Tag: Christmas

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Connections, by Gail Klock

This is an extremely
difficult topic for me to write about because it reaches into the deepest
places of pain within my psyche. There have been many times in my life when I
have felt extremely isolated, lacking a connection to anyone. I was the little
child in kindergarten who chose to work on jigsaw puzzles during chose time
because it was the only activity which involved no interaction with others, all
the time hearing the other kids laughing and playing and wanting to be with
them. In college, when on a camping trip with a class, I laid awake all night
feeling totally isolated with others all around me, I felt like I was losing my
mind. It was one of the longest nights in my life. The terror I was feeling was
due to the fact I felt isolated, but I was too afraid to admit it. In both
instances, and others like them, if I had only been able to reach out and say
help me, I would have been okay. But I had learned to lock my fears away, I
knew they were not to be hung out like dirty laundry. I came from a very stoic
German family which mistakenly didn’t ask for help, even when it was needed.
There was instead a false sense of pride in handling, or appearing to handle,
all life’s trauma’s by ourselves. The reality was we all needed help,
especially when Karl died at the age of two. Of course back in the fifties this
type of help was not advocated or available. My dad’s yelling at my mom not to
cry on the way to Karl’s funeral was not because he was a heartless bastard, it
was because he was such a sensitive man, who loved this little child so much
and his wife and his other children and he couldn’t deal with his own pain,
much less take on and help the rest of us deal with ours, which he felt was his
responsibility because he was the man of the house. These feelings never left
him, they choked him until the day he died. When he was in hospice, a few weeks
after my mother had unexpectedly died, he lamented to me he felt so guilty and
helpless because he wasn’t there for her when she passed away. He was referring
to the evening of the night when she died in her sleep. She had collapsed in
the bathroom and he didn’t have the physical strength to help her up so he had
to call the neighbors to help him get her up and to bed. He didn’t realize he
had been there for her; he had nearly died the day after Christmas, just a
month before, but after a week stay in the hospital he unexpectedly made it
home. She had told all of us that she was not going to let my dad die first,
she couldn’t handle the death of another person she loved so much. She prayed
nightly, and I think quit taking her heart meds, for this to be the case. She
died precisely as she prayed for, in her own bed, in her own home, next to her
husband. My dad was there for her, by making the call for help to the
neighbors, he provided the means to her prayers.
It was as this four year
old child that I began to surmise that when in pain you don’t cry and you don’t
ask for help. This was solidified further by my mother’s inability to provide
emotional support to me or my brother due to her own debilitating grief. This
was the point in my life when I began to experience a lack of connection with
others. This was triggered once again when I was in college and became aware of
my homosexuality. I instinctively knew, as did my girlfriend, not to reveal our
relationship to anyone else. And in the hiding of who I was I was once again
isolated from society, I could sense the darkness beginning to overtake me but
I didn’t want to ask for help and I doubted there was any to be found. After
all I had learned in my psychology class that homosexuality was a mental
illness and I couldn’t face the label of being mentally ill. This was further
exacerbated by the fact my grandmother had been in the state mental hospital in
Pueblo and no one in the family understood why. None of us ever knew the
diagnoses – but I did know from my visits to the hospital with my mom that I
didn’t want to be sent there. It was very frightening to me as a child to
realize my grandmother was locked up. So to avoid a similar fate, I ironically
locked myself up, tighter and tighter. The longer I stayed in the closet the
more I felt disconnected from mainstream society.
When I experience this
feeling of disconnect I am unable to feel, it is as though I am locked away
from everything, including myself. It is sometimes difficult to access the key
which frees me from my emotional shackles and allows me to deal with the
feelings which I am blocking. I have learned through years of therapy that I
need to let myself feel the underlying feelings, which are either sadness or
fear. It has taken me years to learn this and also to learn these negative
feelings are not permanent and that it is normal to experience them.  I know this and most of the time I can do it,
but I wish I could do it all the time and more quickly.
I have also learned that
life presents us with lots of self-fulfilling moments, that is to say if I go
into a situation expecting it to be enjoyable and thinking people will like me
and want to connect with me, they do. And likewise if I anticipate the opposite
I generally leave thinking I had been right, I was going to have an unenjoyable
time, I wasn’t going to connect with others, and I didn’t. It’s that old bit of
seeing a group of people laughing and looking at you. You might think, “They’re
all looking at me and think I look fat in my outfit”, or you might think “They
look like a fun group of people who like to laugh, I think I’ll join them.”
Sunday mornings for the
past twelve years, minus a few months here and there, and Monday afternoons for
the past two and a half years, have been an immensely important source of
connection for me. I know when I walk into the Golden Recreation Center on Sundays
and the Center on Monday afternoons I will feel connected with whomever I
encounter there, be it a woman with a basketball or a fellow storyteller with a
story. Feeling a sense of connection and the inherent sense of acceptance by my
friends is what makes life worth living.
© 17 April 2017 
About
the Author 
I grew up in Pueblo, CO with my two brothers and parents.
Upon completion of high school, I attended Colorado State University majoring
in Physical Education. My first teaching job was at a high school in Madison,
Wisconsin. After three years of teaching I moved to North Carolina to attend
graduate school at UNC-Greensboro. After obtaining my MSPE I coached
basketball, volleyball, and softball at the college level starting with Wake
Forest University and moving on to Springfield College, Brown University, and
Colorado School of Mines.
While coaching at Mines my long-term partner and I had two daughters
through artificial insemination. Due to the time away from home required by
coaching, I resigned from this position and got my elementary education
certification. I taught in the gifted/talented program in Jefferson County
Schools for ten years. As a retiree, I enjoy helping take care of my
granddaughter, playing senior basketball, writing/listening to stories in the
storytelling group, gardening, reading, and attending OLOC and other GLBT
organizations.
As a retiree, I enjoy helping take care of my granddaughter,
playing senior basketball, writing/listening to stories in the storytelling
group, gardening, reading, and attending OLOC and other GLBT organizations.
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Celebrate Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, by Louis Brown

