a sweater I guess
I don’t even own any more, like the old guy with senile dementia who thinks I’m
his childhood lover or the old gal on pain meds who when I visited her in the
hospital introduced me to her nephew although she and I were the only ones in
the room. And I’m writing this story about memories with the earnest hope I’ll
be able to find it in my computer’s word processor when I need to print it out
and put it in my backpack with the other resources I carry to our storytellers
gathering and remember to put the backpack on my back when I leave the house,
pick it up again when I leave my office, not leave it at the restaurant, and able
to find the story when the session begins.
Of
course, should all that fail—or even if just one cog in the works be forgotten)
I could simply rely on my memory to tell this story or some other one I’ve
forgotten about until this very moment. I guess my friend was right. The real
and essential key to resources is one’s memory.
© 20 November 2012 –Denver  
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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Summer Camp, by Lewis


[Foreword:  Some of you may remember my story of June
17th on the topic One Summer Afternoon, wherein I described my frantic and
futile attempt to qualify for the camp lake beach reserved for youngsters who
could demonstrate their ability to swim. 
Had I succeeded in drowning myself in that attempt, I would not have
been able to write a second essay on the much-overrated “joys” of
summer camp experiences that continued to plague me throughout my tender years.  I submit this in the hope that we can
dispense with any and all topics related to camping for the foreseeable
future.]
During the summers of my
9th through 13th years, going to camp became a sacrificial ritual imposed upon
me by parents who must have been desperate to get me out of a chair in front of
the television or out of BB gun range of sparrows unfortunate enough to inhabit
the branches of elm trees within three blocks of our house.  The only condition was that I had to be home
before the Bermuda grass needed cutting again–a span of between 7 and 10
days.  I felt that I was being punished
for being an only child.  They could
hardly to afford to send any additional children to camp so there was always a
chance, as their hypothetical first-born, I could have had the option of
staying home.
My introductory stay at
camp was also the longest–10 days.  It
was the camp with the lake that I wrote about before.  We slept in cabins with, as I recall, five
bunk beds each–two along each side and one across the back wall.  After about four days, I was struck with the
worst case of home-sickness I can recall having.  I had made no friends, the food sucked, and I
had just the day before almost drowned. 
I remember writing a letter to my parents in which I said,
word-for-word, “If you love me, you’ll come and get me”.  I think I might have left a tear stain or two
on the paper, as well.
Oh, there were happy
experiences at camp, especially as I became more accustomed to being away from
home.  I can remember sitting around a
big campfire at Boy Scout camp after dark, surrounded by woods while the adults
told us ghost stories.  I have seldom
been afraid of the dark or ghosts and enjoyed watching a few of the other boys
who appeared to squirm uncomfortably or glance over their shoulders apprehensively.  That gave me a sadistic sense of
satisfaction.  I can remember a time when
a few boys came across what they described as a copperhead in the woods–a
sight which sent them running back to the safety of camp.  I fancied snakes and wished wholeheartedly that I had been with them, as I would have tried to capture the snake so I
could study it.
One memory lies halfway
between those which were painful and those which gave me pleasure.  It occurred during my last Boy Scout camping
experience.  I, being one who has always
believed that the safest place to be after 10 PM is at home, was resting on my
cot in my tent when I heard a commotion outside.  It seems that some of the more brazen boys
had pinned another Scout down, removed his pants, and run them up the flagpole–activity
for which I knew of no connection to being awarded a merit badge. 
I remember thanking my
lucky stars that I was not the unfortunate boy who fell victim to such
silliness, as I was precisely where I was supposed to be–safely ensconced in
my bunk.  Still, I began to wonder what
it would be like to have been among the perpetrators.  It gave me a kind of warm thrill to think
about it, but only briefly, for within a few minutes, I heard the breathless
giggles of 12-year-old ne’er-do-wells approaching my tent.  They threw back the tent flap and four rambunctious
boys rushed in and crowded around my cot. 
One was carrying a flashlight. 
Two of them held my arms and legs while the third flung the cover back
and pulled down my pajama bottoms. Although I could not see, I could almost
feel the heat of the flashlight.  I was
horrified and titillated at the same time, not knowing which reaction might be
betrayed by my very stage-frighted anatomical barometer.  “Please, God,” I thought, “don’t
let them laugh.  And where the hell are
the adults?”
As you can probably tell,
camp to me was that brief interlude in the middle of summer when I wished I
were back in school…well, except for recess, of course.  But that’s a subject for another day.
© 19 August 2013 

