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Anger, by Betsy

In my personal life there is
very little about which I feel anger. Oh there are the little irritations from
time to time, but when I take a good look inside I find I have very little
anger.  It could be that I have learned
that there is little–there is nothing really–to be gained from expressing
anger all the time or even once in a while. 
I find the expression of anger
directed at me personally very frightening. I really do not know how to deal
with it.  I guess maybe that is because I
am not used to seeing anger expressed.  I
do not recall either of my parents ever raising their voices or expressing
anger except in a rational way.  I, in
turn, learned to internalize my anger and not be expressive about it save to
talk to someone about it the next day in a calm way, of course.
It was only later in life that
I learned that feeling anger is one thing. Expressing it is another. Feeling
any emotion just IS.  We do not really
choose how we feel, do we?  Feeling angry
is no different from feeling happy in that it just IS. Most of us have probably
heard the words at some time in our childhood, “Don’t cry, don’t be mad.”
On the other hand have you
ever been told by an adult to not be happy or to not show joy.  Advise today seems to be much more sensible:
allow yourself to feel the feeling. Give yourself permission to feel
angry.  I think this is good advise. But
it should not end there.  It should be
followed with a word about the appropriate expression of one’s anger. 
It’s in
the same basket with being gay. “If you is, you is.” The behavior choice comes
with how you act on that state of being. 
The behavior choice comes with how you act on your anger. You can take
it out on a crowd of people with an Uzi or you can take some positive action to
try to change the situation, or do anything in between those two extremes.
One thing is for sure.  Anger is a powerful emotion.  Some people can carry it with them daily into
their lives from childhood to old age. Personally, I feel sorry for anyone who
lives this way.  What a waste of energy.
Anger does take a ton of energy.  And
then also, we have all seen someone who is already angry about something that
MIGHT, JUST MIGHT happen in the future. Also a waste.
Among my heroes are the many
people who have much to be angry about but can devote their lives to making
positive changes for the betterment of everyone, people who have historically
suffered abuse and are currently experiencing injustices that might certainly
generate unimaginable anger, yet they choose to take positive action sometimes
at great risk and try to make changes in the system.  Martin Luther King, Cesar Chavez, Rosa Parks
are some outstanding examples here, but there are hundreds of thousands less
known heroes who could go on that list.
 Another one of my heroes is Judy Shepherd,
mother of Matthew Shepherd, the young gay college student who was bullied to
death in Laramie, Wyoming several years ago. Matthew’s parents,Judy and her husband, first FORGAVE
the perpetrators of this heinous crime by asking the jury not to impose the
death penalty, and then (and I think because they were able to forgive) Judy
Shepherd became one of the nation’s most
effective advocates for gay rights.  I
have the greatest respect anyone in such a situation who knows the importance
of forgiveness and, does not carry the proverbial chip on the shoulder. 
 Unlike my personal life there is a lot of
dysfunction in our culture and our society today which does cause me to feel
anger.  The greed and ego-driven behavior
of some of our leaders makes me angry. 
Our gun culture makes me angry. 
Our war-driven politics and means of gaining and keeping power in the
world makes me angry. Inequality and voter suppression make me angry. Our
elected officials disregard and unwillingness to take care of our environment
for the sake of their own personal gain makes me angry. The so-called war on
women makes me angry. The list could go on and on.  However these are not the kind of issues that
generate immediate action.  These
problems are deeply embedded in our culture today and cannot be simply and
directly addressed except in the voting booth. For that reason I suspect a good
bit of frustration is mixed in with the anger.
But, as with personal issues,
I hope I can apply the teachings of my spiritual guru, Eckhart Tolle and not
waste energy on complaining and other 
fruitless mental activity.  Even
those small irritations need not be nurtured. 
Ideally I would choose to either take some positive action as an
expression of my forgiveness or express my personal point of view and take some
general action that would promote it.
© 9 June 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).  She has been
retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years.  Since her retirement, her major activities
include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor
with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning.  Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of
marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys
spending time with her four grandchildren. 
Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing
her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards. 
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Any Writing is Experimental, by Will Stanton