I know it is difficult to
think about Celebrating when there is a storm cloud hanging over the United
States. But remember the candidate who gets fewer votes wins the White House,
that is the new normal. So Washington will continue to be Alice in Wonderland,
where up is down, left is right, backward is forward, ignorance is cherished, love
America means hate America, etc. Still we survived the hostile presidency of
George W. Bush. And we shouldn’t stop celebrating our holidays.
(1)
On Oct. 28, 2016, 7 p.m. at Saint John’s
Episcopal Cathedral, located at 14 Street and Washington Street, there was a
Halloween organ recital, that is, there was a showing of a German silent horror
movie, “Nosferatu,” Angela Papadakos was the organist. She started by playing
Bach’s Toccata and Fugue. (hum a few bars), spooky in itself. Then she
continued playing matching the mood of the scenes and her musical accompaniment.
Some people in attendance were wearing Halloween costumes, so I put on my
diminutive black top hat, and my neighbor, a young woman, in the audience told
me my hat was “awesome.” That made my evening.
(2)
Read flyer for Holiday Luncheon. Also I am
thankful for Prime Timers, and I met Joseph Bump at the luncheon who evaluated
my home situation about 7 or 8 years ago when Prime Timers was meeting in a
restaurant on West Colfax Avenue, which is in my neighborhood. Prime Timers
members keep track of each other (without being busy bodies). So if one ember
is having difficulty, if possible, Prime Timers helps him out. I wonder why I
do not recall any elderly women participating. It wasn’t a male-only club.
(3)
Read copy of E-Mail from Danny Dromm re
Gay History.
(4)
In New York City, gay libbers celebrate
Christmas by attending the Christmas chorale as performed by the NYC Gay Men’s
Chorus at Carnegie Hall. Does Denver Colorado have something analogous? I hope
so.

© 19 Nov 2016  
About
the Author 
I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City,
Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker
for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally
impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s.
I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few
interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I
graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.
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Christmas 1905, by Cecil Bethea

Christmas should be a joyous
time when memories from years long gone bubble up in our minds.
We have honed the past
into a golden world never marred by human
excess.
Historians
know there are exceptions to this ideal.
For men at Valley
Forge, Christmas could have been another day of hunger and misery.
When the armies in blue
or grey along the Rappahannock near Fredericksburg,
Fought
by day and sang in unison by night,
Christmas could have been a day of dread.
The
Dust Bowl seared
© 5 Dec 2005 
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 18th, 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 memory 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.
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Madame Rosa, by Ray S

“Madame Rosa,” her real name is simply Rosa. But I’ve given her the grander and dramatic name because she reminds me in some imaginary way of the gypsy woman with the crystal ball on a table, who is about to tell you of your past and future. No, she is not a mystic or a seer. In fact, she has had a very productive career in the fields of counseling, self-esteem, personal and family matters, as well as group presentations.