About the Author

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

You all remember that old
sexist joke from the seventies?
New hubby and bride ride
off after the wedding down the trail in the horse buggy. The horse is very
skittish and rears up, almost upsetting the buggy. “That’s one,” says
new hubby. The horse takes off at a gallop, stops suddenly and almost dumps
them both on the ground. “That’s two,” says new hubby. All goes well
for a while, then suddenly the horse bolts off the road and comes to a halt
after just missing a tree. New hubby takes up his rifle and shoots the horse.
“That’s three.”
“What on earth did
you do a crazy thing like that for?” asks the horrified wife.
“That’s one,”
replies new hubby.
Now there is an
unforgiving man! And I have to say, if anyone ever physically abused me, which
I’m fortunate enough to say has never happened, that would be one. And I doubt
we’d get to three. Not that I would ever shoot anyone; but I’d be gone.
I actually don’t like the
word forgiveness. It somehow implies that the forgiver is superior to the forgivee.
I have never said the words I forgive you to anyone. But maybe that is
simply because I have been lucky enough not to have had anything terrible occur
for which I needed to consider forgiveness. Nor has anyone said it to me. I
perhaps have committed an occasional transgression which required forgiveness
by my loved ones, but I knew that I was forgiven by their actions rather than
from any words of forgiveness. I am sure that my eventual coming out at middle
age required some forgiveness by my family, as it meant I was leaving.
Destroying that family in it’s current form. For some it took a while, but I
now know, again without words, that I am forgiven.
John Ortberg says, “Forgiveness
means giving up the right to get even.” 
To me that is a dreadfully superficial understanding of forgiveness. It
is so much more than that.  “Forgiveness,”
says Desmond Tutu, who certainly had to do plenty of it, “says you are
given another chance to make a new beginning.” That sounds much closer to
the truth to me.
And Bernard Meltzer
claims that when you forgive you cannot change the past, but you sure do change
the future. You change yours, if in fact no-one else’s. You cannot control
whether the one you have forgiven changes his or her ways, but you can set
yourself free, at least. You can go forward, free of the heavy baggage of anger
and resentment engendered by un-forgiveness.
Oprah
Winfrey has said, “True forgiveness is when you can say, Thank you for that
experience.”
Now that’s
a hard one. When you find out your spouse has been ‘playing away’ or indulging
in a gambling addiction which lost all the family nest egg, are you really
strong enough to say to yourself, with complete sincerity, I am grateful for
that experience?
What I am very
grateful for is that I have never been put to that test, and firmly believe I
never will be.
© 2 March 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 now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 28
years.
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Away from Home, by Will Stanton

Two generations ago (or was it
two centuries ago?), I was away from home at university in England.  At the same time, my father was in charge of
a university-student group in Frankfurt am Main in Germany.  My mother was with him.
During session-breaks during
Christmas and summer, I went to join them. 
This was long before the “Chunnel” days, so I took a channel ferry from
Dover across the rough waters.  Then I
took the train to Frankfurt am Main (not to be confused with the eastern
Frankfurt am Oder in the federated state of Brandenburg.)  Trains in Europe always have been up-to-date,
modern, fast, comfortable, and on-time. 
(I wonder why America stopped doing that seventy years ago.)
Once I had arrived in
Frankfurt, my parents met me at the station. 
They were staying in a typical apartment, theirs on the second floor
with a view of the narrow street below. 
I enjoyed walking with them the short distance to the many little
markets for fresh fruit and vegetables, meats and sausages, and pastries.  I was especially impressed with Frankfurt’s
famous Christmas markets with their hand-crafted gifts and traditional,
beautiful Christmas carols.  I could not
help but contrast that with our own commercial shopping malls with piped-in renditions
of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” 
For Christmas, my parents gave me a 35 mm. camera.  I strolled all over the inner city, taking
color slides.
Frankfurt always has been, and
continues to be, one of the most important cities in Germany in regard to
almost everything – – – size, culture, business, finance.  Frankfurt even was considered to be an
excellent choice for the provisional German capital after the Germans lost 40%
of their lands when the Soviets forced-marched twelve million Germans out of
their homes in the eastern regions of East and West Prussia, Pomerania, and
Silesia, and then took complete control of the central regions surrounding
Berlin.   In 1949, however, Konrad
Adenauer (the former mayor of Köln who was sacked by the Nazis in 1933) became
West Germany’s first Chancellor; and he was concerned that Frankfurt was such a
good choice that, if and when West and Central Germany ever were reunited,
Berlin never again would become the capital. 
He, therefore, chose the lesser city of Bonn. 
As for the old city of
Frankfurt, for several hundred years, the two square miles of the central
region was known world-wide for having the greatest expanse of stereotypically
charming, half-timbered houses and shops, so charming that Johanna Spyri, who
wrote the popular children’s story “Heidi”, chose Frankfurt as the town where
Heidi lived.  It was filmed there in
1937, just two years before the start of the war.
Typical half-timbered, pre-war
shops and residences.
Unfortunately, the bombing of
Frankfurt late during World War II obliterated all of that, along with so much
more, including the elegant civic buildings, cathedrals, the university with
all of its archives, and many fine houses. 
When I explored Frankfurt during Christmas, 1966, I saw a  large manor-house, damaged in the war and
still boarded-up.  Apparently, the
original owners were missing and never found. 
I was very moved viewing the hulking, blackened remains of the huge,
former grand opera house.  With so much
of Frankfurt to rebuild, the great expense of recreating the building in its
original form was beyond the city’s means.