Any
writing, especially when one first endeavors to write, is experimental.  This is particularly true for those not well
versed or prone to writing.  As one
becomes more accomplished, the need for experimentation is reduced but rarely
eliminated.
The
primary function of writing (and speaking, for that matter) is to communicate
clearly, conveying accurately what is meant to be said.  If that is achieved, the secondary
consideration is to communicate in an engaging manner through a good command of
language and perhaps, when appropriate, with humor.
The
main advantage of writing, versus attempting to speak extemporaneously, is one
is given the chance, in advance of presentation, to organize one’s thoughts and
words.  In that way, the presenter has a
good chance of eliminating pauses or non-verbal utterances while searching for
the next thing to say.  This also
prevents one from repeating or wandering astray onto unrelated and unnecessary
sidetracks.  The presenter also has the
advantage of not droning on, losing the main point or topic meant to be
conveyed and, consequently, driving the listeners to distraction.  The presentation should be no more nor less
than required.
A
colleague of mine, Dr. Hughes, made an in-depth study of well-known
speakers.  He concluded that the most
effective, extemporaneous speaker was, unfortunately, Adolf Hitler.  Winston Churchill found it impossible.  He had to write and re-write his speeches and
then practice them until he felt comfortable presenting them.
Over
the years, I regularly was required to speak extemporaneously in my
therapeutic-group sessions, in lectures regarding some of my other interests,
and even, for fun, spontaneously creating and relating stories.  Apparently, I’ve inherited a modicum of
verbal skills.
I
still find, however, reviewing and fine-tuning early drafts beneficial.  The main reason is that imagery and memories
are clear to me, yet they may not be clear to listeners unless I make sure that
I express them clearly.  As a
consequence, I always begin early thinking through and writing about a topic,
rather than waiting to the last moment or, perhaps, not writing at all.
I
am aware of only one super-genius who never had to rethink or revise what he
wrote, and that was the superlative composer Mozart.  He could perform one of his piano concertos,
then at the same time compose another in his head, and finally, upon returning
home, set the new concerto down on paper without a single change or
correction.  Obviously, that skill is
astonishing.  Most of us, however, are
not so astonishing, and experimenting with our writing still is required.
© 14 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.
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What I Didn’t Do for Love & You Can’t Make Me, by Terry Dart

Seems I was a sucker for love.
Husband with a zipper problem. You feel conned, like a
sucker; or the friend walks off with your husband. How do you translate love
into something one earns by doing?
The error seems to be the ‘doing’ part. Doing really
does not create love for one. It can be a bond for the fortunate between Mother
and child or couples while they work it out.
Settling. One can choose to settle for love of less
than complete satisfaction but if it’s not there, no amount of doing will
create it.
How many, I wonder, have what varying degrees of Love?
Who gets three-quarters? Who gets ten percent off the sale price? No you can’t
generally sell love. Through the work of advertising though many have tried to
sell cars, floor wax, Xanex, lemons, lemonade, and that stuff that makes stiff old
guys who really aren’t stiff. Trips to someplace fun and safe, say your
neighborhood football stadium. Lovely ads of two people running slow motion at
each other in a bucolic-looking field, like you’d only see in real life somewhere
like North Dakota or Winnipeg before it snows all over the place. Most people
when they chose those locales are actually lost, like those two idiots in
Fargo, though they were wonderfully funny stupid idiots. Should we talk about Fargo?
Such a lovely, dark North Dakota/Minnesota movie, where Francis McDormand, a
pregnant North Dakota State Trooper has love with her stamp collector husband.
And with that accent? Well true, they both have that accent, so they have that
in common.
While I am running on about Love and Movies (which is
where most of that artful fluff belongs), I recommend Casa Blanca with Bogey
and Bacall (or Bergman?). I’m going Wednesday 2 p.m. at the Chez Artiste. There
you have the best movie love: (Except for Desert Hearts, of course). But it is an
ancient war-torn love story full of hurt feelings and hard knocks. (Well. Bogey
being Bogey and Bacall, ah yes, Bacall … or Bergman?)
Suffragettes? Now there are some doers. Arrested by
the thousands in Britain. Hunger striking, blowing up, demonstrating, begging,
suffering through police attacks (the beloved bobbies? Hardly.) Fighting for
rights not to work as girl children who too often meet their deaths in
laundries, standing up to rapists and bullies and to the ignorant men in power.
They were not loved, but they did persevere for fierce determination. Meryl
Streep played Pankhurst, a small part. Lots of women play “small parts,” but it
takes Big women to take on the small parts and pieces of a social movement.
Gay men and lesbians fought for rights and were often
not loved. They did not do it for love. They did it for their rights and their
freedom.
Love and Doing for Love. Let’s see: Fighting dragons,
men riding white horses with crowns on their heads, ladies trying to squeeze
into tiny glass slippers, girls riding inside pumpkins pulled by mice to go to
a dance with a prince who doesn’t even pick them up.
Whoa!! Once there was a Lesbian King name Jane who
enjoyed dancing with anyone who wanted to dance and she loved dancing so very
much that she completely wore out one day and turned into a gay bar where she
nearly passed away dancing the ‘Orange Blossom Special’ and then tripped in the
midst of a line dance and landed directly in K. D. Laing’s lap.
So, I admit a very small part of this is autobiographical
in origin however confusing it may be. It’s as though a five year old juggler
got together with a hand held movie camera, and Presto!! There’s K. D. Laing.
© 9 November 2015 
About the Author 
I
am an artist and writer after having spent the greater part of my career
serving variously as a child care counselor, a special needs teacher, a mental
health worker with teens and young adults, and a home health care giver for
elderly and Alzheimer patients. Now that I am in my senior years I have
returned to writing and art, which I have enjoyed throughout my life.
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The Grim Reaper, by Ricky

