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From Bell to Cell, by Phillip Hoyle

A personal history of the telephone

In 1876, some years before my birth, Alexander Graham Bell changed the world of human communications when he received the patent for the acoustic telegraph now called the telephone. Soon after my father was born, someone improved it with the rotary dialing system. That was in 1919, although rotaries didn’t make it out to our part of Kansas until sometime in the 1950s.

My first memory of the phone was a black rectangle affair with a combined ear and mouth piece on a cloth-covered cord. It hung in the breakfast room and had a very small number printed on it, our number that I no longer recall. The phone seemed magical but not so much as the older model at the farm. Watching Grandma Pink on that phone excited me so much I wanted to join in the fun, waiting for the neighbors on the party line to quit gossiping, then cranking away on the handle on the side of the old wooden box, and finally yelling into the mouth horn, “Central, Central.”

We, too, had a party line in town but one with fewer phones connected. We never had to wait so long as Grandma. Of course, young people today would be scandalized to learn that people, namely your neighbors, could listen in on your calls. Where is the right to privacy?

Then we got a rotary phone and a private line. The new wall phone looked much the same as its predecessor, except the black box now had a dialing apparatus with numbers and letters and in the middle was posted CE (for Cedar) 8-2533. I can remember Mom going to that phone to call Santa Clause when we had misbehaved. My favorite memory though, is of my sister Holly who at mealtimes sat with the phone immediately behind her. She was used to answering it during meals. But that day she was just ready to say grace when the thing rang. Picking up the receiver, she began her prayer: “Our Father in heaven….” When she realized what she had just done, she turned red, nervously laughed, and said, “Who is this?”

We still had to dial “0” for the operator to make a long-distance call, but before too many years automatic dialing of long distance became a possibility and with it the introduction of Area Codes. The prefixes tell the rest of this story for AREA CODES began to indentify the important places and phone events in my life.

913 Junction City where I grew up, Clay Center where I went to high school, and eventually Manhattan, KS where I went to college all had the same Area Code. The college dorm had a pay phone in the hallway downstairs. When Myrna and I married our apartment had no phone. If we needed to contact anyone, we walked one block to a convenience mart where we could use a pay phone if we had a quarter.

316 Three years later, we moved to Wichita, KS where I had my first full-time job. There we owned our first phone and began paying Ma Bell for the convenience. From its 316 number we made such announcements to the family as: “It’s a boy.” “It’s a girl.”

817 Some years later we moved to Ft. Worth, TX where I attended seminary. From that area code I eventually asked: “Ed, could you come to my ordination?” I wanted Ed, the minister who had influenced me to attend seminary, to deliver the ordination prayer.

314 One afternoon I received a call, my first one from Area Code 314. Jack in Jefferson City, MO asked many questions about my work in religious education. The congregation where he was senior minister extended a call, and we moved there to join him in ministry. Some seven years later I received another 314 from Jack’s wife. “Phillip,” she said at 4:00 that summer Sunday morning, “Jack’s had a seizure that knocked him out of the bed. The ambulance is here. I don’t think he is going to make it.”

505 A couple of years later there were many 505 calls to and from Albuquerque, NM. We moved there to a good job in an excellent church. But one day my good friend Ted called with news related to his AIDS illness. He told me, “Dr. Gold says it’s now a matter of months or weeks.”

970 Before too many months passed I began making calls from Area Code 970, Montrose, CO where we lived briefly to help out my aging in-laws. There I talked with editors, friends from many places, and eventually with the minister of another church where I would work.

918 Tulsa, OK. Months later, when we moved to Tulsa, we got an answering machine to go with our push button phone because I needed to know if people were going to miss choir rehearsals.

303 I brought that answering machine with me to Denver, Area Code 303, where it was useful as a tool for fielding massage appointment queries. I’d call my machine from the phone at the spa to see if I needed to get right home or if I could dawdle, shop, or visit the Public Library or Denver Art Museum. Some five years later, when I moved in with Jim, I quit using that answering machine. He and his mother were so private; I didn’t want to have the phone ringing with appointment requests. I bought a cell phone. That was almost ten years ago.

These days I’m beginning to feel somewhat like my partner Jim who long fantasized retiring to his home behind a high fence that would keep out the encroaching world. In my retirement I, too, am cutting off my accessibility related to a group of fine people. It’s not to block them out completely but, rather, to limit what I am available for. At the end of the year, 2013, I’m retiring from my massage practice but not at all from my life. I will be happily social but not available for either instant communications or for massage giving. I won’t have texting but will have a home number and will be on line with Email, Facebook, and Blogs. Surely the loss of the cell phone will spell a quieter, less bothered retirement. I am looking forward to that. Even though I won’t be available for giving massages, I’ll still be up for coffee, tea, or meals with lots of laughs. And I hope never again to change my Area Code unless to 720.