Frankfurt, May, 1945
 After the war, Frankfurt
chose, unlike many other cities in Germany, to rebuild mostly in the modern
style with steel and glass buildings. 
Today, the city is referred to as “the German Manhattan” with towering
skyscrapers dominating the financial district. 
So that the citizens would not be deprived of operas and classical
concerts, Frankfurt built a modern hall.
I attended there the seasonal
production of “Hänsel und Gretel,” flying witch and all.  One of the most emotional moments that I have
experienced came during the “Fourteen Angels” scene.  I noticed near the top of the backdrop, what
I thought was, a tiny hole in the scenery with a light shining through it.   In some mysterious way, the stage and
lighting designer had  made that light a “star” that increased in size and
brightness until it became a conical shaft of brilliant light reaching the
children on the stage.  And, through that
beam of light descended fourteen “angels” who slowly surrounded the children to
guard them in their sleep.  I noticed
that this moment, combined with Humperdinck’s beautiful “Evening Prayer” and
the subsequent orchestral music, had brought tears to some eyes.  
The
citizens of Frankfurt, with more recent financial donations, voted to rebuild
the destroyed old opera in the exterior’s original Baroque style but with a
very modern interior.  Some original
interior mosaics were reconstructed.  A
replica of the iconic Pegasus statue was returned to the roof.  The hall is used for concerts, ballets,
conferences, and some operas.  Frankfurt
hopes to complete rebuilding the city by 2016, seventy-one years after the war.
The rebuilt Alte Oper.
In
my strolls through one of Frankfurt’s parks, I found a circle of life-size,
human statues, four males and three females, all nude in their youthful
beauty.  I can just imagine the indignant
outrage some Americans would bring should we attempt to place such statues in
our parks.
Frankfurt Statues
I
also came across the huge, I.G. Farben office building constructed in the
typically bland, 1930 style.  It once
housed the offices of that giant chemical-company conglomerate, which
notoriously once owned 42.5 percent of the Degesch company, responsible for the
production of Zyklon B, used to gas Jews, homosexuals, Gypsies, and anyone else
considered by the Nazis to be a threat. 
After the war, company officials stood trial for crimes against
humanity.  The Americans spared the
building in the bombing so that the military and American occupation forces
could use it after the war. Then the Marshall Plan was administered from
there.  After extensive restoration, it
recently became the Western Campus of the University of Frankfurt.
I.G. Farben Building.
The stereotypical notion of
Germans is that they are hard-working but rather severe.  I’ve noticed, however, that they are not
immune to the European penchant for Karneval, as proved by their wild
partying during Fasching in late December to Lent.  From my witnessing an overabundance of
injudiciously thrown fireworks, I would guess that the “Frankfurters” had
consumed a lot of beer and wine.
Time flies “when you’re having
fun,” and two generations have passed since I last was in Frankfurt.  The majority of the population has been born
since then.  The city’s massive expansion
outward and upward would render much of it unrecognizable to me if I were to go
back for a visit.  That’s not likely,
partly because Frankfurt now is about the most expensive city in Germany. 
Fireworks Over Modern Frankfurt 
© 25 July 2015 
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