It was a bright and
sunny day, until sundown when it became a dark and stormy night.  The Arch Chancellor of The Invisible
University was asleep in his study and all was peaceful except for the flashes
of lightening which illuminated The Invisible University and the resulting
thunder which rattled the massive stone walls.
The Invisible
University was, of course, completely visible at all times.  No one still living knew how the university
got its name.  Speculation among the more
recent students favored the myth that a preeminent and powerful wizard, who
also happened to be arch chancellor of the university a few centuries past,
cast an invisibility spell to conceal its location.  (This theory was actually correct as far as
it went.)  The ancient arch chancellor’s goal
was to include “the finding” of the university as part of the entrance exams
for would be wizards.  Thus, it was
necessary to make it hard to find as none of the wizards in residence wanted to
be bothered with teaching wizard classes and if the university was invisible,
very few people could find it and the wizards in residence could be about the
business of wizardry and eating without interruptions.
Unfortunately, like
all the wizards in residence, the arch chancellor was only a powerful and
skilled wizard in his own mind and the spell did not work.  However, the arch chancellor did not realize
the spell failed and believed that the university and its grounds were now
invisible along with everyone inside, and therefore officially changed the
name.  All the resident wizards knew (in
their minds at least) that the arch chancellor was a bright, powerful, and
highly skilled wizard, so they did not for a moment suspect the spell had
failed.  (It is a well-known fact that
wizards can see right through working invisibility spells, so not one wizard
suspected the truth.)  So, The Invisible
University remained “invisible” in plain sight over the following centuries.
Believing the
university to be invisible, none of the wizards could understand why were there
so many rats in the pantries and larders. 
How could the rats even find the invisible university when it can’t be
seen?  (Apparently, wizards are so
self-centered they never suspected that other living things could smell food as
well or better than wizards.)  They correctly
deduced that the rats were eating much of the food destined for the wizard’s
table four times a day, and also many of the snacks for between meals.  Consequently, when a bolt of lightning struck
the arch chancellor’s room and powered up a light globe, he awoke with an idea
to solve the problem.  The arch
chancellor immediately called a meeting to announce his plan to summon Death,
also known as The Grim Reaper, to complain about the rats and demanding to know
why He did not “reap” them.  As usual, no
one wanted to get out of bed OR to
gain say the arch chancellor, so several of the wizards prepared the library
and joined together in forming and casting the spell, and getting a mid-night snack. 
This may seem strange
to non-wizards, but Death and wizards have a professional relationship.  For example, wizards can see Death and Death
will appear before their time is up and let them know how much time they have
left so they can prepare for the transition.  For some unknown reason, children and cats can
also see Death.
The spell was cast
and a very annoyed Death arrived having been summoned from a very pleasant
afternoon on the beaches of Y-Key-Key and into the midst of a leaky and
rattling building on a dark and stormy night.

