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Signposts by Phillip Hoyle

Ted grew up on a large farm in southwestern Kansas, near Liberal. Ted seemed to have inherited his musical ear and talent from his mother, a fine pianist who accompanied her son’s solos throughout his childhood and teens. Ted’s clear, resonant, and lovely voice and his ability to interpret songs came from somewhere. His mom? His dad? I didn’t know them well enough to judge. Ted did seem to have inherited from his dad his tall frame, his good looks, his organizational ability, and his alcoholism. Ted sang in church and school choirs and pranced down Main Street and around the football field as drum major of the high school band. He was also a straight-A student.

When Ted was fifteen he attended the Fred Waring Choral Summer Workshop where he learned a lot about music and had sex with a man. When he got home, he asked his mom if he could see a psychiatrist. “You need a psychiatrist like I need a hole in my head,” she responded. That ended the conversation but not Ted’s worry over his life and its direction.

Ted attended college at Wichita State University as a music education major with vocal and choral options. One of his college teachers told me Ted was brilliant, not just smart, perhaps the most brilliant student she had ever taught. I figured she might know something about that since she had taught grade school, high school, college, and graduate courses. While an undergraduate student, Ted ably led the choir in his Wichita church. Upon graduation he began his music career as a vocal and choral instructor in a small church-related college in north-central Kansas. That’s where I met him during my last semester.

Ted and I seemed very much alike yet at the same time quite different. I had been married about a year and a half; the summer before we met, Ted had terminated his engagement to be married. We did share our love of vocal and choral music. We both had been directing choirs. Somehow I also knew that like me he would be open to sex with another man. He too may have known that about me, but we didn’t move toward that kind of relationship. Rather we became good friends.

Ted’s musical brilliance was supported by his tremendous organizing skills and natural gift as a teacher. He made musicians of his students. A couple of years into his work at the college, he tried again to court and to marry but in so doing pushed himself into an emotional and mental breakdown. His high-school self analysis had been too accurate.

By then, my wife and I lived in Wichita. Ted entered the graduate music program in voice at WSU. On weekends he’d stay with us and our new baby boy. One weekend he came out to me and seemed a little angry with me when I told him I’d realized he was gay the very first time I met him. When he lived with us a couple of months the following summer, Ted’s homosexuality revealed itself to be as intense as his brilliance, musicality, musicianship, and ability to organize. He and I stayed with our chosen friendship, yet he told me many, many things about his life, including some of his sexual experiences. He seemed a little disappointed as well as relived when his psychiatrist and counselors at the mental hospital where over a number of years he received care told him they were not treating his homosexuality; they did not consider it an illness. We continued to become even greater friends. Ted was a friend with my wife as well and an uncle to our son.

Ted left college teaching and followed his voice teacher to Texas where he studied music at Trinity University. I visited him in San Antonio, saw the university, met teachers, observed his great choral programming at a church where he was music director, sang with him, and more. On that trip Ted became my gay educator interpreting such phenomena as gay bars, drag queens, gay language (verbal and non-), gay people, and the emerging gay literature; and he told me many more stories from his own experience.

Eventually Ted moved to San Francisco where he plunged into a gay scene not imaginable in Wichita, San Antonio, Houston, or Dallas. There he sang in the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus, organized and led the SFGM Chorale. He taught voice at a community music school, led other ensembles, and sang professionally in a Catholic Church choir. On one visit I went to mass with him. The organist and all the singers seemed to be gay. But even more than all these things, and in a very personal way equally important, Ted became an A-List masochist. He contracted HIV, doctored at San Francisco General Hospital, and became an AIDS activist. Ted showed me the photo of himself at a party wearing his mother’s mink stole and explained he was exploring his feminine side. He told me stories of unrequited love. When we walked around together he made comments about beautiful men we encountered. I must add this: Ted lived at 944 Castro. Do I really need to say more? I’m sure Ted was the gayest person I ever met.

Ted died from AIDS-related conditions. I attended his balloon-crowded memorial service at First Congregational Church, heard spoken tributes by a number of his gay friends, listen to his beloved chorale sing, and enjoyed a gay party after the service. When I came to Denver to live as a gay man, I dedicated myself to giving massages to people living with HIV/AIDS in his memory. Ted was and continues to be my gay icon.