I write all of this so you might know just a little of her background. Rosa has the strength of personality and will of a woman who knows who she is and always has been. She is a helpful, generous, loving individual that minces no words about her philosophy as it may apply to a client’s problems or concerns.

The irony of Rosa’s story is that it has been some eighteen months to two years that she has had to accept that she is mortal like the rest of us having survived two strokes and a heart attack. After much thought and determination, true to her sense of will power, she announced to family and friends that she had had enough of doctors, hospitals, and pills and is setting about to die, as almost at her command—she was, as usual, in control.

Now, instead she seems to have met her fate realizing that she was not the only one in control. Madam Rosa and the crystal ball are no more—replaced by a despondent shadow of the persona that she once was. It is just a waiting game now.

Recently I took her a Christmas gift and we had a good visit. She managed to open the box and take the many-colored scarf and wrap it around her shoulders. Her smile reminded me of other good times we had met at her kitchen table for what I called “tea and sympathy.” She always had the right answer.

One time, when we went to lunch, she asked me to run by a number of stores. It was that frantic time of the year between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Her niece had unpacked and set up the crèche in a niche in the living room. It was complete, even the guiding star above the manger. Somehow, though, the fluffy white clouds were missing in the unpacking and this would never do. Onward and upward we hit at least three different stores until we found a supply of Angel Hair. What surprised me was that I thought angel hair, a spun fiberglass, had been outlawed and was a thing of Christmas Past like tinsel ice sickles. Remember how the perfectionists insisted each strand must be hung perfectly straight and one must never get caught tossing a handful up to the top of the tree.

That was one of many memories of the driven persistence Rosa had when her mind was so determined. Lost in my reminiscence of happier days, I could only hope and wish for a good measure of that drive she once had to return since she has found one can’t choose to die at will. Doubtless the time will come as it will for all of us and when it does, here is one of a host of friends that will recall Madame Rosa with the Angel Hair.

© 25 January 2016

About the Author

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My Favorite Holiday, by

Every year about this time when the
days get cold and the nights longer, I wake up one morning, stretch my arms wide
open, and say to the world: Let the eating begin!
          The Olympics
of Food is about to start. Never mind the big torch, light the ovens. Watch the
parade of dishes fill the tables. All those colorful displays of food you never
see any other time of the year—and thank god for that. I mean you could eat
cherries in brandy anytime but, for me, it’s only at Christmas that it fits.
There will be medals for best
nibbles, best entrée, best salad, best sweet potato, best cookies, best pies,
best favorite whatever, most outlandish French pastry that looks like something
you’d never consider eating, best wine before dinner, best wine with dinner,
best wine after dinner, best wine anytime, best eggnog with rum, best eggnog with brandy, best brandy never mind the nog, and the list goes on. Instead of
the 12 days of Christmas, somebody should write a song about the 75,000
calories and the 100 or so meals of Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Solstice.
Thanksgiving is really just the warm up, the first course, you might say, in a
month long binge of eating. And I love it.
Alright, I exaggerate. Not every
morsel I consume in December is an elaborate culinary production. And not
everything to do with “The Holidays” has to do with food. But the food is the
key part. You go to work this month and you eat. You go to parties and you eat.
You have friends over and you eat. You decorate the tree and you eat. You open
presents and you eat. Maybe it’s the fright of winter. It’s cold and dark, we’d
better stock up, gird our loins, put on protective layers of fat, nourish
ourselves for the coming bleak days. We could end up starving as the winds of
winter howl. This really is a time of primal urges.
For me, these holidays are the
antidote for darkness. I hate the short days, the early nights. I love the
lights and the decorations, the busy bustling about, the gift giving, the
visiting, the sharing of special traditional foods. I love the sense that for this
one month normal rules don’t apply. It’s a month of light and sharing, sharing
around the table.
I guess that all stems from the fact
that food was a central part of everything in my family as I grew up. Mom loved
to bake and made special Christmas cookies that I loved as a kid and still do.
But now instead of sneaking around searching out her hiding places for these
treats and secretly eating a cookie or two, I use her recipes to make my own.
And I get pretty close to mom’s triumphs. Of course, it’s hard to screw up any
combination of sugar, butter, nuts and chocolate. And I still hide them from
myself and still sneakily snitch one before company gets them.
Jamie and I have also established
some of our own Christmas traditions like decorating the house with lights and
garlands, filling the house with friends and—it always gets back to food—sharing
a Christmas Eve dinner of prime rib and all the trimmings, maybe even some
French pastry.
Christmas, they say, is really about
anticipation and the birth of new life. It’s about nourishment. It’s a time to be
with people and shake off the darkness while looking forward to when the days will
lengthen. The dark of December is, after all, always followed by the brightness
of January’s new year. Break out the champagne!
© 15 Dec
2011
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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Mom and Her Mom and I, by Phillip Hoyle