The
arch chancellor put the question to Death, but then had to resurrect it so he
could ask it to Death (who was not amused by the arch chancellor repeating the
question over and over thus beating it to death.)  Death told the arch chancellor to invent a
better rat trap so there would be rats whose spirits needed reaping.  Death also explained that reaping rats was
not his job.  At this point, Death reached
into his robe and introduced his newest assistant, The Death of Rodents, also
known as The Grim Squeaker.
Death then departed,
returning to his chaise-lounge and piña colada at Y-Key-Key, leaving the
squeaker behind.
Try as they might
(actually the wizards never tried, because one of the cooks brought in a
pregnant cat). The cat along with her eventual brood, kept the Death of Rodents
very busy.
And that is the true
story of how the wizards of The Invisible University saved their food.
Believe it or not!

[Death and the Grim Squeeker are patterned after Death and the Death of Rats in Terry Pratchett’s Disc World books.]

© 13 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.
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Mud, by Ray S

Today we are gathered here, my
friends, for the singular reason to address another seemingly obtuse subject,
Mud. I propose to tell you my thoughts relative to the subject as clearly as
possible. The why and how you all have gotten to this tumescent and turgid
matter is the goal.
So, here is a story:
It is a sunny autumn day; the
chartered motor coach was waiting for its cargo of special LGBT
travelers—special because of specific age requirements for membership in the
group—75 and older. See, there’s even stratification in SAGE.
Once the walkers and wheelchairs
were stowed away and the passengers secured, we were off on our gay merry way
to a very secretive and exclusive geriatric resort and playground. Upon arrival
the once subdued disposition of the passengers had been dispatched by the means
of a well-stocked happy-hour drinks cart.
When settled into their respective
wigwams, couples accommodated separately from singles (“never the twain shall
meet, maybe) it was time now. There was a rigid schedule for the compulsory Spa
Programs, and to begin, a check in with the medical staff. Then off to the
steam rooms, saunas, and massage tables, and then a relaxing rest period in the
main lodge’s social room, appropriately named the “Big Tepee in the Sky.” By
this time a rollicking atmosphere pervaded.
With the sound of rather heavenly
chimes playing the old melody “You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby” signaling
everyone, now clothed only in their 100% Egyptian cotton designer spa sheets,
to assemble at the entry to the Sylvan Piney Pathway for the climax of this
wonderful day.
By this time, due to the strenuous
spa program, healthful cuisine and libations, the walkers and wheelchairs were
forgotten. There had been much merriment amongst the campers as they became
better acquainted. Everyone had found it necessary to shelve their
inhabitations. (That is not hard even for 75er GLBTs.)
So tripping off on the Sylvan Piney
Pathway, aforementioned, some Egyptian cotton “wagging their tails behind them”
as the old nursery rhyme goes, the gathering was verging on a love fest. My,
such energy! There were even several lesbian ladies seen to be in the clutches
of bear hugs with gay boys all expressing their oneness with the spirit of the
day and GLBTness.
Straight, I should say directly,
ahead everyone stopped in their tracks by the view of the lovely, smooth
surface of the aspen and pine tree surrounded lake.
“We are here,” everyone shouted.
“Drop your sheets and wade in—ladies first, then queens or whatever.” It began
to look like a group baptism, but John didn’t come to this party. And like
little lemmings headed over the cliff, some hand in hand, they all immersed
themselves. The lake being only about four feet deep it took little time for
the 75ers to emerge on the other shore where the spa attendants awaited with a
battery of warm showers and soft bath towels. Then they were gently hosed down
revealing a countenance of 75 years or more, less 50 years each.
A miracle if you wish, or figment
of the imagination, but for the Happy Campers it was their annual pilgrimage to
the Little Piney Mud Lake. Take a friend to a mud bath and think young or happy
or why not both?
© 5 October 2015 
About the Author 

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The City I Left My Heart In, by Phillip Hoyle