 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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Pushing the Buttons by Pat Gourley

A response to Denver Pride 2014 


“Went to “Pride Fest” today.

SORRY but found it fairly bland, insipid, Un special – a major sin, and overly ordinary. Could have been People’s Fair or Taste with rainbow county fair junk-goods. Listening to some of the vendor’s conversations, they knew nothing of the LGBTQQI struggle and history and didn’t care.

Such a let down. With success comes failure quickly!
– Quote from an anonymous friend.

The above quote is one lifted yesterday from the Facebook page of an old friend of mine. Someone I would describe as a commie, pinko faggot with strong pacifist, socialist and Wiccan leanings, definitely my kind of queer. A description I do not think he would in any way try to disown. His bit of a rant is in response to this year’s Denver Pride 2014. In fairness it should be noted that this was a post done yesterday after visiting the event on Saturday, the vendors are all the same but the crowd significantly smaller and dare I say less gay.

This friend has been an activist around many progressive causes all of his adult life and an out gay man since I have known him dating back to the 1970’s and for whom I have significant respect. For those reasons alone I can not easily dismiss him as being some old crank yelling at the kids to get off his lawn. And actually his criticisms are nothing new and quite frankly ones I have shared in the past and to some extent still do.

My experiences with Denver Pride date back to its inception in the mid-1970s as an event involving several hundreds tentatively inching our way up Colfax to one that now extends to the hundreds of thousands sashaying from Cheesman Park to Civic Center in a sea of rainbow colors. The main attraction at the end of those early marches, not parades back then, were often political speeches from activists primarily and the rare politician. There were no vendors to speak of and if representatives of Coors Beer had shown up they would no doubt have been driven from the temple as the homophobic moneychangers and purveyors of alcoholism they were and perhaps still are.

Times have changed and overall for the better I think at least regarding Pride, which I’ll get to in a bit. All of the large community events from Taste of Colorado, to People’s Fair to Cinco de Mayo etc. have grown dramatically and at the same time probably lost a lot of their uniqueness and certainly some of their grassroots cache. Whether this is an inevitable evolution or a tragic devolution I’ll leave to another piece.

I remember attending what I think was the third People’s Fair in the early-to-mid 1970’s the exact year escapes me. It was held in its entirety in the playground of the old elementary school at 8th and Downing just south of Queen Soopers. I remember it because I was working at the time as a psychiatric attendant at the old Denver General and we had taken several of our patients, not yet referred to as clients, to the fair for an afternoon outing. The most notable part of that adventure was having to explain to my charge nurse on our return why we came back with fewer patients than we had left with.

I would certainly agree with my cranky friend quoted above that there has been a tremendous amount of corporate cooptation of the Pride event and frequently a nauseating acquiescence’s to local politicians trying to curry favor all the while looking for votes. One positive change around the politicians though is we no longer grovel and jump for joy at their approval but rather have come to expect it. The same can be said for media coverage, which is shallow and often banal in the extreme, but everything they cover is. We do though now expect them to acknowledge our existence, which is something pretty hard not to do when several hundred thousand of us cavort in public occupying many city blocks.

It is this mass cavorting, sweaty shoulder to sweaty shoulder, often cheek to jowl that makes the whole thing still worthwhile for me. Though I do at times wish that the Stone Wall riots had occurred in May or September when the weather is much more civilized.

There is something that remains for me, the quintessential jaded old queen, a gut reaction that is very exhilarating and empowering to be in public literally pressing the flesh with this vast queer mass of humanity. I really don’t give a rat’s ass about any of the vendors, politicians or dignitaries and that includes the gay ones but I do still get a wonderful warm rush by slowing circumambulating with the crowd around Civic Center often encountering old friends who I don’t seem to see but once a year at this carnival.

I can’t help but wonder what the reaction must be of someone just coming out, no matter what their age, who is perhaps watching from the sidelines or has maybe even dived in to swish with the fishes. For many I would think and hope that this experience would do more to water their queer roots than decade’s of trying to come to grips with a queer reality was for many of us in the 40’s, 50’s or 60’s just to pick a few random decades from the past couple millennia.

I don’t really think that folks necessarily have it so much easier coming out these days than I did forty years ago. But I must say it would have been really cool and reassuring and saved me years of angst to happen on several hundred thousand like minded individuals dancing in public on a warm sunny day in 1965.