The Big Bang, by Ricky

In 1966 I was a senior at
South Tahoe High School (now the Middle School). One of my classes was Ecology and was team taught by
Mr. Harold Mapes and Mr. Al Hildinger. 
Mr. Hildinger also taught a lapidary class during the evening adult education
program.
Our ecology class was taught
in the biology classroom of the science wing of our school.  At the time, the school was laid out like a
giant letter “E” with the science wing at the top “arm” of the “E”.  The administrative offices and library were
located along the main corridor representing the upright line of the “E” with
other classrooms off the other arms of the “E” shape.  The science wing had five classrooms with the
biology/ecology classroom at the beginning of the hallway followed by the
chemistry classroom, two more classrooms, and at the end of the hall was the
physics room.
On one particular spring day
near the end of term with graduation rapidly approaching, Mr. Hildinger was
teaching our ecology class, as previously indicated, in the biology room.  He was teaching the adult lapidary class in
that same room later in the evening and wanted to have his rock-saw moved from
the physics classroom at the end of the hall to the biology room and asked for
a volunteer to go get it for him.  No one
volunteered.  After waiting a few
seconds, he told me, “Please go get it.” 
I said, “I don’t want to.  I’ll
probably break it.” (I was not having a good day.)  Handing me the key to the room, he said,
“Just go get it.”  I left the room to do
so.
Upon arriving at the physics
room, I used the key to gain entry and immediately saw the rock-saw several
feet in front of me.  It was basically an
electric motor looking to weigh in at about 30 pounds, attached to a mechanism
to hold a rock sample while a diamond tipped circular-saw blade would spin
while slowly moving forward and slicing its way through a rock sample.  The result would be a thin slice of rock to
be turned into jewelry or other item of display.
The rock-saw was sitting in a
large 5 inch deep tray located on the top of a metal cart about 5 feet tall, 20
inches wide, and 3 to 3 ½ feet long.  The
cart was supported by 4 spindly metal legs on small wheels with two metal
platforms located at the bottom and middle of the cart’s legs to provide
stability for the legs and thus the cart itself.  Along with the rock-saw in the 5 inch deep
tray at the top of the cart was approximately 3 gallons of kerosene used to
cool the saw blade and lubricate the rock sample while it was being cut.
The whole contraption was
heavy and did not want to roll very well so I had to push hard to get it
moving.  Fortunately, the cart was
aligned with its long axis towards the door so I was able to push and pull it
out the door into the hallway after draping the power cord up along the
rock-saw.  It was not easy to get it out
the door because the wheels would not pivot. 
I locked the room and prepared to complete the task.
Since I could not get the
wheels to pivot, I decided to push the rectangular cart sideways down the
hall.  I began by placing my hands on the
top tray and gently pushing.  Nothing
happened.  I pushed harder.  Still no movement.  I pushed even harder.  Finally, the cart began to move towards the
biology room some little distance away. 
I passed one classroom.  I passed the
second classroom.  I was nearly at the
chemistry room door when Murphy’s Law teamed up with the laws of physics and
gravity.
As I neared the chemistry room
door, I failed to notice that the power cord had fallen off the rock-saw down
to the floor.  It landed in front of one
of the little wheels.  When the wheel
made contact with the power cord it stopped turning and the leg it was attached
to stopped moving forward causing all the legs to stop moving forward.  However, I was still pushing on the top of
the cart which did not stop moving forward. 
By the time I noticed, the top of the cart was leaning away from me not
very far but beyond the center of gravity and inertia was in control.  I could not hold it and pull it back to
upright.
Time slowed down as I watched
in horror as the momentum kept the rock-saw and cart top moving to the
inevitable conclusion.  In less than
three heart beats it hit the floor with a resounding BANG
which echoed down the halls, around the corner, and alerted most of the
administrative personnel, librarians, and all the classes in the science wing
that the chemistry lab had exploded. 
Instantly, it seemed, all the students in the science wing classrooms
began to empty out into the hall and I was caught like a deer in
headlights.  As bad as this was, 3
gallons of kerosene were now flowing down the hall towards the chemistry
room.  The floor having been depressed by
many years of students walking into the room, the kerosene made a 90-degree
right turn and began to flow into the chemistry room.  I could envision a real explosion if kerosene
fumes reached a Bunsen burner.
When the mess was finally
cleaned up and I helped Mr. Hildinger lift the cart upright and moved it into
the biology room, he determined that the rock-saw was okay but the diamond saw
blade had been warped by the force of the fall. 
It cost him $100 to replace but he never asked me to help out.  This was my own personal experience with an Alexander’s
Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day!
© 21 October 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 was sent to live with my grandparents on their
farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents
divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.
Posted on

I Gave Up, by Ray S.