I
don’t want to croon this, but “I left my heart in Albuquerque.” At least I feel
that way from time to time. The place was my home for several years, the scene
of important work and changes, and the romantic geographical focus of my
dreams.
In
1990 I left woeful central Missouri with its extreme weather, stressful job,
and joyless culture and headed west on the train to my destination in the high
mountain steppes of New Mexico. The train pulled in five hours late, but my
family was waiting and took me to our new home in the Northeast Heights at the
beautiful Mesa del Oso townhome community. The furniture was already in place set
up by my family who had arrived several days earlier. Folk from the church had
supplied food for the first few days. Their hospitality marked the beginning of
a rich relationship with a congregation and community.
The
church was fine, the first congregation I had ever loved as so many clergy
claim about their churches. Its buildings were Mission and Pueblo Revival styles,
its program diverse, its music-making an important focus, its involvement in
the larger community significant, and its theology and attitude more liberal
than any congregation with which I had worked. I liked the folk who at a
welcoming reception greeted me and my family with Southwestern fare and stood
around talking to us and each other with such intensity and animation as to
seem like the gathering was a cocktail party. These people liked one another. I
liked them, a gathering of professionals from diverse fields. I easily fit in
since, like most of them, I too came from the middle part of the country. Their
liberality seemed to spring from the fact that they had left the Midwest and
set roots far away from the small towns of their origins. They were affable,
tolerant, generous, and inventive. And I liked them and was pleased for years to
work with them in various capacities.
The
city had a different look when contrasted with Kansas, Texas, or Missouri where
I had lived. The look, arising largely from the preponderance of flat-roofed
adobe-style houses, appealed to me. This unusual city sat in the morning shadow
of the Sandia Mountains, sprawling from the edge of the alpine wilderness across
the flats of the Rio Grande River. One of America’s oldest cities, the place enjoyed
a rich history, the diversity of which was reflected in the names of city
streets, last names in the phone directory, and lots of Hispanic and Native
American people living there. My Indian fantasies were constantly fed by
western clothing, Native American jewelry, and tribal pottery. The Arts figure
large in Albuquerque, and I loved living in such an atmosphere. Working just a
couple of blocks from the University of New Mexico, I was surrounded with
creative and bright people in a multi-cultural atmosphere with overtones of
being progressive.
There
weren’t any little cable cars but a huge tram scaled the side of the tallest Sandia
peak. At the top, over 10,000 feet above sea level, I certainly felt halfway to
the stars. From there the city views impressed and the far stretch of mountains
and desert thrilled me. I especially loved the fact that even down below in the
town when one drove the major thoroughfares always there were mountains. To the
west one saw in the mid-ground five cinder cones of ancient volcanoes and in
the distance the snowcapped Mt. Taylor. Driving south one viewed desert
mountains that defined the flow of the Rio Grande. To the north lay high mesas
and distant peaks, including the Sangre de Christos and the northwestern end of
the Sandias. The eastern view featured the massive barrier of the Sandia and
Manzano Mountain ranges.
Old
Town always called to me, especially when I felt frustrated with work or just
plain lazy. I enjoyed walking its unusual streets, looking at its architectural
mix that included the 17th century San Felipe de Neri church, and
strolling through its shops full of curios and artwork, clothing and furniture.
I liked sitting on its plaza and patios sipping a Coke or coffee while watching
the crowds, hearing the variety of languages, and wondering what curiosities
brought people there. In some ways, going to Old Town was like leaving the
country.
My
five years in Albuquerque were rich with relationships. My children enjoyed the
place for several months before they went on their ways into adulthood. Eventually
one returned with his new family! More distant family members visited along
with friends from several states. We kept a very busy house almost like hosts
in a bed and breakfast. We made new friends there among co-workers,
congregational members, and neighbors. Among our closest were white, black,
brown, and red folk (if you will excuse this racial shorthand) who each brought
special gifts of culture and love into our home. We entertained rich and poor,
single and married, troubled and calm, funny and dour. We lived it up with an
array of writers, musicians, dancers, artists, actors, engineers, lawyers,
professors, athletes, teachers, doctors, clergy, plumbers, opera fans, office
managers, and food service providers. We ate a mixed cuisine and danced to a
variety of music. Albuquerque had a lot to offer and we took advantage of its
special blend of entertainments.
In
addition to these qualities and folk, I had my own personal adventures with
friendships, a couple of which became sexualized. They transformed me and
taught me more about myself than I had up to that time realized. They also put a
strain on my marriage. My activities and loves were not overlooked by my wife. We
both learned a lot about me in Albuquerque, and we both have abiding
friendships from there to add to our own continuing post-divorce friendship.
Eventually
we moved, my wife and I, to her family farm to help out with her folks. Then I
applied for another church job, my final one, in another state. I hated leaving
Albuquerque and strongly considered returning there after my marital
separation. Eventually though I realized while the city was wonderful and had
been in some ways the location of my great changes, I needed another even larger
place. So I followed my heart to Denver, Colorado, the place I plan to live out
my years and eventually leave my ashes. 
I don’t know if Albuquerque could ever again be my home, but some winter
days when my knees ache I think I might be more comfortable down there where
the winters are even milder than here.
© 5 January 2012 
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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Friends, by Pat Gourley