Just what are we to think about boys who seem as much girl as boy? I once heard a psychiatrist analyze how Freud’s laying the blame on the parents for the inability of some males to resolve the Oedipus-related developmental challenge in early childhood moved responsibility away from the homosexual child. Freud’s analysis thus called for improvements in therapy for homosexual men. That sounded nice, but then the psychiatrist I was listening to laid more blame upon the doting mother and less on the emotionally absent father. Moms! Poor moms!

I tend not to be Freudian or neo-Freudian, but I am always interested in how domestic upbringing influences any child and particularly with regard to his or her sexual needs and attitudes. So I am curious about how my parents coped with and responded to challenges of rearing me, a skinny boy whose interest in girl things was rather plain to see, whose penchant for the artistic persistent, and whose lack of physical coordination or upper body strength kept him out of sports. So I want to tell three short stories that somewhat address the theme of “Mom” but also keep me wondering.

I

One Christmas my mom’s mom gave me a baby doll as a gift. I named him Andy probably following the lead from the only boy doll I had ever hear of, Raggedy Andy brother, I assumed, of Raggedy Ann. My boy baby doll came with clothing my grandmother had made. I recall a plaid shirt and denim-like slacks. He was one of those babies made of rubber and if you worked hard enough you could pull off its arms and legs and even its head. Then if you worked even harder, you could reassemble the little thing. It was approximately nine inches tall.

Andy looked just like my sisters’ baby dolls except that he had brown skin and black hair whereas theirs had pinkish skin and blond or light brown hair—not wigs, simply hair stamped into the rubber and lightly painted. I don’t recall if the eyes were inserted or painted (probably the latter since I remember them as being black) but I do recall they didn’t open and close like my sisters’ fancier Terri and Terri Lee dolls.

I sometimes wonder what Grandma and Mom were thinking. I never thought to ask either of them. They were very bright women, both educators. Surely they had talked about the present before it showed up under the Christmas tree. I’m sure they had noticed I played with my sisters’ dolls. Perhaps they thought I ought to have a boy doll so I would somehow know I was a boy? I’m sure there was some application of logic in their decision to give me that boy doll years before Barbie and Ken appeared under anyone’s Christmas tree.

I played with Andy but have no recollection when I got him, how long I had him, or when I left off playing with him. I don’t know whatever happened to the doll. Perhaps he was adopted by a nice Black family. I don’t even know if Andy was actually a boy doll or if he was simply dressed as one. I was intrigued that Grandma had made his clothes designing, cutting, and sewing them herself just like she did for my older sisters’ dolls. I don’t know if Andy’s shirt buttoned on the girl side or the boy side, but I am pretty sure there were no boy baby doll clothes to purchase from any store in our town.

II

When Mom was a child, she was taught to sew by her mom. I loved to see mom at work using her portable Singer sewing machine at the kitchen table. I loved even more Grandma’s Singer in its oak console, iron frame, and a treadle that we kids sometimes got to pump. When I was fifteen and we moved into a larger house, Mom got her own Singer in a console that sat in the utility room. It was powered by electricity with a foot control that reminded me of a small automobile accelerator. Grandma came to see us, and I asked her to help me make leggings for one of my Indian outfits. She did it and in the process taught me to cut, sew, hem, and more. I liked sewing and bought cloth and a pattern for a war shirt and a vest. Later I sewed a Cheyenne style dress for my next younger sister and decorated it with imitation elk teeth. When I had questions about sewing, I asked Mom to help me. Somehow playing Indian allowed me to do even more girl things. I never once heard a word of disparagement or caution from my mom or my grandma. I’m pretty sure I didn’t talk at school about sewing!

III

When I was an adult, Grandma told me a story about my childhood. She had been worried about me growing up around all those sisters, but she said she quit worrying one day while she was taking care of us. I had come into the kitchen where she was working. She claimed that by the time I had walked through the house I had all four of my sisters crying. I am not sure I like the story’s idea of what makes for a real man, but it does indicate that in her eyes I had enough ego strength or whatever was necessary to carry on with my life—queer or otherwise. She quit worrying.