(Note: I never have got rid of my cell phone.)

Denver, © 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

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Scarves, by Lewis

It was a night much like any other for the watchman at Glasgow’s Dock Number Three, Lewis James MacScarvey, as he made his rounds. The only sounds were that of the water sloshing against the piles and an occasion distant fog horn or well-sotted human being noisily making his way home after closing time.

It was his habit to pace to-and-fro in front of a streetlamp and park bench where said humans were prone to sleep and dispose of their spent bottles in the nearby trash receptacle in hopes of averting a disturbance. When he turned to the north he could see about 100 meters away another bench with trash receptacle and lamplight nearly identical to his. Only there was no one patrolling that space so he liked to occasionally cast his eye in that direction to make sure there was no mischief-making going on.

On this particular night, at about 1:30 in the morning, he thought he saw a figure standing near the water. It appeared to be a woman, perhaps wearing a red full-length coat and something on her head. He had made several turnings on his well-worn loop and each time checked to see if the person was still there.

After about 15 minutes or so, he turned and noticed that the figure had vanished. Curious, he rushed down to see if there was a problem. When he arrived at the spot where the woman had been standing, he saw only a pair of earrings carefully placed on the seat of the bench and, when he looked into the water, a red scarf floating on the surface. Not even a ripple disturbed the water’s calm. Using his nightstick, he was able, with some effort, to retrieve the scarf. Embroidered on one corner were initials. He could barely make them out in the dim light–“LJM”. They were his initials. He backed away from the edge of the water until his legs collided with the bench, whereupon he sat down hard.

Although he never learned the identity of the mysterious lonely woman he saw that night–no body was ever found–he could not bring himself to reveal to the police even the existence of the scarf. He kept it for himself and every night before he went on-duty, he would tie the scarf around his neck, hoping against hope that the rightful owner would some night come looking for it.

© March 23, 2015

About the Author

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

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A Magic Carpet Ride, by Gillian

Humankind does not, for the most part, create in order to promote and honor spirituality. We make killing machines and WMD’s. We compete to see who can build the tallest sky-scraper, the biggest and fastest anything and everything, and the securest vault to store our precious gold bars.

So, it was with great surprise that I received a serious spiritual kickstart from a creation weighing an estimated 54 tons; the largest piece of community folk art in the world, honoring almost 100,000 people.

Yes, of course, the AIDS Memorial Quilt.

I first saw it, or part of it, in Denver. I don’t recall where exactly it was displayed, Betsy thinks somewhere at DU, or when this would have been. Probably around 1990. What I do remember vividly is the effect it had on me.

Each quilt is 3 feet by 6, roughly the size of a human grave. At the time it was started, in 1987, many people who died of AIDS-related causes did not receive funerals, due to both the social stigma of AIDS felt by surviving family members and the outright refusal by many funeral homes and cemeteries to handle the deceased’s remains. Lacking a memorial service or grave site, The Quilt was often the only opportunity survivors had to remember and celebrate their loved ones’ lives. Each quilt is completely unique. They vary from no more than a name written in marker pen, to an embroidered name with a photograph, or many photographs. Some are covered in messages to the deceased. Many have belongings carefully attached, sometimes covered with carefully hoarded childhood toys and clothes; baby booties wailing out a mother’s heartbreak.

I couldn’t stand it. These young men – yes, others died, and are still dying in that terrible epidemic, but it was primarily stalking young gay men – these young men, so frequently reviled and feared by society, dying horrible and very premature deaths; and what do they and those who love them do? They sew a quilt, those terrible, frightening men! The pain of each individual represented there, and my anger at an ignorant bigoted society were too much. I didn’t think I could bear it. I couldn’t contemplate one more lost life. I was about to tell Betsy I would have to wait for her outside, when something strange, something wonderful, happened.

I felt the overwhelming love that had gone into those quilts flowing back out and engulfing me. It enveloped me in it’s warmth, like that of a cozy fire on a cold night, and with it came a sense of great peace, culminating in a flash of what I can only call pure joy, such as I have felt rarely in my life. It was strange, that jolt of joy in a time and place surrounded by death. But there it was. It came and it went so fast I felt almost dizzy. But the strong sense of love and peace remained, to banish the previous pain and sorrow and rage. You understand that I am looking back at it now from a place at least slightly further along the path of spirituality than at the time, so this is how I see it from a current perspective. I doubt I would have described it in quite the same way at the time. But then, with every memory we rewrite history. But it is my history, so I guess I’m allowed.

In any event, it was The Quilt which initially precipitated my journey along the spiritual path.

I wanted that jolt of joy again. And again. And again. It had been like a momentary high, and with one shot I was addicted. I wanted to live cocooned in love; to find that everlasting peace.