These Pride days, once I have completed my swim around the park in a sea of queer flesh, it’s often nice to sit under a tree and watch the many really very interesting very diverse trips pass by. I still think there is plenty that is unique and potentially truly change creating about how so many of us move in the world. Vendors be damned, I still plan to attend next year.

© June 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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Stories of GLBT Organizations by Lewis

My thirty-year career at Ford Motor Company reached its culmination at the end of the last century, coincident with the last of my 26 years of being in a straight marriage and the birth of the GLBT organization that has played the largest part in my personal journey toward wholeness. That organization is Ford GLOBE.

GLOBE is an acronym for Gay, Lesbian, Or Bisexual Employees. It was hatched in the minds of two Ford employees, a woman and a man, in Dearborn, MI, in July of 1994. By September, they had composed a letter to the Vice President of Employee Relations–with a copy to Ford CEO, Alex Trotman–expressing a desire to begin a dialogue with top management on workplace issues of concern to Ford’s gay, lesbian and bisexual employees. They were invited to meet with the VP of Employee Relations in November.

In 1995, the group, now flying in full view of corporate radar and growing, elected a five-member board, adopted its formal name of Ford GLOBE; designed their logo; adopted mission, vision, and objective statements; and adopted bylaws. The fresh-faced Board was invited to meet with the staff of the newly-created corporate Diversity Office. Soon after, “sexual orientation” was incorporated into Ford’s Global Diversity Initiative. Members of Ford GLOBE participated in the filming of two company videos on workplace diversity. Also that year, Ford was a sponsor of the world-premier on NBC of Serving in Silence, starring Glenn Close as Army Reserve Colonel Margarethe Cammermeyer. By September of 1996, Ford GLOBE chapters were forming in Great Britain and Germany.

In March of 1996, Ford GLOBE submitted to upper management the coming-out stories of 23 members in hope of putting a human face on what had been an invisible minority. Along with the stories came a formal request for Ford’s non-discrimination policy to be rewritten to include sexual orientation. At the time, only Ford of Britain had such a policy.

Ford GLOBE was beginning to network with similar interest groups at General Motors and Chrysler, including sharing a table at the 1996 Pridefest and walking together in the Michigan Pride Parade in Lansing. After two years of discussion between Ford GLOBE and top management, on November 14, 1996, Ford CEO, Alex Trotman, issued Revised Corporate Policy Letter # 2, adding “sexual orientation” to the company’s official non-discrimination policy. To this day, some of our largest and most profitable corporations, including Exxon Mobile, have refused to do the same.

My involvement with Ford GLOBE began sometime in 1997. For that reason and the fact that I have scrapped many of my records of this period, I have relied heavily on Ford GLOBE’s website for the dates and particulars of these events.

In February of 1998, I attended a “Gay Issues in the Workplace” Workshop, led by Brian McNaught, at Ford World Headquarters, jointed sponsored by GLOBE and the Ford Diversity Office. I remember a Ford Vice President taking the podium at that event. He was a white man of considerable social cachet and I assumed that the privilege that normally goes with that status would have shielded him from any brushes with discrimination. In fact, he told a story of riding a public transit bus with his mother at the height of World War II. His family was German. His mother had warned him sternly not to speak German while riding the bus. Thus, he, too, had known the fear of being outed because of who he was. The experience had made him into an unlikely ally of GLOBE members over 50 years later.

In 1999, Ford GLOBE amended its by-laws to make it their mission to include transgendered employees in Ford’s non-discrimination policy and gender identity in Ford’s diversity training. Ford Motor Company was the first and only U.S. automotive company listed on the 1999 Gay and Lesbian Values Index of top 100 companies working on gay issues, an achievement noted by Ford CEO Jac Nasser. It was about this time that retired Ford Vice Chairman and Chief Financial Officer Alan Gilmore came out as gay. The Advocate named Ford Motor Company to its list of 25 companies that provide good environments for gay employees in its Oct. 26 edition.

Having earlier written the contract bargaining teams for Ford Motor Company, United Auto Workers, and Canadian Auto Workers requesting specific changes in the upcoming union contracts, Ford GLOBE was pleased to see that the resulting Ford/CAW union contract included provision for same-sex domestic partners to be treated as common law spouses in Canada, for sexual orientation to be added to the nondiscrimination statement of the Ford/UAW contract, and that Ford and the UAW agreed to investigate implementation of same-sex domestic partner benefits during the current four-year union contract.