I’m happy for her, pleased with my own life, happy I know how to sew; but still I wonder.

Denver, 2013

About the Author

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot

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Clubs, by Will Stanton

Joining a club sometimes can
be a good fit, sometimes not.  DPMC, or
Denver Professional Men’s Club, is a euphemism.   I suppose that, if the club were located in
a more cosmopolitan area with a reputation for having a large gay population,
such as San Francisco, the club might have been named “Denver Gay Men’s
Club.”  Also, to me, “Professional Men’s
Club” sounds rather presumptuous.  All it
really means is that a member is supposed to have enough money to host and
cater large gatherings of around one hundred men, has an elegant home large
enough to accommodate such a group, and money to hire bartenders.
A few years ago, Dr. Bob
persuaded me to join DPMC and sponsored my application.  After all, “Not everyone is suitable for
admission.”  This reminds me of the
quotation attributed to Groucho Marx, “I wouldn’t want to be a member of any
group that would have me as a member;” for I do not have a very large,
expensive home, and I cannot afford to cater food for a hundred men or to hire
professional bartenders.  I did join
DPMC, albeit only briefly.  My rationale
was that I needed to get out more, meet more people, socialize more, because I
had been so isolated living alone and running a home office after the death of
my partner.
I generally am open-minded,
enjoy people’s company, and give people the benefit of the doubt unless proven
otherwise.  Eventually, however, I
realized that I was not particularly happy in DPMC.  So many of the members seemed so full of
themselves.  Everyone stood about,
shoulder to shoulder or occupying the various chairs and couches, chatting to
their few  selected friends to the
exclusion of others.  Most of the members
drank, some drank heavily.  There was
plenty of catered food, although the heavy drinkers often ignored food or
merely nibbled at it.  The gay bartenders
were kept very busy and made a lot in tips. 
I never have been big on alcohol. 
If I ever had a drink, it was only one, and that was for the taste, not
to get a buzz or to loosen up.  One
egotistic member, known to give private cocaine parties and popular with those
who attended, tried to give a recovering cocaine addict some cocaine as a
birthday present.  Those factors alone
set me apart from most of the members.
I made a point of
circulating among everyone, trying to get to know them.  I discovered, however, that the
long-established cliques tended to stay together and were little interested in
getting to know new members.  Also,
although ages ranged from early twenties to, in one case, early eighties, most
were at least a generation younger than I and clearly preferred to remain
within their own age group.  This
certainly was true in one particular case.
Long enough ago when
brick-front stores sold CDs and DVDs, as opposed to generally buying on-line, I
used to frequent Tower Records.  That
large store had a separate room for classical music so that those of us with
sensitive ears would not be accosted by the sound of pounding drums and
screeching pseudo-singers blaring from the speakers in the main part of the
store.  Naturally, I found few, more
discerning shoppers in the classical room. 
That is where I was surprised to find a boyishly-young shopper sorting
through the opera recordings.  We struck
up a conversation, and he mentioned that he was studying opera and sang
tenor.  We found that we had a lot of
interests in common.
I later discovered that this
young tenor was a member of DPMC.  I
found him chatting with a small group of twenty-somethings.  I greeted him and spoke with him for a moment;
however, I quickly felt that I was regarded as an intruder, my being older and
not a member of their clique.  It also
became apparent that another in that group had taken the young tenor as a
partner and preferred not having any strangers talking to him.  So, regardless of having similar musical
interests with the tenor, I did not fit in.
I found that the older
members of DPMC were more courteous and accepting of newcomers, yet I had
little in common with them.  The
eighty-two-year-old multi-millionaire, who made his money in Texas hogs, sheep,
and most likely some oil, lead an ostentatiously flamboyant life, as evidenced
by his owning a pink Rolls Royce, a much younger, former drag queen, and a
large home decorated in a style that would have embarrassed Liberace.  Yes, they were kind enough to invite me to
their Christmas party, but our interests were so different that we did not make
socializing together a regular habit.
The most unusual member whom
I met was Jimmy.  (I am leaving out his
surname.)  I was puzzled by his arrival
at a DPMC party one evening, his appearing to be no more than fourteen-years-old
and in the company of a tall man in his mid-forties.  I dismissed the idea that the older man had
the indiscretion to bring an underage partner, so I wondered why this man was
bringing his son or nephew to an adult party. 
Later in the evening, I noticed that Jimmy sat alone, abandoned,
ignored, and obviously very sad.  When I
