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My Favorite Transportation by Ricky

(Planes, Trains, Automobiles & Buses, without John Candy)
Preface:  I wrote and submitted this piece to the SAGE
Telling Your Story group, while visiting my brother and sister at South Lake
Tahoe (SLT), California.  My brother had been
diagnosed with an aggressive form of prostate cancer and had driven from his
home in Oregon back to SLT to visit our sister. 
While there he became so ill that he could not return to Oregon so I
also stayed throughout the summer until his end.
          I spent most of my teenage years either being driven or,
when I reached 16, driving myself in either my or my family’s car.  Once each year during Christmas school
vacation, however, I got to ride Greyhound buses to and from my father’s home
in Torrance, California (a suburb of the Los Angeles metro area) so he could
have his one-week visitation rights. 
Those trips occurred from my age of 10 through 18 when I left home for
college.
          Whenever I had to catch the transfer bus in Carson City,
Nevada, I always dreaded the 5 to 6 hour wait until I discovered the Nevada
State Museum.  Eventually as the years
passed, I managed to see all the exhibits (and I even started reading the signs
telling about the stuffed animal dioramas). 
I learned a lot about “things” during those years from visiting the
museum.  My favorite exhibits were right
at the entrance; the history of and silver service from the USS Nevada
battleship, ultimately used during the hydrogen bomb test at the Bikini Atoll
in the South Pacific.  It had various
animals on it to represent human crewmen. 
My other favorites were the displayed collection of Silver Dollars and
Gold Coins minted in the Carson City Mint and at the official exit in the
basement, the mock-up of an underground silver mine.
          Whenever I had to catch the transfer bus in Sacramento,
California, I was usually involved in reading a book specially purchased for
the trip.  Once, when I was 16 a slightly
overweight girl my age sat by me for the whole trip.  She was going home to Venice (another suburb
of Los Angeles) and very talkative and all I wanted to do was read but, since I
am often too polite for my preferences, I talked with her until she got sleepy
and then I read.  Once close to Los
Angeles “we” decided that I would pick her up for a date in two days.  My dad loaned me his car and we went to
Pacific Ocean Park (sort of a carnival with rides built on a pier over the
ocean at Venice).  We had fun there.  I took her home and walked her to the door
but we did not kiss and I never saw her again.
          After the above mini-stories, you might think that
Greyhound was my favorite mode of transportation.  While buses played a major and positive part
in my youth, my recent 24-hour bus ride from Denver to Reno definitely removed
any “romantic” attachment buses had as a result of my youthful memories, so it
is not my favorite.
          From age 10 thru 17; I was probably the happiest when
riding with my dad during his 30-days each summer visitation time.  He would pick me up at Lake Tahoe and we
would then travel to Minnesota, Iowa, and points in between during the days the
interstate highway system was just beginning to be constructed.  One year on our way to Minnesota, we went to
Mt. Rushmore first and traveled on a portion of I-90 in Rapid City, South
Dakota.  I had my learner’s permit then,
so I was driving at that point.
          On one of those cross-country trips I learned something
about sleep and dreams.  On one very warm
(no auto air conditioner) day, I was dozing or perhaps actually sleeping.  I was actively dreaming about being in a WW1
trench with other soldiers.  Apparently,
I was the commander because I began to give my men a “going-over-the-top”
pre-attack motivational speech.  During
the speech I started to sing and everyone joined in.  We were singing “San Antonio Rose”.   After a couple of choruses, there was an
artillery blast that roused me a bit and I felt my dad shaking my leg and heard
him tell me to wake up.  As I woke, I
heard “San Antonio Rose” playing on the car radio.  So it is possible to hear the real world
while dreaming and incorporate it into the dream world.  This is not unlike dreaming of using the
bathroom and waking up to find out you have either wet the bed or are about to,
if you don’t hurry. 
The
artillery blast turned out to be the result of a large goose that did not move
out of the car’s way in time and had hit the windshield in front of me.  Unfortunately, the goose’s neck and head got
stuck between the windshield and the exterior “visor” overhanging the
windshield on that model of car (possibly a ’55 Studebaker).  Dad made me go pull it out so we could
continue.  Yuck!!
While
I have always enjoyed “road trips” because of my yearly travels with my father,
it is not my favorite mode of transportation; most common, yes.
My
first experience flying was just before I turned 8.  My parents had decided to send me to live
with my mother’s parents on a farm in Minnesota while they obtained a
divorce.  I didn’t learn about the divorce
until age 9 ½.  Since that time, I’ve
flown a lot on personal, union, and military business.  Once on the way back from visiting my father
in Los Angeles, the plane I was on almost was involved in a mid-air
collision.  That particular experience of
violent turning and climbing and turning again put a solid fear of flying into
my conscious and subconscious.  So, now
days I’m am always tense while flying. 
As you should expect by now, flying is not my favorite mode of traveling
either.
At
age 13, my parents decided to take a late summer vacation to the farm in
Minnesota.  So, after packing us all
roast buffalo sandwiches for the trip, we left Reno for Des Moines, Iowa where
we needed to change to a northbound train. 
When we reached Ogden from Reno, the train was to be stopped for
20-minutes.  My parents went to get
coffee and left me with my 2 ½ year old twin brother and sister on the
train.  About 10-minutes after they left,
the train began to move and I went into major panic mode.  “Where are they?” “Are they leaving us, like
mom did when they sent me to the farm when I was 8?” “How am I going to care
for two babies?”  “Can I stop the train somehow?”  Those are the questions that started racing
through my mind, repeatedly.  I don’t
know why or how, but I didn’t cry.  I
think I wanted to.
As
it turned out all the railroad did was move the train to a different track a
bit beyond where they had stopped originally. 
About three minutes prior to the expiration of the 20-minute stop, my
parents were back on the train with us. 
Contrary to all the TV ads, “relief” is not spelled “Rolaids” it is
spelled “let-me-give-you-both-lots-of-hugs-and-tears-of-joy.”
We
returned from that vacation 1 ½ weeks after school started.  I was starting 8th grade.  My first day of school was Thursday.  My teacher, Mr. Ross, gave me my books and
assigned me a desk.  Just before the
final bell rang for the end of the day, he announced that there would be a test
on the first 3 chapters in our social studies book the next day.  He told me just do the best I can.
I
did some panic stricken cramming that night and the next morning and took the
test.  On the Monday following, he was
upset with the class because they had done so poorly on the test.  Then he did the unthinkable.  He told the class that I had only one night
to prepare and they had nearly two weeks; then said that I had scored the
highest in the class by a lot (like an 86 or something).  That statement fixed my reputation as a DAR
(Darn Average Raiser) and my classmates were slow to become friendly and the
reputation (much undeserved in my mind) continued through grade 12.  In college the real truth was revealed.
Train
transportation is not fast in the west and central parts of the country, but it
is very stress free and relaxing (unless you start school late).  Yet, it is still not my favorite mode of transportation.
My
favorite method of transportation is books! 
Reading books can transport one to places that cannot be reached by
planes, trains, buses, or automobiles.  I
love to lose myself (and problems) in a good stories contained in books.  Television and movies are often stories first
told in books.  Books have the benefit of
taking longer to finish and can easily be taken off the shelf and
revisited.  Books contain adventures and
knowledge without end.
The
cliché states, “A picture is worth a thousand words.”  This submission to our storytelling group is
1579 words long.  So, you should have a
decent image of me in your minds, in case you all have forgotten what I look
like.  I will be back soon.
© 25 September 2011 
About the Author
 I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in
Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach.  Just
prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on
their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my
parents divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.
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One Monday Afternoon by Phillip Hoyle