Easy to say! Not so easy to do. The spiritual path is a difficult one. You don’t simply decide, I’m going this way now, and go. It takes work, and, like so many things, eternal vigilance. I frequently lose my way, stumbling off the spiritual path into those nearby dark places where all the bad things lurk – those negative thoughts and emotions, always waiting to pounce. But at least I have reached a stage where, I cannot claim always, but often, I can stop myself, wherever I am at that moment. I stop. I relax. I do some deep breathing. I rest right there, lost as I may be among the good, bad, and ugly. I gather that spiritual quilt of love and peace, and wrap myself in it’s warmth. And usually it works it’s miracle and sooner or later I find myself back in the welcoming light of my spiritual being, back once again on the right path. Rescued, again, from the dark scary places, It’s a magic carpet ride. As I continue along my path, I am treated, very occasionally, to those starbursts of pure joy. But more importantly, I am, for the most part, completely at peace: with myself, with my world, and with everything in it. So I think it very appropriate that the Quilt, or technically The Names Project which began it, was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize in 1989, but disappointing that it did not receive the award. It seems to me the perfect candidate. If others would treat adversity in the same way, the world would be a very different place. Sadly, even trying to imagine the Nazis or those currently flocking to join ISIS, deciding instead to sew a quilt, is so impossible it’s just laughable.

Why is that? I ask myself, sadly. I hear no answering reply.

I saw a part of The Quilt once again when Betsy and I took part in the March on Washington in 1993. The last time it was displayed in it’s entirety was on the Washington Mall in 1996 – something I would love to have seen but didn’t, and I will probably never get another chance. The Quilt is now too large to be viewed all together. It is stored in twelve feet square sections, housed in Atlanta. These section, placed end to end, would run for over eight miles. If you have never seen any part of it, you might want to add it to your Bucket List; things to do before you die. I’m sure it would do just as much for your soul as gazing at the Taj Mahal in the moonlight. And the trip would be a whole lot cheaper!

© June 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 25 years.

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Didja Hear Denver’s Pride Parade was Disrupted?

by Donaciano Martinez

The question in the above headline was posed by me to dozens of people, who were almost unanimous with the reply of a resounding “no.”

The June 2015 parade was indeed disrupted by predominantly Chicano and Chicana GLBTQ youth from Buried SEEDZ of Resistance (BSEEDZ) to honor Jessie Hernandez, the 17-year-old Mexican lesbian who was killed by Denver police when they investigated the stolen car in which Hernandez and her young lesbian friends were socializing in the early-morning hours in January 2015.

Completely stopping the parade from one side of the street to the other as BSEEDZ activists unfurled a huge multi-colored banner in big-sized words “Your Family Values Are a Lie,” the 10-minute disruption took place near Lafayette Street on the Colfax side of the nonprofit GLBT Community Center that has organized the parade and festival since 1976.

In addition to honoring the deceased Hernandez, BSEEDZ activists made the following demands to the GLBT Community Center as the parade organizer:

– End corporate sponsorship of Pride by corporations such as Coors, Walmart and Wells Fargo due to their ties to the prison industrial complex, anti-immigration legislation and predatory lending that targets queer communities of color;

– Every Pride parade should be led to honor LGBTI2S lives lost to violence; and

– End police presence at Pride because LGBTQI2S communities are at higher risk of experiencing police violence.

[The above-listed I initial refers to gender variant people who do not fit the narrow paradigm of being male or female. The above-listed initials 2S refer to Two-Spirit, the American Indian term for people who have both male and female qualities.]

Dozens of spectators were on the rooftop of the GLBT Center looking down and applauding as parade participants passed by when BSEEDZ activists and allies suddenly poured into the street to block the parade. While some

spectators on the sidewalks approvingly cheered the protesters, other spectators seemed annoyed or were curious about the protest action.

“We are grabbing the mic for just a few minutes to reflect on and honor the lives that have been taken and forgotten,” yelled BSEEDZ organizer Cecelia Kluding-Rodriguez into her megaphone once the protest got underway with BSEEDZ activists locking arms and wearing red t-shirts emblazoned with the image of the face of Hernandez.

“The first Pride was a riot, Stonewall was an uprising,” shouted BSEEDZ activist Muki Najeer. “We are here today to bring back the true spirit of Pride.” Each time she spoke, she paused so that fellow protesters could loudly repeat her words. “In the last few decades white LGBTQ people gained many rights, including the right to marriage. But why do queer and trans communities of color still face higher levels of murder, police violence, unemployment, detention and homelessness?”

To reiterate the importance of restoring the origins of Pride, BSEEDZ activist Mimi Madrid elaborated: “We’re not just here to dance and have a good time. No. Pride began as a revolutionary uprising to defend our bodies, to defend our identities and to defend our spirits. We’re tired of the police just taking us out, picking us off. So this is about bringing back that sacredness, the roots of uprising back into Pride.”