The year 2000 was not only the year that I became Board Chair of Ford GLOBE but also the year that marked a momentous event in automotive history as Ford, General Motors, and the Chrysler Division of DaimlerChrysler issued a joint press release with the United Auto Workers announcing same-sex health care benefits for the Big Three auto companies’ salaried and hourly employees in the U.S. As the first-ever industry-wide joint announcement of domestic partner benefits and largest ever workforce of 465,000 U.S. employees eligible in one stroke, the historic announcement made headlines across the nation. It was truly a proud moment for all of us in the Ford GLOBE organization.

On January 1 of 2001, my last year with the company, Ford expanded its benefits program for the spouses of gay employees to include financial planning, legal services, the personal protection plan, vehicle programs, and the vision plan.

Since my departure from the company, Ford and GLOBE have continued to advance the cause of GLBT equality and fairness both within the corporation and without. I am fortunate to have been supported in my own coming out process by my associates within the company, both gay and straight, and to Ford GLOBE in particular for the bonds of friendship honed in the common struggle toward a better and freer world.

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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Hitting a Milestone by Nicholas

The first thing I wanted to do on reaching 60 years of age was look back. Look back on just how I turned out to be me. As I’m writing this, Quicksilver Messenger Service—does anybody remember that ‘60s rock group? —is singing “What are you going to do about me?” Good question. What am I going to do about me? A little self obsessed, maybe, but there’s no apologizing needed for that in this day and age.

In 2006, I turned 60 years of age. This was one of those milestone “zero” birthdays, like 30, 40, 50. Only this one seemed to hit me as more of a milestone than the others ever did. I wasn’t sure if it marked another mile but I sure felt the weight of the stone.

I like to say that I faced my 60th birthday instead of that I celebrated my 60th. There was a celebration, of course, one of the best parties I’ve ever had. It was put together by my sisters and Jamie and was quite a wing-ding, with catered food, champagne, a huge cake and lots of family and friends to share it with. In fact, I extended the celebration to all that year long, not just one day. It was not just another routine birthday passed with a day off work, a bike ride in the mountains, a special dinner with Jamie, a few cards and presents and then on to the next day. No, this one meant something.

This birthday was different and needed to be marked differently. This one presented challenges. It demanded to be paid attention to. Turning 60 was truly a cusp of something, a turning point. I am now closer to my departure from this planet than am I to my arrival upon it.

I felt that I’d crossed a threshold, stepped over a line, a boundary to somewhere though I was not sure where. If the past was a burden piling up behind me, the future seemed a foggy mystery and unknown territory. I was in a new country without a map and with loads of hopes and fears but not sure what direction to take.

Suddenly, I felt a sense of being old. Now I was one of the old people, a senior citizen. I was now entitled, if I summoned the nerve, to boot some young person out of those seats at the front of the bus reserved for old folks. I’ve never done that, of course. But I was old and everybody knew it. No more anonymity, I was marked with gray hair, sagging skin, a bit slower to take stairs, and a few more bottles of pills on the shelf. Now with this birthday and every birthday hence, my age was a matter of public policy. I was officially a statistic, a “boomer,” a term I despise. This birthday and the party to commemorate it left me with an uncomfortable self-consciousness.

And some confusion. One morning I was bicycling along the South Platte River, following the familiar path when suddenly the way was blocked and I was shuffled off onto a detour around a huge construction zone. I followed the detour hesitantly, not knowing exactly where I was and fearing that it was taking me too far out of the way. But the route was well marked so I continued to follow the signs. Eventually, I got back to the river path and I knew where I was.

That’s the way I was feeling on this birthday. I don’t know where this path is leading and this one is not marked at all. Am I on another detour or is this the main path? I’m trying to work my way to a point where I can see where I’ve been and so I can figure out where I’m going. At least that’s the aim.

I have this sense of the past, my past—which has grown rather bulky—and I do not want to let go of it. I can’t let go of it. I like my history and my memories. I like what I’ve done, embarrassments and failings as well as achievements and successes.

In my first 60s—the 1960s—the world was on fire with change and excitement. There was nothing I and my generation couldn’t do to make the world a better place. Justice was on the move and so was personal freedom. The personal became the political and politics became very personal and passionate. Passion is the word I attach to the ‘60s. The music was passionate. The war and the war against the war were passionate. The drive for civil rights was passionate. The freedom was passionate.