One Monday afternoon with a folder of
stories in hand, I made my way to The LGBT Center in the 1100 block on
Broadway, the place with the purple awning that I had visited often to borrow
books from the Terry Mangan Memorial Library. My friend Dianne had looked at
The Center’s website and called me to say they were offering art programs and a
weekly storytellers gathering. She thought I might be interested, and she was
right. For quite a few years I had been attending a writers group, a monthly
gathering of men and women in which I was the only gay, but now I thought I’d
like to read my gay-themed pieces to an LGBT audience to see what response I
would receive. Excited by the prospects I entered the building, climbed the
stairs, registered my presence, and made my way to the library where the group
was to meet.
I knew the storytelling was part of
SAGE, a seniors program, and wondered how I’d compare with other participants.
I was younger except for Jackie who was the group leader. She was quite a bit
younger than I, a graduate social work student at Denver University who had
started the group as part of her internship with SAGE. Jackie’s warm and
friendly personality attracted me, and she was just funky enough and humorous
enough for me to relate to her. Two or three other men attended my first Monday
afternoon with the group. We introduced ourselves to one another and the
storytelling began. Since I’d never attended before, I had no story about the
topic, but I did have a couple of stories about my experiences as an older man
who came to Denver some years earlier to live his life as an openly gay man. Two
participants told stories extemporaneously, sharing interesting events in their
lives. Jackie read her story, something about one of her boyfriends back in New
Jersey. The other participant read his story in a thick Alabama accent.
I knew I had come to the right place. Thus began my tenure with The Center’s
SAGE of the Rockies “Telling Your Story” group, a storytelling relationship
that has endured over three years.
The next Monday afternoon one of the
extemporaneous storytellers surprised us and himself by reading a story.
Somehow the experience of putting his feelings on paper moved him deeply,
reading them aloud nearly devastated him, and hearing them read nearly devastated
the rest of us. What was this group? I suspected our times together might
become more than any of us anticipated.
Over the ensuing weeks—April through
June—we told our stories to one another; sometimes asking questions for
clarification, sometimes responding with our own similar experiences and
feelings, and always appreciating the candor and depth of the sharing. But
Jackie broke into our satisfaction by announcing the end of her internship; she
had received an assignment at another setting for the final months of her
academic program. Michael piped up to say we already had our next leader. We
looked around the room and then a realization hit me. I felt like I was again
in church; I was being volunteered. When the truth of it was clarified, I
agreed only to consider convening the group. The Center would be closed for a
month while the programs moved into the new facility on East Colfax Avenue. I
suggested that on the first Monday afternoon of opening week we come together
with stories on the topic “Beginnings.” In the meantime I would confer with
Ken, the acting SAGE director, about the possibility of leading the group.
I did volunteer to lead the group, an
experience of great importance and meaning for me. Prior to accepting the
responsibility I had gone nearly twelve years without leading any kind of
group. In fact, I had rarely attended any meetings for over a decade. I
reasoned perhaps it was time I re-entered group life and asked the participants
to brainstorm several topics we could use for the next meetings. We did so and
since then have generated so many topics we’ll have to meet weekly for
several years to use them all. The LGBT makeup of the group has presented no
particular challenges because of the personalities of group members and their
dedication to building community that features a broad spectrum of human
experience. But the most important thing I discovered in assuming this
leadership was that the group barely required any leadership, barely needed it.
It’s the easiest group I ever led, and I had led many, many of them in a church
career that lasted thirty years. Also, I never before led a group with such a
high average IQ or so much creativity and talent, both raw and trained. And
still after many months I never can imagine what to expect each week. Such fun,
such humanity, such diversity, such community. It all began for me one Monday
afternoon.
© 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
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Anger by Lewis