After the 10-minute disruption ended and the Pride parade resumed, BSEEDZ activists walked back to the sidelines and chanted the rhyme: “How many queer kids have to die? Your family values are a lie.”

Originally founded in 2009 under the name Branching SEEDZ as a project of the nonprofit Colorado Anti Violence Program (now known as Survivors Organizing for Liberation), the youth-led group modified its name to Buried SEEDZ of Resistance (BSEEDZ) in January 2015 after finding inspiration in an old Mexican proverb that read: “Trataron de enterrarnos, pero no sabian que eramos semillas.” In English, the proverb means, “They tried to bury us, but they didn’t know we were seeds.” With the proverb as their foundation, BSEEDZ envisioned a future where they can continue on the path of resistance that was planted by their ancestors.

“I immediately reflected back to the spirit of resistance that the patrons of the Stonewall Inn of New York City demonstrated in the summer of 1969,” stated longtime Chicano gay activist Lorenzo Ramirez upon learning that the predominantly Chicano/a Mexicano/a LGBTQ youth activists in BSEEDZ took a stand at this year’s Denver Pride Parade. “From my research, and also rare conversations with individuals who were actually there, I have learned that the actions taken by the Stonewall Inn patrons (who were primarily Black and Latino drag queens) were in direct response to a raid conducted by the NYPD [New York Police Department] on June 28, 1969.”

“This historical act of resistance triggered three nights of civil unrest by the gay community of New York City’s Greenwich Village and was the birth of the modern LGBTQ civil rights movement,” declared Ramirez in his praise of the bravery of the individuals who took a stand after enduring enough of the constant verbal and physical harassment by NYPD.

“As an out and proud Chicano gay man who grew up in the Chican@ Movement of the early 1970s, and as an HIV/AIDS activist of the late 1980s and 1990s, I must support this new diverse generation of young grass-roots activists in their efforts to remind the LGBTQ community about our history of struggle and sacrifice that has paved the way so that we can live our lives openly and honestly with pride and dignity,” stated Ramirez.

“May I first note that we have yet to have any direct communication from Buried SEEDZ of Resistance,” said Rex Fuller, Communications Director for the nonprofit GLBT Community Center, which has organized the Pride parade and festival since 1976. “We have only heard about the group’s demands through third parties. We welcome dialog with the group.”

“We also want to state that we are dedicated to supporting all members of our community and we are always working to listen to and address issues facing our community,” added Fuller while noting that youth from the GLBT Center’s program, Rainbow Alley, are participating in the Queer Youth Summit sponsored by BSEEDZ.

Although Fuller is firm that the GLBT Center works to listen to and address issues facing the community, not everyone agrees that Chicano/a LGBTQ youth are being listened to or that their issues are being addressed.

“I recently had the opportunity to meet with members of BSEEDZ, and I have been very impressed with their energy, commitment and organizational skills,” stated Ramirez. “I could also sense the frustration of their voices not being heard and not being recognized by organizations and many LGBTQ community leaders who are entrusted to address the issues that affect us all.”

“PrideFest has an estimated $25 million annual impact on Denver’s economy, including benefiting LGBT businesses,” stated Fuller in response to the BSEEDZ demand that the GLBT Center end corporate sponsorship of the Pride event and refuse to take funds from corporations such as Coors, Wells Fargo and Walmart. “Denver PrideFest is also The Center’s largest annual fundraiser and money raised at Denver PrideFest goes directly back to our community in the form of direct services to LGBT youth, elders, the transgender community and providing help with legal issues. This would not be possible without corporate sponsorship.”

In his expression of gratefulness to the companies and their GLBT employees who support the GLBT Center through sponsorship of PrideFest, Fuller pointed out that the Center requires corporate sponsors of the Pride event to have non-discrimination policies in place.

“This year Denver PrideFest attracted 370,000 people over the two-day festival,” proclaimed Fuller in response to the BSEEDZ demand that the GLBT Center end police presence at the Pride event. “It would not be possible to host a public event of this size without working with Denver Police Department to ensure safety of everyone attending.”

Denver City Government’s agency, the Office of Special Events, handles the permit-application process for all events (such as PrideFest) held on public property (streets, parks, etc.) and coordinates the process that all permit applicants are required to go through with various agencies (including Denver police). Because of the strict process that all permit holders must go through to ensure public safety, it is highly unlikely that there will ever be an end to police presence at the Pride event.

Regardless of police presence or no-police presence, there are some people who no longer attend the Pride event.