If I hearken after any remnant of that youthful decade it is that sense of passion. If there is any bit from that era that I’d like to restore to my later years, it is that passion. Turn nostalgia around and let it lead me into the future. Grow old and find your passion. Is that wisdom speaking? Have I stumbled onto wisdom somehow?

So, yes, it was quite a party, the party of a lifetime. It was the party that marked and celebrated way more than another year on the planet. I can’t forget that party because to do so would be to forget my life, its past, present and future.

© 17 October 2013

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

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Wisdom by Gillian

Part 1

“ Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.” William Shakespeare

Perhaps you could say that about wisdom, too. Occasionally you run across someone who does indeed appear to have been born wise. They are not old enough to have had sufficient experience to have learned wisdom; it seems innate. Others do have wisdom thrust upon them; frequently, sadly, as the result of some terrible experience from which they manage to emerge with newfound wisdom. Most of us simply stagger through life hoping that we gather a modicum of wisdom as we go.

Wisdom is unpredictable. It comes to us all in varying amounts and at different life stages. You cannot learn to be wise. I don’t believe you can get it from books or from other, wiser, people. You can’t obtain it by quoting the wisdom of others. That might perhaps make you sound wise, but it isn’t your wisdom.

However, if I were to pick one person to quote in the hope of the words being taken for my wisdom, it would be Shakespeare. There, in my opinion, was a truly wise man. One of the reasons his plays go on and on over the centuries is that the wisdom he expressed so succinctly over four hundred years ago still resonates with us today.

The quote I began this page with, for example: so simply stated but so true. Or –

“There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.”

How can we argue with that?

“Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.”

The world would be a better place, would it not?

“This above all; to thine own self be true.”

No-one in this room’s going to argue with that, or with –

“Who could refrain that had a heart to love and in that heart courage to make love known.”

Oh I could go on for pages; for hours. But I’ll have mercy and stop. And I’ll close with my favorite quote of all time, actually not from good old Will but penned by someone called Reinhold Niebuhr. To me it is one of the simplest expressions of so many of life’s conundrums.

“God give me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.”
And if we can do that, we are surely, truly, wise.

Part 2

The day I completed that first page, May 28th 2014, Maya Angelou died. On TV, of course, there were endless film clips of her talking or reading her wonderful poems. So how could I not include her many wonderful thoughts, given the topic of wisdom?

“History, despite its wrenching pain,” she says, “cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again.”

And she has her own, somewhat less gentle, version of the Serenity Prayer:

“If you don’t like something, change it. If you can’t change it, change your attitude.”

“ … People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

Oh so true, both the good and the bad.

And I find her wisdom encompasses us, gays and lesbians, often.

“Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at it’s destination full of hope.” And –
“ … the wisest thing I can do is be on my own side, be an advocate for myself and others like me.”

She speaks to women, of course –

“A wise woman wishes to be no-one’s enemy; A wise woman refuses to be anyone’s victim.”

She values laughter, particularly at ourselves –

“My life has been one great big joke, a dance that’s walked, a song that’s spoke,
I laugh so hard I almost choke when I think about myself.”

And our storytelling group –

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”


(I don’t see how any of us could have many left untold!)

And best of all, she knows exactly what wisdom is. Actually she uses the word “intelligence,” but if you paraphrase and replace “intelligence,” with “wisdom,” I think it is just perfect. So, with apologies, Maya –

“I’m grateful to wise people. That doesn’t mean educated. That doesn’t mean intellectual. I mean really wise. What black old people used to call ‘mother wit’ means wisdom that you had in your mother’s womb. That’s what you rely on. You know what’s right to do.”

I don’t know how better to describe wisdom than that.

© June 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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The Idiom Maniac by EyM

Caught in the storm and down in the doldrums, she thought she had it made in the shade, when like greased lightening he came like a bolt out of the blue. Surely her dry spell would end and he would be the silver lining of her clouds. On cloud nine she threw caution to the wind and began to shoot the breeze. But one look rained on her parade as he was 7 sheets to the wind and looked like the twilight zone. Her thunder was stolen. Right as rain there was a cloud on her horizon. Always chasing rainbows, she hoped this blue sky would brighten up her day. But alas this guy in a fog had a cloud of suspicion over him. So not to give him the cold shoulder, she asked for a rain check .