I have related here
before the heightened levels of anger I experienced and acted out as a boy–my
killing of birds, shooting out of a streetlight, throwing a dandelion digger at
our cat. 
There are other
manifestations of my inner rage that I have not told.  For example, there is the time that I shut
off the electricity in our neighbor’s house when they were away on
vacation.  Or when I hit the hubcaps of a
passing car with a stone flung from my slingshot.  Then, there’s my all-time most daring feat of
disgruntlement when I wrote an anonymous, deprecating note to a bunch of older
boys and left it where they would be sure to find it.  They, to my shock, surmised the source and
came immediately to me expecting a confession. 
I, naturally, denied any knowledge of the blasphemy, whereupon they
demanded a sample of my handwriting.  I
compliantly agreed and, when handed a pen and paper, copied the words of the
note in my very best left-handed printing. 
The lack of resemblance left them dumb-founded and they turned away in
search of the real culprit.
I could easily blame my
parents for my anger.  My father was
gentle and kind but incapable of understanding me or my juvenile emotional or
psychological needs.  My mother lacked
empathy. 
I was isolated as an
only child and a withdrawn one at that. 
In addition, I was the bearer of a horrible secret about the most
shameful of subjects–my sexuality.  I
felt myself to be kind and loving, yet an unworthy aberration of God’s creation.  I had no role-models, for I did not fit the
“role” of any other human being I knew.  So, I compensated by seeking to act like–and
perhaps be–an apprentice of God while feeling like one of the
“unclean” on the inside.  It’s
no wonder that the tension found an outlet through acts of blatant hostility.
I recently attended my
50th high school reunion.  My high school
years, as I have said here before, were miserable.  I had few friends–in fact, had no idea how
to make any, other than by using my intellect to impress.  I had no interest in sports and was
intimidated by the very sight of a girl. 
If I had thought that I had any sex appeal at all, I would not have
known how to take advantage of it.  
Consequently, my lowest moment at the reunion was after taking the tour
of my high school, now having undergone a $30 million refurbishment.  What little of it I could recognize brought
back memories of a childhood lost or, at least, spent in a depression-induced
daze.  I have long suspected that the
same could be said of most of the folks who never show up for reunions. 
So, what is the state
of my anger today?  I suspect that it may
be out-of-sight but not out-of-mind, much like an old childhood scar, hidden
beneath my clothing.  I still curse a
blue-streak at the slightest frustration. 
Perhaps this is healthy, as I believe anger suppressed leads to
depression.  I suspect the neighbors in
my apartment building would complain were it not for the fact that I live in a
corner apartment with a laundry room next door. 
I think much of my
anger comes from shame.  Shame is a
condition much more difficult to express than anger.  Shame then builds, leading to more
anger.  Next thing I know, I’m feeling
ashamed of my anger, which is really depressing.  I think I’ll go shopping for a punching bag.
  