“I have not attended Denver’s Pride Parade for quite some time for many of the same reasons that BSEEDZ decided to take action and voice their concerns and demands mentioned in the La Gente Unida newsletter,” noted Ramirez, a recipient of the “Year 2000 Donaciano Martinez Human Rights Award” and the 2004 founder of Denver’s first Latino gay/bi men’s community center that lasted five years before it transitioned to a program called UNO (later called LISTOS) under a different fiscal sponsor.

The recent Denver Pride Parade was not the first time for BSEEDZ involvement in a disruption of an LGBTQ event. BSEEDZ activists joined with Latino trans activists in disrupting the LGBTQ Creating Change national conference held in Denver in February 2015, at which time Denver Mayor Michael Hancock was prevented from delivering his speech to the conference. The action at the conference was to honor the Mexican lesbian teenager Jessie Hernandez who was killed by police in January 2015.

People from all sectors of the community probably will no doubt express pro and con views of BSEEDZ tactics for months to come. As freedom-loving activists ponder the issue, consider the following quote from the 1800s African American activist Frederick Douglass: “Those who profess to favor freedom and yet depreciate agitation, are people who want crops without ploughing the ground.”

Denver, 2015 

[The piece was previously published by La Gente Unida Newsletter and is used here with permission.]

About the author

Since 1964 Donaciano Martinez has been an activist in peace and social justice movements in Colorado. His activism began in 1964 by knocking on doors to urge people to vote for peace and justice, but in 1965 he and other activists began marching in the streets to protest against war and injustice. His family was part of a big migration of Mexican Americans from northern New Mexico to Colorado Springs in the 1940s. He lived in Colorado Springs until 1975 and then moved to Denver, where he still resides. He was among 20 people arrested and jailed in Colorado Springs during a 1972 protest in support of the United Farm Workers union that was co-founded by Cesar Chavez and Dolores Huerta. For his many years of activism, Martinez received the 1998 Equality Award, 1999 Founders Award, 2000 Paul Hunter Award, 2001 Community Activist Award, 2005 Movement Veterans Award, 2006 Champion of Health Award, 2008 Cesar Chavez Award, 2013 Lifetime Achievement Award, and the 2013 Pendleton Award. La Gente Unida, a nonprofit co-founded by Martinez, received the 2002 Civil Rights Award. The year 2014 marked the 50-year anniversary of his volunteer work in numerous nonprofit situations.

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Grief, by Will Stanton

The emotion of grief, to varying degrees, is natural for humans but potentially very toxic. The causes of grief are both external, that is, events that happen to us, and internal, one’s own nature and how prone we may be to suffering grief.

Throughout history and continuing on through today, some people have suffered extreme traumas that can affect them the whole remainder if their lives. Victims of horrendous crime, violence, war, natural cataclysms, or massive plagues, all such victims are severely tested. As a consequence, shock, loss, grief, anger and bitterness are very hard to cope with.

Just imagine, if you can, Russia’s Empress-Dowager Maria Fednorova, barely escaping with her life to Denmark after her son Nicholas II and his young family all were brutally shot to death by the Bolsheviks and their bodies dumped into pits in the forest. She struggled with her grief for ten years. Her coping mechanism was to hold out irrational hope that one or more of them somehow had survived. Of course, we now know that all their remains have been found and none survived. For most of us, the common loss of a loved one or friend, loss of job, home, or financial security, is hard enough. That certainly has been true with me.

Then, each of us is wired somewhat differently from others. Some people are quite sensitive and vulnerable to prolonged grief. There are several potential causes. Brain physiology and chemistry differ among people. This may be caused by genetics, PTSD, emotional or psychiatric anomalies, drugs or alcohol. Too often, people lack good support systems of family, regular friends or mentors. They feel more alone, vulnerable, and less resilient.

Turning grief into an energizer, a motivator for constructive thinking and behavior, is an important coping skill that people should learn and practice. In contrast, dwelling endlessly upon grief can cause devastating effects upon one’s mental and physical health. A dramatic example of this is the character of Miss Havisham in Dickens’ “Great Expectations.” Once defrauded of all her money by the beau who promised to marry her and then abandons her, she remains for years in her yellowed wedding dress, sitting in a dark, decaying mansion where all the clocks are stopped at the time she learned of her betrayal, and with the desiccated remains of the wedding breakfast and cake lying on the table. Such a mind-set and behavior are obviously destructive to health and happiness.

Like everyone, I have had my share of grief, and for various reasons. Sometimes a sense of grief comes and goes, triggered by remembrances of past times, good or bad. This is true with the loss of my partner more than eighteen years ago. I still have moments. I also still miss my wire-hair fox terrier, who had to be put to sleep two weeks after my partner died.

I’m afraid that I also am prone to a more generalized grief that some others may not suffer. There is much about human beings and the world that is unnecessarily evil and toxic, and I morn humankind’s apparent lack of the ability to feel empathy, to change and improve.