Over
the years, if I try I can remember instances where it seems a situation is
impossible or insurmountable. The solution promises only frustration and so you
give up, move onto a problem that is solvable, and of course, of far less
complication. If it’s too hard to deal with, you find something you can. The
result is an accomplished challenge—even if it’s loading the dishwasher. The
resulting sense of having done something puts you in a more positive frame of
mind so you can face that first problem that you gave up on.
There
are any number of ways to give up. Don’t answer the phone, turn off the damn
computer, or drown the problem in some form of alcohol or narcotic of your
choice. The latter seems very extreme, and a visit with your shrink or priest
has its advantages.
Once
upon a time apparently I had a secret desire that initially I didn’t even
recognize. Just a fleeting half wish thought.
My
little girl was on school holiday and I asked her if she would like to go on an
errand with daddy. Yes! We were going on a ride to the city to deliver a
package to the mother of one of my clients. When we arrived at the lady’s
apartment it was a fine old pile dating back to the first part of the last
century.
Upon
answering our knock on her door we were greeted by a gracious and charming
seventy-five year old that could remind one of the Queen Mother. After we
delivered the package to her, our hostess invited Carolyn and me to visit and
see the apartment. Finally at the conclusion of the tour Mrs. Anderson
presented my daughter with a little gift. A small needlepoint canvas with the
legend “Be a friend to have a friend.” We thanked Mrs. A. for her thoughtful
and unexpected gift and went down the long hallway, down in the elevator to the
lobby and out the big font door.
We
both thought at the same time, “What would it be like to live in such another
world as this?” The thought was so very wishful we dismissed it—not even
considering it something to give up on.
A
mere matter of some forty years or so has passed, and the now widowed daddy with
both Caroline and her brother married with families of their own, found he
needed a new address, something with no garden to till, no grass to mow, no
snow to solve. The apartment hunt was on.
Out
of the blue my computer-wise daughter called me with a question. “Dad, do you
remember when you and I went to that lady’s building to deliver a package and
she gave me a gift?”  She went on to say,
“Well, guess what showed up on Craig’s List, a rental in that old building you
took me to when I was six or seven.”
The
rest of the story you have already guessed. The last place in my world that I will
ever reside in is where I am now quite by chance and Craig’s List plus a
wish-thought so very vague that at the time didn’t ever merit giving up on.
Be
careful what you don’t wish for you may have to give up—or something!
© 19 October 2015 
About
the Author 
Posted on

