Tag: A Friendship

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Utopia, by Phillip Hoyle

Perhaps I’m too practical to be interested in utopian fantasies. They’ve never appealed to me. After all, I grew up in Kansas and even the Wizard of Oz lived somewhere else and, when found, was shown to be a fraud. I had a friend who grew up near Liberal, Kansas, right there in the center of Dorothy country. He was brilliant, talented in music and organization, a teacher, and probably had red slippers in men’s size 12. He was gay and came to understand life was never utopian although he could dream. I had a different kind of Kansas imagination, but we liked each other and were fine friends for many years. He fled the wheat fields of southwest Kansas. I left the state for more education. We met up in Colorado, Texas, New Mexico, and eventually San Francisco. Now this latter place seemed utopian to him and opened him wide to his sexuality. He lived high on the hill on Castro Street, could watch big ships move in and out of the port, had lots of fun, and felt the kind of acceptance he needed. But it was no utopia. He loved it there, but life in gay San Francisco was not without its hazards. To me it seemed he lived rather fully into all of those hazards. They took their toll, and I made my last trip there to memorialize him, a man who lived and worked to make a gay utopia deliver the goods so Kansans and other people could enjoy who they were or who they wanted to become. I applaud his efforts; I miss him still many years after his memorial service.

I don’t tell this as a sad tale. Of course I cried at my loss of him. I too understood the attraction of the utopia out there by the western sea. I loved being with him walking up and down the steep hills, hearing great musical performances, visiting parks, strolling along the beach, hiking out to Land’s End, talking about life and his life and my own.

The experiments for this kind of utopian life continue in urban centers far beyond the reach of his lifetime. Anytime I am involved, I recall Ted’s contributions. We made music together, danced, and laughed in the little utopia of our friendship. Such utopias are necessary. Their pursuit brings quality and love into human relations. Their possibility asks us to be kind to one another, to applaud all human efforts for equality and freedom, to create pockets of such mutual respect in order to keep hope alive. With this account I memorialize a deceased friend to an extraordinary group of elders and in this most appropriate place where we celebrate our comradeship through telling stories and listening to the stories of others. Our sharing keeps alive the necessary and possible kind of community to support our lives in freedom and in love, even if that community is somewhat less than utopian.

© 5 February 2018

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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A Friendship, by Cecil Bethea

Keith Kirchner lived on the next block down from ours. He must have been five years older than me because he finished school in 1940. He was drafted in the spring ‘41. After basic he went into the Army Air Corps. Knowing the army like I do, I’d say he was pushed into the Air Corps–bombers, a machine gunner. My mother and his used to talk on the phone several times a week; this way we kept in touch with him and his training.

First the telegram came telling that he was wounded. For anybody with a star hanging in the window, any telegram was almost as bad as a death notice. Not knowing anything except he was alive and wounded must have been mighty bad. Slowly the news slipped across the ocean that he was badly burnt and couldn’t write. I wondered if his arms had been burnt off, A month or two later we found out that he’d been awarded a Medal of Honor. Talk about a splash! The paper printed on the front page the whole citation about how an incendiary bomb had exploded in his plane. He’d picked it up and thrown it out the window saving the other men but burning himself just about to a crisp. I was taking chemistry then and had just learned what a bitch phosphorus is. Now I know he was wearing one of those heavy leather flight suits which would have protected him somewhat. I see how he picked the bomb up in the first place. What I can’t understand is how he continued to hold on to the thing.

When he finally came home, we didn’t see him without his long sleeved shirt buttoned all the way up. Of course most of the time he had a tie on. His face and neck were scared something awful and his hands too. Couldn’t hide those parts. I’d wonder what his body looked like naked especially down there, you know.

I have been cogitating about this ever since. I did my time in Korea, All I got was a Purple Heart for being stupid and a Good Conduct Badge for not getting caught. Keith and I’d have a beer ever so often. While we were talking and drinking I noticed that his hands weren’t the color of mother-of pearl but more like unpolished opal. Another time I remember regretting to him not doing something brave and famous like him. He just said, “You didn’t have the chance.”

Class 2154 © 3 September 2008

About the Author

Although I have done other things, my fame now rests upon the durability of my partnership with Carl Shepherd; we have been together for forty-two years and nine months as of today, August 18the, 2012.

Although I was born in Macon, Georgia in 1928, I was raised in Birmingham during the Great Depression. No doubt I still carry invisible scars caused by that era. No matter we survived. I am talking about my sister, brother, and I. There are two things that set me apart from people. From about the third grade I was a voracious reader of books on almost any subject. Had I concentrated, I would have been an authority by now; but I didn’t with no regrets.

After the University of Alabama and the Air Force, I came to Denver. Here I met Carl, who picked me up in Mary’s Bar. Through our early life we traveled extensively in the mountain West. Carl is from Helena, Montana, and is a Blackfoot Indian. Our being from nearly opposite ends of the country made “going to see the folks” a broadening experience. We went so many times that we finally had “must see” places on each route like the Quilt Museum in Paducah, Kentucky and the polo games in Sheridan, Wyoming. Now those happy travels are only memories.

I was amongst the first members of the memoir writing class. While it doesn’t offer criticism, it does offer feedback. Also just trying to improve your writing helps no end.

Carl is now in a nursing home, I don’t drive any more. We totter on.