My means of coping apparently is for me to focus upon the positive, associating with loving people, appreciating beauty in all forms. My writing about this topic “Grief” provides me with the opportunity to remind myself to remain focused upon the good.

© 10 August 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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Practical but Cruel Jokes, by Ricky

I joined the
Mormon Church in December of 1968.  Soon
thereafter, I became friendly with the missionaries whom had taught me the
pre-baptism lessons I needed for the introduction to Mormonism.  As a result, I was privy to some of their
stories of missionary experiences.  I
will relate two of them below.
Practical
Joke #1
Mormon missionaries always come in pairs and are referred
to as “companions”.  Such pairs share a
modest apartment and are placed together for varying amounts of time before
being split up and paired with a different companion.  Under these circumstances companions get to
experience each other’s idiosyncrasies.
One such pair had the following habits.  One insisted on being the first one in the
shower each morning.  The other had a pet
gold fish and would always be the first to drink from the cold water jug upon
returning to the apartment each day after being outside in the hot Southern
sun.
One day, as a practical joke, the first companion
secretly placed the other’s gold fish in the cold water jug before leaving the
apartment.  As expected, the other
missionary arrived home and grabbed the water jug and began to drink from it
before he noticed the now dead gold fish inside.  Internally, he was seething with anger but
did not show any outward signs other to acknowledge the “joke”.  But he was already plotting his revenge.
The night before an important gathering of all the
missionaries in the district, when he finished his shower, he set up his
practical joke.  During the week, he had
purchased a pack of blue Rit Dye gelatin capsules.  That night he removed the shower head and put
several capsules in the pipe.  Replacing
the head, he then went to bed.  Getting
up a little early the next morning, he informed his companion the he was going
to walk to the chapel where the meeting was to be held and was leaving
early.  Thus, he left his companion alone
and departed.
During his walk, the gelatin capsules eventually
dissolved.  When the companions met at
the meeting about one hour later, the one companion said to the other after
looking at him for a moment, “Are you feeling a little blue today, Elder?”  As you may expect, his companion’s exposed
skin (head, neck, hands) was bright blue.
Practical
Joke #2

This next story takes place in the panhandle of
northwestern Florida.  A newly assigned
missionary, called “Greenie”, was assigned to a companionship for a short time
until he could be paired with his own companion.  The greenie arrived about two days prior to
another missionary meeting which was to take place in the morning in Panama
City.  It was necessary for the
missionaries to leave early in the morning in order to arrive in time for the
7:30 AM meeting.
There were two companionships and the greenie sharing a
car for the trip, 5 missionaries in all. 
After about an hour of travel, the driver pulls the car over next to a
field of watermelons and suggests that they go pick up a few for all the
missionaries to eat after the meeting. 
Everyone gets out of the car and the greenie says something like, “Isn’t
this stealing?”  He is told it is okay,
that it has been done before, and not to worry. 
The greenie agrees to help.
Just as the greenie picks up his water melon and removes
it from the vine, a young black man appears and demands to know what they are
doing in his water melon field.  One of
the missionaries pulls out a pistol and shoots the black man who falls down
mortally wounded to all appearances.  The
missionaries tell the greenie to get back to the car and start walking away
down the road towards their destination while they stay behind to hide the
body.
After hiding the body, the missionaries get back in the
car and drive up to the walking greenie and pick him up.  They explain that this type of thing does
happen occasionally, but no one cares because it was a black man, so don’t
worry.  Of course the greenie is in total
mental turmoil.
After arriving at the meeting and unloading the melons
the missionaries attend their appointed sessions.  The greenie is then informed that they will
be staying for regular church services. 
Just before the services are to begin, a black family arrives and the
greenie is startled to see the young black man who was shot and buried walk
into the chapel.  The four missionaries with
whom he rode then introduced the family and privately explained that they had
set him up as an initiation prank.
Practical jokes may be fairly common, but most are cruel
and not very funny.  I do not condone
them because they usually result in escalating rounds of revenge jokes and can
easily result in violence.
© 28 July 2014 
About
the Author   

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale
and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm
in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
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