State of Origin, by Phillip Hoyle

I
moved into my apartment on Capitol Hill soon after reaching Denver in my fifty-second
year. There I lived in the third block south of Colfax Avenue, that old highway
that has claimed to be the longest main street in America. Not owning a car, I
walked everywhere, but was surprised when a friend asked, “Aren’t you afraid to
walk along East Colfax?”
“No,”
I immediately answered. “It’s just like the main street in the town where I
grew up.” I wasn’t freaked out to walk down an avenue with bars, tattoo
parlors, Army surplus stores, small groceries, gas stations, two-story
buildings with markets below and apartments or offices above, theatres, people
of various races, even drunks on the street. Strolling along Colfax always
reminded me of my hometown Junction City, Kansas that was located adjacent to the
US Army Base, Fort Riley.
I
had spent my childhood and early teen years living in the third block west of
Washington Street, the long main street that offered in addition to groceries,
clothing, theaters, lawyers, and real estate, a variety of beers, tattoos, Army
surplus, pawned goods, drunks, and prostitutes. My family lived on West
Eleventh Street, but the more colorful array of folks and their bad habits
rarely made it that far off the main drag.
Washington
Street ran for eighteen blocks from Grand Avenue on the north, the gateway to
Fort Riley, to I-70 on the south—well eventually when the Interstate made its
way that far west. On the south end of Washington Street our family ate at the
Circle Cafe that offered Cantonese and American food. Dad ordered Chinese food,
Mom her favorite fried chicken, and we kids our regular hamburger, French fries,
and a Coke. Later, when I began working at the store, I had lunch sometimes at
the Downtown Cafe where, much to my junior high delight, I discovered chicken
fried steaks. I already knew the middle part of Washington Street from walks
with Mom when she shopped, but also from visits to the two Hoyle’s IGA stores, both
located along Washington, one at 9th, the other at 13th.
Then there was the Kaw Theater where we watched movies and ate the homemade
cinnamon and horehound candies made by Mr. Hoyle, the owner and the father of my
Aunt Barbara. Duckwall’s and Woolworth’s stores sat on the east side of the
street in the same block as Cole’s Department Store where Mother used to model
clothes on occasion. I had seen photos of her as a young model posing on the
runway.
I
got to know Washington Street. North, between 15th and 16th
streets stood Washington School where I attend grades one through five. On
occasion I got to be the crossing guard on the main street, wearing the white
halter that symbolized enough authority to push the button for the stop light
and walk halfway across the four-lane street with a stop sign. No accidents
occurred on my watch. The school playground for older students was on
Washington Street so I saw its activity from swings, monkey bars, and see saws.
Walking down that street one afternoon when our class went on an outing to
visit the local potato chip factory seems as real today as it was then. Across
the street from the school was Kroger’s, and across the street from our store
that Dad managed, sat Dillon’s. I knew these stores to be the competition. Next
to Dillon’s was the Dairy Queen where we kids liked to go on Sunday nights
after church. I knew Washington Street.
As
older elementary kids we neighborhood boys began to walk the street without
adults. There we discovered the bars, a variety of shops including the Army
Surplus stores where we looked longingly at the gear of soldiers, the
barbershop where my best friend Keith got his flattop haircuts and where I
first saw professional wresting on TV, and tattoo parlors where we’d choose our
future body ornamentation from designs displayed in the windows. From
Washington Street, we’d gaze down East Ninth where we knew several houses of
prostitution stood. We’d continue on to Duckwalls and Woolworth’s where we
loved to look at toys and sometimes swiped them, to the Junction Theater where
we ogled the ads for adult films we never got to watch, or to Clewel’s Drug
Store where we drank sodas at the fountain where they mixed drinks and I often
ordered a grape Coke. Occasionally we’d walk on to Dewey Park where we saw
small children dancing at the city band concerts, where a statue of the 19th
century Admiral George Dewey with his drooping handlebar mustache stood atop a
classical archway, and where large WWII cannons stood sentry. By day people sat
there in the shade of huge elms and more than once on hot summer afternoons we
waded in the fountain that dominated the middle of the park.
I
never entered any of the many bars but was fascinated by their neon lights,
dark spaces with cool air wafting strange odors out the front doors. I wondered
about the men we saw inside sitting at the bar drinking beers, usually quiet
but sometimes with juke box blaring and loud talk and laughter, especially
around payday when the GIs came to town to squander their meager paychecks in
the dives on Washington Street and the whore houses on East Ninth. The
challenging presences rarely made it over to where I lived, but of course, we
boys had planned all our escape routes in case we might have run-ins with drunks.
Our survival tactics were actually just another form of play; after all we were
kids, boys with dreams of self-sufficiency, survival, and strength.
Life
changed for me over the decades between my fifteenth birthday when we left
Junction City and my fifty-first birthday when I showed up along Denver’s
Colfax Ave. My experiences along the unusual Kansas main street prepared me for
living in the city. In my fifties I continued to spend time among people of
various races and backgrounds. I ate Chinese food, chicken fried steaks, and
really nice hamburgers along Colfax. In contrast to my childhood activities, I did
go into bars and did get a tattoo. I still didn’t go into whorehouses. In this
real, really large city I walked down many streets and greeted many people. I
shared a new life with them but still kept my eyes open to possible developing
trouble and chose my routes with the wisdom I had learned in childhood walking
along Washington Street with my friends. Then I walked unafraid but never
unaware. I still do.
© 16 August, 2012 – Denver  
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 
Posted on

The Party, by Lewis

As I thought about the
topic for today, I realized that I have no particular “party experience” that
stands out as a highlight of my life.  As
an introvert and basically shy person, going to a party seemed unnatural.  Bill Cosby once described swimming as “staying
alive in the water”.  For me, party-going
was like keeping my own sense of self-worth from drowning in a sea of
pretense.  As I thought back on all the
“party scenes” from movies I have watched, it seems to me that the common theme
was related to disguise, deception, duplicity, and, yes, even death.  So, I came up with one brief declarative
sentence that seems best to sum up my feelings about parties–
Parties
are where authenticity goes to die.
© 7 Jan 2013 
About
the Author 
I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my
native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and 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