So much for any port in a storm. She drew a blank. This was no piece of cake. Even though she felt like a basket case, she would have to play it by ear. She hoped her goose was not cooked.

Wouldn’t you know it, just then someone started making eyes at her. She wanted to turn on a dime and head for the hills. But she crossed her fingers and listened to the bee in her bonnet. To this knight in shining armor, she said “A little birdie told me you love to cut a rug.” Her match made in heaven replied, “No comprendo English senorita.”

© October 2014

About the Author

A native of Colorado, she followed her Dad to the work bench to develop a love of using tools, building things and solving problems. Her Mother supported her talents in the arts. She sang her first solo at age 8. Childhood memories include playing cowboy with a real horse in the great outdoors. Professional involvements have included music, teaching, human services, and being a helper and handy woman. Her writing reflects her sixties identity and a noted fascination with nature, people and human causes. For Eydie, life is deep and joyous, ever challenging and so much fun.

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Music by Betsy

I do not have the words to describe how music touches my soul. So I will not try. Suffice it to say that often when I am uninspired, unmotivated, music has inspired and motivated me to get going at whatever it is that needs to be done. Or perhaps no action is needed. I simply need or want to tap into my deepest feelings. Music is the medium through which I am able to do that. To do that I have only to empty my mind and simply listen to a work that is pleasing to me. Then I can “get away from myself.” I suppose one could call it a form of meditation. Empty the mind and then you can tap into your inner being, is how it goes, I believe. Well, I’m not sure about the emptying of the mind. I suspect breathing exercises work better, but I do know that “deep” listening can be inspiring and the right music at the right time does touch my soul.

I do wish that names, places, and times would stick in my consciousness the way music does. Sometimes my head is full of music–unfortunately, not original. Since I lack the capability to create……well, maybe in my next life I will be a composer or song writer. Some music sticks in my head for days, weeks. Over a week ago I heard on the radio in the car a particular pleasing Rossini work that I like. That music is still going on in my head today as I write this–that and Too Hot to Handel, which I have been rehearsing weekly. It is not just one line. It is the whole orchestra– and all the choral parts, which makes it very enjoyable actually, but then sometimes I have to put on some other piece to get rid of something I have been “hearing” endlessly for days on end.

Better that than the alternative which is a constant, rather loud, high pitched hissing sound coming from both sides of my head around the area of the ears. Not an uncommon condition called tinitis. I understand this malady is the result of a filter in the brain not functioning as it should. The hissing is always there. It never actually goes away. I can “turn it off” only by focusing–and the key here is focusing– on something else, such as, conversation or, yes, music either real or imaginary.

Indeed, It is for many reasons that music is one of life’s greatest gifts.

© 11/24/11

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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Sweetness Personified by Will Stanton

The brief experience I’m describing here took place in college during the Vietnam War. That era seems so long ago, many people today who might read this story may have no connection with that war, perhaps little or no understanding.

The Vietnam War was a disaster for America and many Americans. Nothing positive was accomplished by it. Some people in government and some civilians knew that the Vietnamese were not about to attack Boise, Idaho; and the U.S. had no rational or moral reason to invade Vietnam. We lost more than 50,000 fine young people in that war, let alone all the injuries to those who returned . That war created turmoil and protests in our country, and much of the rest of the world looked upon the U.S. with nervous suspicion.

Something that seems to have been relatively ignored about the many forms of injuries was that a large number of people came back to the States emotionally wounded. Many suffered from PTSD, some turned to alcohol, and many had picked up the habit in Nam of smoking pot to counteract their anxiety. Marriages and families suffered. The war changed many lives.

At college, I encountered a young student name Frank. Frank was tall and slim with very boyish features. He was quite good looking. He radiated warmth and kindness, a noticeable gentleness of personality that could be described as “sweetness personified.”

I met Frank, or more precisely, Frank met me, because apparently he sought me out. To my surprise, he had become very interested in me. I felt honored that Frank found me to be attractive and personable. We began to spend some time with each other. To my regret, that period of time was all too brief. I was surprised and very moved when I found out the reason why.