© 7 June 2014
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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Endless Joy by Gillian

I’m not sure why but that phrase, the entire
concept, makes my skin creep a bit. Maybe it’s because the only people I can imagine
making me a promise of endless joy are fundamentalist preachers from the mega
church, urging me towards rebirth, and the corner drug dealer urging me towards
powders and pills. It also, to me, conjures up a vision of a constant and
rather scary manic condition.
Not that I’m suggesting there is anything wrong with joy
itself, but, like so many things, it is probably best taken in moderation. The
Free Online Dictionary defines it as intense and especially ecstatic
or exultant happiness. Now really! Who can keep that up for a lifetime? We
who are fortunate enough frequently feel joy in our lives, but it goes away;
either crashing down or floating gently away as we return to the usual
mundanity of everyday living. Christmas comes to mind, as I am writing this at
Christmas time. The word joy pops up frequently in carols, and we often
associate the holiday season with joy. Sadly, this anticipated joy does not
always manifest itself to those who expect it and they are doomed to angry
disappointment. Others, even more sadly, are realistic enough about the
situation in which they currently find themselves that they expect nothing; and
are not disappointed.
But let’s
suppose, for now, that we have a perfect Norman Rockwell Christmas. The kids
are joyous as they unwrap their presents and delve eagerly into the stockings,
the parents and grandparents rapturous as they watch. We build a snow man on
the lawn, then enjoy a perfectly dinner, after which we sit around the tree and
lustily sing joyful Christmas carols. We drop into bed, awash with Christmas
joy and egg nog. We are still pretty joyful in the morning, even though the
go-to-work alarm wakens us rudely before dawn. This Christmas was pure joy, we
congratulate each other silently. We totter into the living room which we find
completely covered in tattered wrapping paper, ripped-off ribbon, and abandoned
toys. The dining room looks almost as bad. When did all that gravy end up on
the floor? And what might that be, all that sticky stuff trodden firmly into
the carpet? And, oh God, the fudge somehow got left out and the dog ate it,
then threw it up in the corner. That joyous high is dissipating in a hurry but
we are also in a hurry. No time to do anything about anything right now. I dig
my way out to the car through that foot of snow that we were all so excited
about yesterday. Ooh, how perfect. A real White Christmas! Bloody fools,
I grumble to myself, digging out the car and beginning to register a slight
pounding in my head. How and why had I left egg nog for rum punch? Now I’ve got to get out on the icy freeway with all
those fools who don’t
have a clue how to drive in this stuff…. and I’m developing road rage before I even get the
car in gear. Not one ounce of yesterday’s
joy remains.
Weddings are other occasions
frequently linked with joy, indeed endless joy to be carried forward from this
joyful wedding to last a lifetime of marriage. A wedding crowd is very often a
joyful one, attending a truly joyous occasion. The happy couple overflows with
joy and we all rise with them onto some euphoric cloud. They rush off to the
airport only to spend three miserable hours waiting for the arrival of the
plane which by now should have already winged them away to that luxurious hotel
on the beach. When they finally do arrive there, exhausted and irritable, it is
pouring rain and colder than the home they just left. After a week of cold,
wind, and rain, viewed from the streaming window of the over-priced hotel that
euphoria bubble has truly burst. The honeymoon is definitely over.
Of course it isn’t just positive emotions which don’t go on uninterrupted forever. Negative ones
don’t either. If you marry
him you’ll
have nothing but misery. Not quite accurate. Maybe he will,
does, bring you much unhappiness, but it’s
not endless, with never a break. Surely miserable lives are, even if only
occasionally, treated to some relief, a little levity, perhaps even some rare
moments of joy. Years ago I saw a homeless woman pick up a small white flower
someone had dropped on the sidewalk. The expression on her face as she held
that flower up to the light was very evidently an expression of pure joy.
Don’t we need the bad times so that we can really
enjoy the good? If we did have endless joy, would we appreciate it? Would we
even feel it? I’m
not sure. And how could we have empathy for those not feeling so good? Helen
Keller said, “We could never learn to be brave and patient, if there were only
joy in the world.”
Eckhart Tolle, a name I’m sure you’re sick of hearing from both Betsy and me,
and sometimes Pat, suggests that if we live each moment in the now, never being
distracted by the past or future, every moment will bring us joy; not the
Christmas or wedding kind of joy sometimes engendered by an external stimulus,
but the spiritual joy of simply being. I work hard at it but doubt that
I will ever attain that spiritual strength. If I had been practicing it my
entire life I might have some hope of getting there, but I only really started
paying the attention I should to my spiritual needs after I retired. I am
making progress, and have experienced enough of those tiny shots of spiritual
joy to feel the beauty of it, but it is far from endless. In fact it is absent
more than it is present. The closest I can get is a kind of inner spiritual
peace, which I revere. It is almost continuous, though being a spiritual novice
I sometimes let it get away. So far, at least I am able to get it back. It is,
I believe, as close as I will ever come to endless joy. Will it be endless
inner peace? Only time will tell.
©  January 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. 
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Passion by Betsy