Looking back on my 66
years I have I guess been involved with what could be called many different
“cults”.  Starting with the Catholic Church and progressing onto
the Democratic Socialist Party, Wiccan Covens, the gay community & Radical
Fairies and Buddhist Practice etc. etc. The most enduring though has been my
attachment to this little band:
http://blogs.wsj.com/speakeasy/2015/11/05/grateful-dead-china-cat-sunflower-and-i-know-you-rider-fare-thee-well/
The twirling paradox
here if any is that this was posted on a Wall Street Journal blog. Oh well,
still a great version of these two old songs performed with love and gusto for
many thousands of devoted followers this past summer in Chicago.
© 8 Nov 2015  
About the Author  

I was born in La Porte Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled
by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in
Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an
extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.
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Exploring, by Lewis

Lately, I’ve been going
through my late husband’s copious writings–journals, love letters, poems, or,
simply, musings.  For me, it feels much
like returning home after a long, long absence and walking through old neighborhoods.  There are places and features of the
landscape that are fresh in my memory, some that were dusty but are now bright
with color, and others that I perhaps never noticed or had long-faded from
memory.  There are faces and names that
have been obscured by time that his handwriting has brought to new life, as if
I were meeting them for the first time.
His love letters are
truly amazing—full of exultation for the joy of our early, fumbling trysts and
his excitement at our impending life together as a couple.  He was Romeo, Don Quixote, and Don Knotts all
putting pen to paper on the same page. 
When I read them, it is like looking down a tunnel of love from the
wrong end, a 14-year-long journey of discovery that ends, not upon emerging at
last into the light of day, but–as all enduring love stories do—when, at long
last, death does us part.  It is not an
experience that thrills so much as sobers, more like lime sorbet than orange
sherbet.  Yet, I spend every spare moment
in the doing of it.  It is an exploration
that, unlike that for a lost gold mine, keeps yielding the bittersweet nuggets
of treasured memory.
© 29 April 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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Normal, by Gillian

Well how in Hell would any of us know about normal? I was tempted to write just that and only that, but that’s taking too easy a way out. But normal, just by it’s definition of usual, typical, unexpected, is just not very exciting Oh, an occasional normal, as in temperature, or blood pressure, can be welcome, but on the whole abnormal is surely more interesting.
And maybe I’m just feeling irritable today, but I’m really getting sick of the New Normal. I found it to be an interesting and quite clarifying phrase once upon a time, but it has been, and is, so overused that it has become …. well …. normal. On the internet, of course, it abounds, usually capitalized: the New Normal of globally aging populations, of a slower-growing U.S economy or those personal New Normals we must find after the birth of a child, or a recovery from cancer, or suffering grief.
The Economist magazine recently headed a section, ‘America and Cuba – the new normal,’ and the New York Times entitled an article, ‘Puberty Before Age 10: a New Normal?’ I have to agree with Harvard professor David Laibson who said that people are “a little trigger-happy with the ‘new normal’ label.” Well, I say to myself, new things of any kind are often over-used at first.
But wait!
This phrase is apparently not new at all: rather making a resurgence. Believe it or not, and I did indeed find it rather incredible, a New York Times article in 2011* printed a graph showing the frequency of the term [new normal – ed.] in books printed over the last century. According to this documentation, it was even more commonly used in the 1920’s and ’30’s than it is now – at least in the printed word.
Then it lay pretty dormant until zooming to it’s current popularity since around 2000.
Anyway, whatever the reason and like it or not, we appear to be destined to be inundated with New Normals at least for a while, so I’ll add my own.
WE are the New Normal. And, yes, I do most sincerely believe that. No, I don’t mean that we in the GLBT community are suddenly going to find ourselves in the majority, but that we will become, if we are not already, normal. Looking at listed synonyms, that simply means we are usual, ordinary, customary, expected, even conventional. Of course NBC tried to suggest just that with the TV series The New Normal which aired in 2012 and ’13, and more power to them, but there is nothing more powerful than the personal. It doesn’t mean we will be universally loved, approved of, even accepted. But we hardly come as a surprise, let alone a shock, to many people these days. Yes, an individual coming out may still shock unsuspecting family and friends, but we, as a group, have arrived. And as more people get to know us individually we will become more usual and ordinary and, in many cases, perhaps seen as quite conventional. I believe that this will all speed up if the Supreme Court, which has finally said it will do as it should have initially, actually makes a ruling, and in our favor.
Even gazing ahead through such rose-colored glasses, there is danger. Not for any of us older folk, I think, but for the future of our community as a whole in years to come. Will we, in fact, cease to be a community if we become more integrated into society as a whole? Worse, will we find ourselves becoming boringly, numbingly, normal; adopting all the previously straight mores and strictures of society and settling for over half of our hard won marriages ending in divorce? I so hope not. My dream is that we will form relationships and love with strengths forgotten or abandoned by our hetero friends. Perhaps they will even learn from us, and together we can all find much that has been lost, or more likely never was. Or perhaps, as several psychological studies have suggested, same-sex relationships have certain integral advantages over those of opposite-sex couples. Women will always be from Venus and men from Mars and that’s an end to it. And that, I guess, would make any same-sex couple, just, inevitably, normal.
*http://economix.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/01/11/the-new-normal-is-actually-pretty-old/?_r=0
© 2 Feb 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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Artistic, by Betsy