Frank appeared to be like just any other young college freshman, so I was surprised to hear that he had spent a tour of duty in Vietnam, not at any base or headquarters, but right out in the jungles and rice paddies. It was very much against Frank’s nature to wish to harm anyone, and he had no desire to kill. In fact, he refused to do so. Instead, he was a medic, tending to the soldiers’ injuries as best he could.

On one occasion, and only that one occasion, Frank spoke of his experiences in Vietnam. During his tour of duty, he daily witnessed the carnage of warfare, the horrifying injuries that our young people suffered – – shrapnel and severe bullet wounds, infected punctures from punji stakes, burns, blindness. Because the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese Army soldiers were often quite small, they would aim their AK47s low and let the bullets ride up because of their kick. Poor Frank had to tend to a number of soldiers whose genitals had been shot off. Frank told me that his seeing so many boys terribly wounded and suffering changed him forever. The world no longer seemed the beautiful and promising place that he once believed in duriing his innocent childhood.

Frank grew up in New Lexington, Ohio, a very small village of about only 3,000 at the time and consisting of a string of 19th-century, two-story brick stores and quaint, modest homes.

Tucked in the green hills of Southeastern Ohio, the village must have felt like a quiet and safe harbor away from the turmoil and sorrows of the world outside.

The trauma of Viet Nam weighed upon Frank. The world seemed to be a dangerous and unhappy place. He missed New Lexington where he felt more comfortable and secure. His interest in me changed when he met another student from his own village who felt the same way as he did. The last time that I saw Frank, he told me that he was dropping out of college and moving with his new friend back home. He said that he planned to stay there, to remain isolated from the harshness of the world outside.

I never saw Frank again, yet I never have forgotten him. I hope that he found peace and happiness there. He deserved it, for he well may have been the sweetest person I ever knew.

© 01 May 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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All My Exes Live in Texas by Ricky

        After graduating college in May of 1978, I was commissioned a
Second Lieutenant in the US Air Force (Security Police) and stationed at
Malmstrom AFB, in Great Falls, Montana.  During
that summer, I attended Camp Bullis near San Antonio, Texas for training in
security police officer duties, policies, procedures, and combat field
skills.  The first four weeks were
devoted to classroom activities and physical fitness.  The next six weeks were taught under field
conditions to hone the skills we read about in the classroom.
        One of those skills was map reading and orienteering (not to
be confused with sexual orientationeering). 
The highlight of that portion of our training involved day and night
navigation using a map and compass to follow printed directions from one point
to another.  The first set of
instructions was given us at our starting point.  We had to follow that instruction to find the
next leg of our course and so forth for a total of ten legs.  The destination of each leg was a “soup can”
mounted on top of a 3-foot post.  There
were 75 such posts scattered around the 3 square miles of our training area so
it was vital that we used the map and compass accurately or we would not arrive
at the correct final destination.
        I had done this type of compass course in the Boy Scouts so I
was not intimidated by the task and found it to be rather fun.  We had to follow the course in teams of
three.  I don’t know what the others did,
but my team drew our course out on the map and marked the desired destination
with an “X” and then walked the route. 
As we completed each leg, we drew out the next leg and added another
“X”.  No one was shooting at us since
this was training and not combat, so we had an easy time following the course
as drawn on the map except for the oppressive heat.  Due to the rolling hills, gullies, and
scattered light and dense vegetation, we would take a compass sighting and send
two of us ahead a convenient number of yards to establish a straight line.
        The legs were of varying lengths with some as long as a mile
from one point to another.  A one-degree
error over a mile distance could cause one to miss the destination by several
yards.  The target posts with the “soup
cans” containing our next set of co-ordinates were not all easily seen.  Many were placed such that one could not see
it until you passed it and looked back. 
Several were deliberately placed inside thickets of scrub brush that had
grown several feet high.  And there was
the constant watchfulness for Texas sized spiders, scorpions, tarantulas, and
snakes all while counting our steps and detouring around thickets too wide to
push through.  As I said, the day light
course was easy, but the night course was a different matter.
        The night course was the same event obviously without the
benefit of sunlight and in our case, without moonlight either.  With only flashlights, it was difficult to
send two teammates ahead to establish a straight line for walking.  We still had to deal with the local
“critters” and also the smelly night prowling ones too.  After completing the first leg with all its
difficulties, I decided to cheat a little. 
Well, it wasn’t really cheating because we were doing a compass course
and orienteering after all, and in a combat situation, it’s the result that
counts not the method.  And besides, I
really did not want to be walking around Texas all night dodging spiders,
snakes, and skunks looking for some elusive “soup can” on a post.
        Therefore, I had my team switch to nighttime orienteering using
a method not taught in our classroom experience, but taught in my Boy Scout
troop night games—celestial navigation using the stars as a guide.  After we took our compass heading and placed
the “X” on the map, we picked out a star on the horizon that was in-line with
the desired course and just walked towards that star counting our steps.  Once we switched to that method, the course
went very fast indeed.  In fact, my team
was the first one done not only for the night course, but also for the daylight
course.
        I imagine that all my “Xs” on those maps are still somewhere
in Texas, most likely in a landfill somewhere on Camp Bullis or possibly their
ashes from an incinerator are blowing around Texas on the wind.
        My only other “exes” are in Texas for sure.  My ex-president, LBJ, is buried there and the
“ex-decider” is apparently on his ranch attempting to create excellent works of
art and beauty.
© 13 January 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
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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The Sweetest Touch by Phillip Hoyle