Horseshoes, by Gillian

In my childhood in
England there were still a few work horses left, plodding ahead of plows or
hauling overloaded carts. I suppose their existence was extended a few years by
the World War Two gas shortages, but before long they and their peaceful quiet days
were supplanted by dirty, noisy, tractors.
But those beautiful
beasts, or at least their shoes, remained with us in Britain for much of the
last century. Many houses had a horseshoe nailed as a U above the front door.
It had to be that way up as it captured and contained good luck. If it came
loose and slipped sideways, or still worse upside down, it had to be righted
immediately because all the good luck was fast draining from it. For many
decades, horseshoes and pubs was apparently a mandatory pairing. I don’t
remember ever being in a pub in my younger days – and, yes, I was in quite a
few, – that did not have the obligatory horseshoes and other horse brasses
arrayed in gleaming splendor around the fireplace, above the bar, or nailed to
smoke-blackened overhead beams. Pubs in those days were relatively quiet places
intended for serious drinking, with nothing noisier than low conversations and
perhaps an occasional outburst of song. Entertainment was in the form of darts,
checkers, or dominoes, none of which create a huge clamor. They didn’t serve
food, except for so-called ‘bar snacks’ such as pickled eggs and pork crackling
so there was no endless clatter from a busy kitchen.
Around the 1960’s things
began to change, ramping up the noise level with juke boxes, then pinball
machines, and slot machines for minor gambling. By the 70’s many had gone from
bar snacks to full meals, generally increasing the hustle and bustle. By the
80’s, and certainly the 90’s, pubs were having to compete with the upscale chic
little wine bars that were appearing everywhere and making the old-style pub
seem dark and dingy by comparison. In many, as central heating became
commonplace, the old fireplace disappeared; and along with it, the horse
brasses. Over the same period, people became more sophisticated and less
traditional and out went many old superstitions.  And along with them, out went the lucky
horseshoes. You might still see an occasional one in a remote country village
but you’d have to search.
In the early days of my
thirty-year career with IBM in Boulder, there were horseshoe pits behind one of
the buildings, and most of the daylight hours’ groups on break or at lunchtime
would be out there tossing horseshoes at the stakes in the ground. Horseshoes
has always been, apparently, something of a blue collar game. The pits were,
I’m sure not accidentally, placed behind a manufacturing building not one that
housed office workers. Occasionally men with loosened ties and rolled up shirt
sleeves were spotted out there, but for the most part it was enjoyed by people
in jeans and t-shirts.
Over the years,
manufacturing disappeared there, as it did from most of in this country, being
shipped off to that unidentified never-never land called Offshore. Along with
it went the horseshoe pits and the horseshoes. Oh, it was all probably replaced
by a wonderfully-equipped exercise room with showers and steam room, free to
all employees. But I’d be willing to bet few have the fun there that we had
with those old horseshoes.
Horseshoe pits seem to
have suffered much the same fate as lucky horseshoes on cottage doors.
You might stumble over
some in Podunk, Iowa, the American equivalent of that remote country village in
Britain, but for the most part people prefer to partake in less staid, and much
more expensive, activities these days. If, that is, they don’t just settle for
computer games.
Many an old English pub,
dating back to seventeen-something-or-other or whenever, has been gutted and
completely remodeled. A huge-screen TV dominates the wall where the fireplace
once stood, surrounded by horse paraphernalia. The place is so crowded these
days that you know, the minute you enter, that you will never find anywhere to
sit. If you tried to have a conversation you couldn’t hear a word that was
said; people our age certainly couldn’t, anyway. All the earlier noise-making
machines are still there, but now there’s the blaring television and dozens of
shouting people as well. Most of those who did manage to snag a seat are
ignoring their companions and giving full attention, barring an occasional
quick glance at the TV to check on the status of Real Madrid versus Manchester
United, to their various electronic devices. Oh well, at least they are
contributing little to the unrelieved cacophony.
Thinking back to the old,
almost silent, snug, with its shining horse brasses reflecting the flames of
the big fire, brings tears to my eyes. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. But
Grandma, things are really so much better in so many ways than they were back
then. And I know you’re probably right. But today, just for today, I don’t
want to look at the past objectively, weighing the good against the bad and
finding it wanting. I just want to remember those horseshoe days as good. And
cry because they’re gone.
© February 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 now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 28
years.