Passion: an intense desire or
enthusiasm for something.
“Passion is energy, feel the  power that comes from focusing on what
excites you.” — Oprah Winfrey
I have a passion for a few things: First, for
certain people; namely, my loved ones—my partner, my children and g-children.
My second passion is for music;
namely, classical music of the baroque, classical , and romantic styles and a
little contemporary.  I am very limited
in my ability to perform music.  I do
like being a part of a choral group and have been doing this for much of my
life.  But listening is stirring and
inspiring and I usually never forget something I have heard that has touched my
soul.  I use my ipod  when exercising.  Nothing like a Schubert or Brahms quartet to
keep me moving and working hard on the stationary bicycle, elliptical or rowing
machine. I do mix in some fast-paced Abba for variety most of which I find very
energizing.  My music does excite me and
gives me energy. Often fellow exercisers ask me what I’m listening to.  When I tell them, they give me a very strange
look as if to say, “Don’t you know about rock? You poor thing.”
My greatest passion is for sports.
That is doing not watching. I am a less than mediocre spectator fan.   I don’t pay much attention to which teams
are winning or losing.  Occasionally, I’ll watch a tennis match on TV or even a football game.  But given the opportunity I would a thousand
times prefer to play, compete or do most any activity that requires physical action, motion, and either some
skill, or a desire for adventure.
My deepest passion?  I had to search my soul a bit for this.  Now in my later years, I have become aware
that I have a deep passion for the
truth.  Perhaps that is because earlier I
spent a good portion of my adult life living a lie.  After all, until I came out, that’s what I
was doing. Since we do not know the truth about most things from mundane items
that come to us through mainstream media, to metaphysical questions such as
what lies beyond this life—since we do not know the truth about these things, I
have become very conscientious about separating fact from belief.  Since this is all my brain is capable of at
this point, I leave it there.  
I would like to mention one last point
about passion in general.
As I was giving this subject further
consideration, I came to the conclusion that passion and obsession are very
closely related.  To illustrate: I DO NOT
have a passion for writing, which does not always come easily. But the use of
the English language and the application of its rules of grammar is near and
dear to my heart.  This goes back to my
high school days when my English teacher Miss Dunn who taught me for all three
years of high school English, exposed us to very little literature.  Mostly we studied grammar and a little
writing.  Most in the class thought the 3
years of grammar was rather boring, but I loved it.  I guess I have the kind of mind which loves
to analyze and that’s what we did.  We
analyzed sentences most of the time and learned rules of grammar and word
usage.  I, therefore was quite horrified
when I realized that I had made a glaring grammatical error in last week’s
writing and I actually read it using the wrong part of speech and didn’t even
notice.  The realization hit me in the
middle of the night—the night following our session here–as I lay in bed. I
thought,”Surely I didn’t write it that way.” 
So I jumped out of bed at 3:00Am and checked my paper.  Yes, I had written it that way and read it
that way.  Very upset with myself, I had
to wake Gill up and tell her.  “I can’t
believe I did that,” I said.  Later,
thinking about passion I decided I do believe I have a passion for properly
applying the  rules of  English grammar….Or is it a passion?  Some would call it an obsession.  So, where do we draw the line between passion
and obsession? I believe that passion is actually obsession when one says to
oneself, “I wish I could have let that go.” 
To put it another way.  When one
becomes dis-eased over what she THINKS she has a passion for. (Oops! Did anyone
notice that!  I just ended a sentence
with a preposition.)
© 24 Oct 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.
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Mushrooms by Ricky