Given my sweet tooth I certainly would recognize and appreciate anyone who personified sweetness, but for some reason I have no recollection of ever meeting such a person. Although I cannot recall anyone, I have experienced sweet moments with special people. I recall what follows ever so clearly.

All the busses with their crisscross routes in my Capitol Hill neighborhood and the fact that I knew schedules well enough to judge which one to catch fascinated my nine-year-old grandson Kalo. We’d be ready to go downtown and I’d wonder aloud if we should wait for the Number Ten—an every 20 minute bus along East 12th Avenue—or catch the Number 12—an every 30 minute bus along Downing that in those days, some eleven years ago, turned toward downtown on 16th Avenue—or walk three blocks to catch the ever-interesting Number 15—an every 15 minute bus on East Colfax with both local and limited busses that stopped at Downing. Kalo thought his granddad quite intelligent and looked longingly at every bus that sped by.

When Kalo was ten years old he told his parents he wanted to go to Denver to paint with his grandpa Phillip instead of attending summer church camp. Calls were exchanged and a date agreed upon. For years I had programmed summer educational experiences for children, but now I faced a new challenge: to plan a weeklong art experience for one child with one ageing granddad as the solitary staff. I called my one-week plan the “Young Artist’s Urban Survival Camp” and looked forward to the week. I knew the time would require many and varied art projects and for my grandson travel around the city by bus! Finally the day dawned and Kalo arrived. I met him at the airport gate. We rode the Skyride from DIA, took the Shuttle to Civic Center Plaza, and transferred to another bus to go up Capitol Hill. Our week was off to a great start; he loved the transportation!

That week the two of us did a heap of artwork. We visited museums, galleries, an outdoor arts festival, and the annual PrideFest. Probably just as important for Kalo, we rode busses. On one of our outings we transferred to the Light Rail. Also we walked. Since Kalo was from a small city and had lived most of his life in the country, I was a bit cautious when we were crossing streets. I’d give instructions and sometimes take his hand until I was sure he was alert to what could happen. Then one afternoon on an outing to the Denver Art Museum, when we rode the Number 10 down to Lincoln and were getting ready to cross the busy intersection at 12th Avenue, Kalo grabbing my arm cautioned me about the traffic. “Grandpa, be careful.”

I thought how sweet this changing of responsibilities was—one of the sweetest interactions of our ten year relationship. I who had long cared for people in a thirty-year ministerial career, who in my five years in Denver had watched over two partners during their deaths, who had given countless therapeutic massages—many to very ill persons—was in Kalo’s simple, thoughtful act being taken care of by a precocious ten-year-old grandchild. I received his act of kindness and thoughtfulness as a sweet moment. Of course, I also saw the act as a portent of what happens between generations: someday he and others would take care of me.

We had a great week on public transit, a mountain hike, and watching the PrideFest parade; and did artwork that had us painting, constructing collages, and making rubbings. But my favorite experience was receiving Kalo’s sweet and practical gesture for the safety of his grandpa.

Yesterday a young-adult Kalo with his younger sister Ulzii, their dad, and two friends, came to Denver. We have begun lots of talk. Perhaps I’ll remind him of this sweetest moment!

© 30 March 2014 – Denver

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com