As
a youngster in school or Girl Scout meetings, arts and crafts was always one of
my favorite activities.   I am very
grateful for the time spent making things because I still enjoy making things.
So when I started thinking about today’s topic, I naturally pondered the
question what is the difference between an art and a craft. 
I
decided that art is a creation of the imagination, a craft is the result of
making something by hand which is a copy or an impression or a depiction of
something else. Further investigation reveals that the word craft comes from an
old English then German word originally meaning strength then later,
skill.  Skill is the key word here when
it comes to the word origin.  However,
the meaning for me is broader inasmuch as I have crafted many an item without
the application of an ounce of skill.  At
least so it would seem.
In
my dotage I have taken up the craft of counted cross stitch.  My friend Carlos has shown some beautiful
examples of his work.  The two main
skills required for this craft are patience and good eye sight.  Also being systematic about transferring the
pattern from a paper to the cloth is essential. 
Is
this art? Technically, in my opinion it is not. 
I may be creating a piece based on a painting or an artist’s rendition of an object or a
scene.  It is imagination that produces
the image upon which my craft is based. 
That’s
the work of art.  Designing the cross
stitch pattern and then stitching it is the craft.   Does it matter to me which it is called?
No.  Call it art, call it a craft, I really
don’t care. I enjoy doing it. Another of its assets is that it’s a great filler activity very useful
when watching sports on TV, when waiting for commercials to end, or when
watching something entertaining which doesn’t require a lot of concentration
(which is most of television, by the way.) 
Other times when it is a useful activity are when waiting or when one
can’t sleep. 
A
few years ago in our travels to the National Parks, I noticed in the gift
shops, cross-stitch kits of scenes from whatever park we were visiting.  So I bought that first kit that I found, and
have been buying them and completing them since.  So far I have Monument Valley, Zion NP, Rocky
Mountain NP, and I am currently working on Arches NP.  I think it will be another year or maybe two
before I finish Arches as it is quite large; that is, if I work on it
regularly.
 My last visit to a National Park was about a
month ago when we spent a day at Denali NP in Alaska, home of Mt. McKinley now
called Mt. Denali. I found no craft kits in their gift shop, but later in
Anchorage I came upon a craft shop that had cross-stitch patterns for typical
Alaskan flowers and animals. As a result of going into that shop I have now, I
think, four or five cross-stitch projects waiting to be started.  Considering that some projects can take two,
three, or even four years to complete, I realize I better get on with it.  So many projects, so little time.
By
the way, I also knit baby blankets, so if any of you are expecting to be
expecting in the near future, let me know early on (before you are showing) so
I can get started on a baby blanket.
Ahh!
So many projects, so little time.
  

©
8 Sep 2014 

About the Author  

Betsy has been active in the
GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians
Organizing for Change).  She has been
retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years.  Since her retirement, her major activities
include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor
with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning.  Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of
marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys
spending time with her four grandchildren. 
Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing
her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.