          Why are mushrooms and
children so different yet still in the same Kingdom?  Why are children and mushrooms so alike but
not in the same Phylum?  Does it really
matter?  Yes, it does.
Similarity #1:  Mushrooms are Fungi which thrive in dark and damp places
often sticking their heads up into the sunlight to examine the world above the
soil and to scatter their spore.  Kids
stay in the shadow of their parents, then ever so slowly peer or venture out
into the world beyond their home seeking greater light and knowledge.  Adolescent male children prematurely scatter
their “spore”.
          Similarity
#2:  Mushrooms feed upon
smelly decomposing organic compounds predominantly in the dark.  Children are kept “in the dark” about many
things and accuse their parents of feeding them smelly decomposing organic
compounds.  Yet some parents do “feed”
their children’s minds a steady diet of “BS”, by continually espousing concepts
of bigotry, hate, and homophobia.
Parents unwisely keep their
children “in the dark” to protect them from information which theoretically might hurt or damage the child
or which is too embarrassing for the parent to talk about.  Not talking about sexual matters early enough,
but waiting until the child has already obtained a rudimentary knowledge which
is often wrong and incomplete is not good for the child.  Thus, a child who feels “different” for some reason
has no one with which to discuss their feelings, because the parent has closed
or not opened the door to such information or discussion.  This has a disastrous impact on the child’s
mental health, life, and is hazardous to their adult future.
Parents often struggle with
and wonder why their children don’t remain active in the parent’s church in
which the children have been raised since birth.  I suspect that years of lying and supporting
the myths of Santa Claus and Elves, the egg-laying Easter Bunny, the Sand Man,
Frosty the Snowman, and the Boogeyman finally carried over to the stories of
Jesus.
Parents keep forgetting that
children are NOT STUPID.  They are smart,
cunning, and bear considerable watching. 
Continually lying to them, even if it is a white lie like Santa Claus is
not setting a good example.  There must
be a discussion early on in a child’s life of the difference between a fictional
Santa and a real Jesus – a wise parent will ponder and prepare for that discussion very carefully
or be forced to admit that they
don’t know if Jesus is or was real.
Difference #1: 
Mushrooms
are Fungi.  Children are not Fungi.
Difference #2: 
People
eat mushrooms for flavor or recreational purposes.  Mushrooms only eat people after the coffin is
sealed, and often for the same reasons.
One day at our dinner table,
we were eating spaghetti with the sauce provided by a jar of Prego. 
This particular version of Prego
contained small pieces of mushrooms. 
Partway through the meal, my oldest daughter (7) proudly announced to
everyone that in school she had learned that mushrooms are poisonous and she
would not eat them anymore.  Instantly,
her sister (5) and brother (3) stated that they would not eat them either.  No matter how their mother and I explained
only some mushrooms were poisonous and they had been eating mushrooms in the
spaghetti sauce their whole lives and not died; no argument or fact could or
ever did change their minds or behavior. 
Sometimes, children really can be less smart than a parent wants to
believe.
What is the point?  The two questions that opened the mushroom memory
story are totally irrelevant to my point except as a literary device to get you
to read this post.  The question of “does
it really matter” is important.  It
matters because too many youths are still killing themselves over sexual
orientation bullying and parental homophobia. 
THIS MUST STOP!!!  Open and honest
dialog between parent and child must begin before age 5 and continue throughout
their lives.
So called Christian
ministers who preach hatred and homophobic sermons ARE NOT CHRISTIANS and
should be discharged and shunned until they repent and teach correct Christian
doctrine.  In my opinion, these ministers
could be prosecuted for some form of “breach of the peace” or “inciting
violence”.  They definitely are causing
discord and not preaching Jesus’ Gospel of love and harmony.
I am someone who believes that
every life matters. 
Every youth suicide represents a lost national treasure.
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is
a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away
by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man’s death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to
know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.
– Poet John Donnes, 1624.

© 8
December 2013 

About the Author  

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in
Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach.  Just
prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on
their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my
parents divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

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When Things Don’t Work by Will Stanton

One person said that this week’s topic is “When Things Don’t Work.” Another person thought the topic is “When Things Don’t Work Out.” Take your pick, or maybe do both.

Left’s start with “Things Don’t Work Out.” The funniest thing happened to me on my way to perfection. It turns out that there is no such thing, far from it. Just like so many young people, I once thought that I’d always stay relatively healthy. Boy, was that a mistaken notion! I have been plagued with health problems my whole life; and now I must deal on a daily basis with some serious, probably permanent, afflictions. Good health certainly did not work out.

I also thought that I had plenty of years to become educated, build a career, find a life-partner, accrue financial security, and still have time to relax. That did not work out either. It seems that (in the early words of the late Walt Kelly) “tempus just keeps fugitting along.” The majority of my years are behind me.

When I was young, I very naïvely thought that most people are knowledgeable, rational, kindly, and caring. For the most part, my trust in people didn’t work out either. I look about me and see how so many people are prone to lying, cheating, violence, and just plain stupidity. Like most of us, I unfortunately have been the target of such behavior over the years. Yes, there are some good people in the world, and I’ve appreciated them, both those whom I have been fortunate enough to know personally and also those I hear about. Still, my general belief in people did not work out.

So, there are three examples of “When Things Don’t Work Out.” Now for “When Things Don’t Work.”

I’ll allow myself to mope yet again about my life-long wish to be able to express the music inside me by playing the piano well but finding that desire to be an impossibility. Succinctly said, my hands don’t work. They are not even average hands, let alone lacking the athletic ability to play piano truly well. Woe is me. Enough said about that.

Still, I realize that some parts of me work better than that of some of my friends. For example, Larry has diabetes, peripheral neuropathy, hip replacements, leg braces, and uses canes to walk. Mike complains of being overweight, has bad feet, and wears special boots to get around. I recall one day the three of us driving up to a street-corner and stopping at a red light. Our attention was drawn to an exuberant teenager on a skateboard, zipping down the sidewalk, doing kick-jumps over the curbs and twirls just for fun. He appeared to be taking for granted his good health and athleticism, dancing down the walk like a young colt in springtime. At this point, I heard Mike grumble, half in humor but also half as a lament, “It’s not fair.” Then Larry morosely responded, “And, everything works.” To be honest and being familiar with Larry’s previous quips, I know that he was referring to more than just the teen’s athleticism.