Feeling Loved, by Phillip Hoyle

As a college freshman I heard a lecture in which the
professor pointed out how Americans love many things, everything from cars to
mashed potatoes. We celebrate the love of clothes, looks, hairdos, decorations,
and cities. We love our ball teams. But we don’t expect most of the things we
say we love to love us. Mostly we limit the hope of being loved to our relationships
with other humans except, of course, our pets, especially our dogs who we are
sure love us in return. In this story I’ve made an incomplete list of my
experiences of being loved by that one someone who figures centrally into our
American mythos of being loved, but obviously I’ve expanded my list to more
than that one and only—woman or man.
I was deeply loved by Myrna my wife. I felt loved. And
I loved her in so many ways in this most complicated relationship of my
life—one with a professional career, children, parents and siblings and in-laws
and many, many friends over a period of many years. I was happy about it
basking in such warm and complete love.
About two years into that marriage I was loved by a
gay friend. I loved him, but I had no experience and didn’t understand the
order of things. He loved my wife and didn’t want to hurt my marriage. I loved
him but not in the way I finally realized he wanted me to love him. I was very
young. I think I hurt him deeply. Still our friendship flourished for many years.
In the meantime I fell in love with a man who probably
loved me but whose life was too encumbered, whose imagination couldn’t deal
with what that might mean about himself and his life. As a result his love for
me became stunted. I loved what feeling I received from him although I hoped
he’d never want me to give up my married life for him. I also knew I’d never
ask him to give up his married life for me.
Then I loved a man who may have loved me but had built
a barrier around his feelings. Oh he wanted sex with me but he didn’t want to
give or receive the feelings of it all. So when we started the sex, I agreed to
his demand there be no emotions since I realized the advantage of his program
to my marriage. Still I wondered at his request but like a good soldier turned
off my emotions—at least some of them—but not so much as to miss experiencing
the thrills our play created.
Then I loved a man who really loved me. I warned him
that my love, while real and deep, was quite different than his. Now I was the
one defending the two of us from one another for quite complicated reasons. I
loved being loved by him although I could not imagine living with him.
I was loved by a man who had nothing to offer me
except his adoration. We lived in two greatly different worlds, his with Okie
twang, mine with educated artifice. I was nice and kind but never in love with
him. Still I appreciated his devotion even with its great impediments. I was
relieved when he no longer pursued me.
I liked a man who seemed to like me. Eventually I fell
in love with him and he with me. The experience was new to me since I was
recently separated from my wife and could actually go live with him. He loved
me. We lived together. I watched him die. I grieved.
I loved a man who really loved me. Our love had all
the markings of classic falling in love: the ancient lover and beloved, the
medieval romance, and the extremely baroque and renaissance drama of an opera
plot. Sadly this love affair was also a tragedy although a gentle one. I
grieved unlike ever before in my life when he died.
Again I love a man with whom I live. He loves me. We
don’t match very well but do live together successfully. Neither of us is
especially romantic, but I seem to have a much greater proclivity for romance
than he. We have a nice social life with mutual friends. His mother lives with
us. I know I am loved, but again it is a new experience with dynamics unlike
any of my other loves.
Perhaps the nice thing about my loves is that my wife
and the man I first fell in love with and the man I first allowed my love to
grow with all continue to be my good friends. My current love is also a good
friend. I have come to realize that I love any number of men for any number of
reasons. I will refrain from counting the ways in this story. Perhaps another
day there will be a poem describing that matter! Of course, these listed affairs
of the heart are only one category of being loved. But I have always realized
that I am loved by many different people for many different reasons and in many
different ways. I really feel loved. I guess it proper to say the one-and-only
aspect of my being loved is to be found in the individuality of each loving relationship.
© Denver, 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
Posted on