In life, in the real world, a lot of things don’t work; much does not work out. I suppose we just have to keep plugging along, making do with the cards we have been dealt. That reminds me, each Sunday I have been playing with friends the card-game “Samba,” and I have been losing for weeks. With the cards I have been dealt, that has not worked out either.

8 December 2014

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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Wisdom: I Do Not Assume the Role by Phillip Hoyle

Wearing my mother’s housecoat and slippers, Lady Wisdom spoke to me. She sat there at the breakfast table listening to my complaint about Andy, a new student at college, a boy from a small eastern Colorado town, who seemed to assume he knew more than anyone else, who in the mid-sixties to me epitomized that worst 1950s trait of being stuck on himself, who demonstrated no humility. I really didn’t like him. Lady Wisdom listened as I described this young man, a whole year younger than I. Finally, from somewhere deep in her experience, she proffered these words: “Maybe he’s having a hard time dealing with all the new things he’s encountering living away from home, in a dorm, in another state, surrounded by other people who don’t always sing his praises. Maybe he’s just scared and so presents a confidence he doesn’t really experience.” I was amazed by her words. I had thought I was speaking with my mother, but the wisdom of centuries made their way through her mouth. Mom, as the slogan of the Kansas Association for Youth advised, took the long look and urged me to do the same. Her concern was to bring peace to her family, to her larger community, and to teach her children to do the same.

Wisdom is the theme of the cartoon of a person climbing a tall mountain to seek the insight of some hermetic guru. It is the watchword of international negotiations along with the secondary value of tact. It is a meditation that examines not only the content of knowledge but also its application in daily life, not just to know but also to know how to do. Usually personified in ancient times as a woman, Wisdom appeals to the more feminine side of human need, a need for tolerance, contemplation, and ultimately service to the common cause.

I suppose I should know something about wisdom, but it seems to assume too much, by which I mean it wants me to be responsible. I recall the week two highly contrasting massage clients responded to a jazz lyric playing in the background, “That’s exactly what I need, someone to watch over me.” Yikes I said silently to myself. Don’t expect that from me. I just rub away aches. I cannot run your life. I cannot live with you. I cannot be your husband. You see, by becoming a massage therapist rather than a minister I was trying to simplify my life. I didn’t want to advise or to live with exaggerated expectations for miracles and other such responsibilities. I wisely, though, kept my mouth closed and kept rubbing.

Today I want to say something important about what we are doing in our Sage of the Rockies storytelling. Wisdom is usually linked with age, the Sage or wise one with experience. For years I read gay studies and gay stories. I was trying to find out from others what my gay life could be. That related to my personal needs. Now as a GLBT I am telling stories to serve a community need. While we have seen huge changes, seen the gathering of identities and power among GLBTs, we still need to keep alive past experience—even the perspectives of hiding and fighting, hurting and coping. Changing laws and increasing acceptance of us and our ways in the general society do not erase memory. We have to tell the stories for not to do so in some new way dis-empowers the unsuspecting and sometimes ignorant GLBT populations of the future. We need more words of wisdom from our experienced gays. We need more stories of true life from our lesbians. We need more clarity from our bisexuals. We need more advice from our Transgender brothers and sisters who are still experiencing the terrifying isolation and focus of hatred—more than Gays, Lesbians, and Bi-sexuals. We need all these stories to remind us of our own.

We need to proffer wise council—not in order to be right but rather to keep alive perspectives and memories that could easily get lost in a media-crazed and Madison Avenue world—especially when huge money manipulates huge portions of the population and an informal popular base seems lacking in public democratic life. So, let us tell the stories, our stories, in all their beauties and pains. May we be clear, candid, and clever in our accounts for we tell the story of a life and of a community.

Oh, about Mom’s wise words concerning Andy: for me they were very helpful and still are to this day since Andy married one of my sisters.

Denver 2014

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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Drifting by Pat Gourley

A secondary definition of “drifting” is to be driven into heaps by the wind. This particular definition reminds me of one of my favorite childhood experiences when growing up in Northern Indiana in what is called the Snow Belt. That of course was the several times a winter when we would get snowed in and be unable to get to school, a Catholic grade school about ten miles north of our farm.

I grew up on a farm on a rural country road in a part of Indiana that was the frequent beneficiary of snow squalls coming off the southern end of Lake Michigan. These squalls were often driven by strong winter winds out of the northwest that would gather moisture off the lake and dumped it right on us in the form of snow. The issue with getting truly snowbound often depended on whether or not there was significant drifting. When that occurred it would often take the county plows twenty-four to sometimes seventy-two hours to get us plowed out. We lived in the southern end of La Porte County, an Irish Catholic enclave, and plowing our little country lane was never a first priority it seemed.

This of course suited me, my brothers and sisters and cousins up and down the road just fine. Looking back on those years particularly grades one through eight when I was attending St. Peter Catholic grade school in La Porte I was not a very happy student, particularly after the fourth grade. I had this rather spontaneous and precocious, OK perhaps the adjective should be flamboyant, quality to my personality. For reasons I am now completely unaware of and perhaps was even oblivious to myself back then I learned it was best to tone it down a bit and you would fit in better. Better to drift along with the prevailing current than to turn around and try to swim upstream. I never went crazy though because I had a great mom and dad whose unconditional positive regard was always unflinching.

By the time I had reached eighth grade and my early teen years I was much more withdrawn though considered by my peers and teachers to be a serious young man perhaps headed to the priesthood and a pretty good student. Perhaps this was why in part I was chosen to play the role of Jesus in out eighth-grade Easter week play. We literally read from one of the gospels, not the most creative of productions. Which gospel it was escapes me but it was the Passion of Christ as it was played out in those tomes and dealt with the drama of holy week leading up of course to the crucifixion and resurrection.

For a little gay kid who would later be fascinated and tentatively drawn to the queer S/M subculture I was probably on some level disappointed that the crucifixion part was really skipped over as I recall. No loin clothes or whips for this little Jesus. It was a Catholic school remember and those Holy Cross nuns had no sense of humor or perhaps worse no realization of what sorts of nasty transgressions could really feel good, no sense of the erotic. Some of my best lines in the play though were after the resurrection. I got to be Jesus in large part because I was perceived to be the best little boy in the world.

That I was tormented with a reality that I was somehow very different from the other little boys was something I would have at the time guarded to my death. I do though remember thinking what a phony I was playing Jesus, being the big old sinner I was sure I was. Not that any sort of gay sex had remotely occurred for me yet. The biggest transgressions involved laying naked along the local river bank in the summer with several of my male siblings and cousins all of us sporting hard-ons and talking about how girls got pregnant. Believe me it was not the thought of a penis in a vagina that was doing the trick for me but the sight of other erect penises all within touching distance and what a magical phenomenon that was to behold!

Back to drifting. That really was how I was getting by in those years from fifth grade until my family moved up to Northern Illinois at age sixteen when my whole life changed for the better in ways unimaginable. Just drifting and allowing myself to be buffeted and intimidated by the strong winds that were the Catholic Church and its many minions and their truly perverted worldview. How ironic that it was that a couple of those same minions in the form of a commie-pinko nun and a queer male guidance counselor allowed me to stop being buffeted by the wind and instead to lunge headlong into the winds of change sweeping the whole country in the late 1960’s: something that proved to be much more soul quenching than just drifting along.

© July 2014

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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Gay Music by Gillian

What the hell is that? I don’t even know what it means! A so-called “gay movie” or “gay book” is identified as such because of it’s GLBT content; it’s characters and/or subject matter. But the vast majority of music, even most music with words, is androgynous, unisex. A couple of weeks ago our topic was, “All My Exes Live in Texas.” In my short piece I also referred to that beautiful song, “Could I Have This Dance For the Rest of My Life?” Different as those two pieces are, they can both be taken to be heterosexual or homosexual, depending on the preference of the listener, as is the case with most songs. I am wiling to bet that many of us in this room listened to those old love songs of the forties and fifties and, when performed by a singer of our own sex, turned them into songs of love directed at us. Certainly there are, these days, a few songs that are unmistakably GLBT; amusing lyrics performed by drag groups, Lady Gaga singing about coming out, more recently even a collection of songs about gay marriage, but the total of all this specifically GLBT-themed music together would not add up to a single drop in the ocean of music in it’s entirety.

Is “Gay Music,” then, that which is written and/or performed by someone of the GLBT family?

If so we could talk about Tchaikovsky and Elton John and a vast number of others in between.

But what sense would that make? We don’t call a book a “gay book,” because it’s author happens to be gay; usually we don’t even know, although that kind of information is much more readily available these days. If J.K. Rowling unexpectedly revealed that she was a lesbian, would the Harry Potter tales suddenly become lesbian books and movies? K.D Lang is openly lesbian, but I would not call her songs “lesbian music.” Many movie producers and actors are GLBT but that doesn’t make their movies “queer.” No-one refers to “A Farewell to Arms,” as a gay movie just because Rock Hudson starred in it.

Maybe because, at least until recently, we of the GLBT community had little we could call our own, we would like to claim significance to “gay music,” but personally I find it a bit of a reach.

But wait! As I typed that last sentence, with one eye on the Winter Olympics on TV, I caught a few bars of our very own National Anthem. Perhaps I’m just missing it. When we strive to hit the high notes of the “land of the free,” could we be celebrating our freedom? Well, yes, we could, but I’m afraid I’m much too cynical to accept that phrase at face value. But, now I’m trawling through National Anthems, perhaps I really have stumbled onto something. After all, how many times in the first twenty years of my life did I sing out, in the British National Anthem,

“God save our gracious Queen

Long live our noble Queen

God Save the Queen!”

February, 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.