Sports, by Gillian

In my youth, I
understood sports to be for fun, fitness, and friendly competition. Now, in my
curmudgeonly old age, I know sports to be about money, winning at all costs,
and very unfriendly competition.
Even amateur sports
have gone completely out of whack. Have you been to a school ball game lately?
Even pee-wee baseball is all about winning. At that age, should it not be about having fun, getting some healthy fresh air exercise, and learning the basics of
the game? Oh no! Fathers scream abuse not only at other children but at their
own. God forbid that poor little Joey should strike out or fail to catch a
ball. He’ll pay for that when he gets home. The pressure on so many
children these days is immense. Everything has become so serious.
Professional sports,
of course, have paved the way. Back in the 1970s I had friends with Broncos
season tickets. The husband frequently had better things to do, and my husband
was rarely interested, so off to the game the girls went! It was fun. Having
had the same seats for several seasons, my friend knew all the people around
us. We all bought each other beers and chatted and cheered. After my divorce I
lost touch with those friends, and I did not go to a live game for a long time.
Then one day another friend had a spare ticket and I went to Mile High Stadium
again, for the first time in probably twenty years. My, how it had changed.
Everyone seemed to be angry rather than enjoying themselves. There was a
constant stream of verbal abuse hurled at the players on both teams, and of
course the officiating crew. I was so sick of the constant “F” word. By the time
I left I felt as if it had been burned into my ears and my brain and my psyche.
(Or, as Betsy commented when I read this to her, I felt completely fucked! And
not in a good way!) I have not been offered a ticket to a football game since
then; if I were, I seriously doubt that I would accept it.
I have to admit I
still follow the NFL pretty devotedly on TV. I can’t explain why I like it.
Many lesbians are ardent football fans, which seems strange as the game
consists of what most of us abhor; sanctioned violence, perpetrated by huge
sweaty men. I have to close my mind to two things, though. The violence to
women committed by an unfortunately large number of players, and the huge
salaries now offered to these people, would put me off the entire sport if I
thought about them too much, so mostly I don’t. 
After all, I don’t refuse to see a movie because of the shenanigans of
those acting in it.
I do abhor the lack
of humanity which seems to have taken over. If a player has an injury, the
opposing team members will do their best to attack that part of his body. Has
it really gotten to the stage where the intent is to do permanent bodily
injury?
“Be great for the Broncos if they could take him out for
the rest of the season,” laughs the commentator happily.
“Well if anybody can eliminate him, Foster can. Man! He
plays so angry,” rejoins his co-commentator in admiration.
“He’s
just looking to rip someone’s head off every play!”
This isn’t war.
It’s supposed to be a game. Was it always so merciless? Maybe so and I didn’t
get it. After all I have never played football.
OK. Fair enough.
Football is a violent game. If you don’t like it don’t watch it.
But it’s not just
football.
I have played
tennis, though far from the Pro level. But, at that Pro level, how it has
changed. Once considered a sport of Gentlemen and Ladies, it is now as
cut-throat as any other professional sport.
“Now Farmer’s
injured that right ankle, Varenova will keep her going to that side, see if she
can’t break her down,” a happy commentator reports.
“Exactly,”
replies another, “It’s time to take advantage of that injury and finish
her off. Go in for the kill right now.”
So this verbiage of
violence seems to have penetrated even the sport of Ladies and Gentlemen.  It is so pervasive, and I cannot believe it
has a positive effect on our society.
All this, and the
seriousness with which we take sports, players and spectators alike, of course
has come with the advent of huge financial rewards. These in turn came with the
universal obsession with sports by so many people. In the days before huge
lights dominated the playing fields, games were played in the daylight hours,
thus eliminating most of the potential fans who were, of necessity, at work.
Even if it were broadcast live on the radio, or later the old black-and-white
TV, few were available to enjoy it. Most were played at weekends, to attract
more followers, but time off work was limited and people had many things to
cram into a weekend.
Then came the huge
brightly-lit stadium where people could gather after work and watch, or watch
at home on the TV in the evening, relaxing from that hard day at the factory.  The fan base kept growing. Sports were becoming
big business. Compensation for players and coaches, support staff and owners,
kept rising.
Then came mass
media, complete with ever-improved recording devises and exponentially
increasing choices of what to watch when. No need to miss anything. Ever.
Grandma turns up unexpectedly right at the kickoff or the first serve; no
matter. Press the little red button and welcome Granny with open arms. In
addition, the fan base for all sports is expanding horizontally, across the
globe. Want to watch the Australian Open Tennis here in the U.S.? Can’t even
figure out what day it is in Australia, never mind what time? No worries. Look
it up on the TV Guide, on the TV of course, not that little book we once bought
at the grocery store, hit that little red button and go to bed. Watch it
tomorrow. Sometime. Whenever.
So, given
professional sport’s universal, world wide appeal, I suppose the money involved
is only to be expected. I’m not sure what Neil Armstrong earned by being the
first human ever to walk on the moon, but I doubt it was anything like what
many many sports heroes earn. But why not? The moon walk was reportedly watched
by 530 million people. The 2011 Cricket World Cup between India and Pakistan
was supposedly watched by about one billion.
I miss the days
with less hype, less money, less drama, involved in sports. But what I really
really miss is the gentler language, before it all became so infused with
violence. But it seems to be what most people want. After all, you get what you
pay for.
© 3 Nov 2014 
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 25
years.
Posted on

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.
Posted on

Anger, by Ricky

“Tranquility base here.  The Eagle has landed.”  The first astronauts to land on the moon,
found an environment completely serene and peaceful.  Of course it would be because there were no
people there until then.  It’s a pity
that our planet is not so tranquil.
Earth is still geologically active and also has an
energetic atmosphere, so there are naturally occurring events that would
disturb the quiet nature of a planet at rest. 
But the tranquility to which I am assigning my “it’s a pity” is the lack
of peacefulness between people, cultures, and nations.
Situations continuously arise which allow people to
make themselves irritated.  Irritation
leads to frustration.  Frustration leads
to anger.  Anger leads to hate.  Hate leads to violence.  Violence leads to war.  War leads to destruction.  Destruction leads to famine, pestilence, and
death.
I think we need an organization that can roundup all
the hate and war mongers and send them to the moon so we can have peace on
earth and they can experience tranquility there.  Maybe we could let them stay there “to infinity and beyond.”
© 9 June 2014 
About the Author 

 I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale
and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm
in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
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.