witness people feeling hurt or sad, that distresses me.  So, I approached Jimmy to see if I could
cheer him up.
During our conversation,
Jimmy revealed that he had an off-again / on-again relationship with the tall
man, and was living with him.  I sensed
that Jimmy felt that he was being used but had no practical idea how to find an
alternative life.  I was interested to
hear that he loved classical music and owned a grand piano, although it had
been placed in storage because the tall man had no room for it, leaving Jimmy
without the opportunity to play.  He also
enjoyed opera and cooking.  I was able to
observe very clearly that he never smiled, that his apparent sense of sadness
and loneliness were disturbingly deep-seated. 
He surprised me when he mentioned that he was employed.  I also noticed that, contrary to Jimmy appearing
to be too young to shave, he sounded much more mature than a mere
fourteen.  I said to him, “I don’t wish
to be too personal in inquiring, but how old are you?”  He stunned me when he replied, “Forty.”  Trying in my mind to reconcile the dramatic
difference between his age and his appearance, I quickly concluded that he must
be an extremely rare case of Kallmann syndrome, an affliction of the
hypothalamus and pituitary gland that, at the very least, prevents
puberty.  I then understood Jimmy’s sense
of alienation and isolation, his being a forty-year-old man who looked
fourteen.  He being so different, he did
not have a sense of belonging.  
My having been working for
many years in behavioral health, I wished that there were some way that  I could help Jimmy and offered to be
available to talk with him if he desired. 
He seemed thankful and provided me with his full name and phone
number.  The next weekend, I phoned Jimmy
a few times to see how he was doing and if he needed someone to talk with.  I received no answer, and he did not call me
back.
At the next DPMC gathering,
Jimmy again appeared.  I spoke with him,
saying that I hoped that he was OK.  He
puzzled me when he stated that I could have phoned him.  I replied that I had but had received no answer.  About this time, a DPMC member with camera
came around, taking pictures for the next newsletter.  The moment Jimmy spotted him, he bolted from
his chair and hid behind a large fish tank, refusing to have his picture
taken.  The cameraman tried to persuade
Jimmy to come out from behind the fish tank and to have his picture taken, but
he adamantly refused.  I interpreted
Jimmy’s action as having been so self-conscious and unhappy with himself that
he would not allow his picture to be taken. 
I never saw Jimmy after that.  I
wonder what became of him.  I hope that
he has found happiness.
I did not stay in DPMC much
later, either, mostly because I was not impressed with what this club turned
out to be, and I did not find people with similar interests who could become
friends.  Another contributing factor was
that the events coordinator must have thought of himself as a twenty-something,
slam-dancing, hot club-guy; and he arranged events to suit himself, despite the
fact that most of the members were more mature than that.  He arranged for a Halloween party in a huge
warehouse and hired a DJ to play ear-splitting, pounding noise.  Literally, I could not remain in that
warehouse, even though I had stuffed paper napkins into my ears and stood in
the farthest corner away from the towering speakers.  The decibels must have been about twenty
points above the level that causes hearing damage.  I was forced to flee to the parking lot,
finally deciding that I might as well leave. 
There was no way I could go back inside and be comfortable, let alone
protect my hearing.
When I was about to leave, a
long limo with a bunch of queens and driven by a Russian émigré came into the
parking lot.  It just so happened that my
costume was that of a KGB officer, with a KGB general’s hat, black-leather
coat, trousers, boots, and gloves.  The
Russian noticed me immediately, came over, and addressed me in Russian, which,
obviously, I did not understand.  He turned
and walked away when he realized that I was not Russian and that my apparel was
merely a costume.
The events coordinator
arranged another gathering at a bar that was built like a concrete box.  Apparently he had hired the same DJ, who
played ear-damaging noise.  Several of us
fled to the rear of the building and finally left the event early when the bar
needed that area to set up for another event.  
Later, when I politely inquired of the events coordinator why he
arranged extremely loud events, he gave me a very snotty reply.  I increasingly became disillusioned with
DPMC.
There was one annual event
that was supposed to be very chique, the Christmas black-tie
dinner.  Formal tuxes were expected and
an extra fee charged.  I did not
attend.  Friends, who are no longer members,
have told me that they found the event rather artificial and ostentatious.  They, too, became disenchanted with DPMC and
quit.
The very last gathering I
attended consisted of several cliques that clung to each other and ignored
everyone else.  At that point, I finally
concluded that DPMC had almost nothing to offer me.  I let my membership lapse and ignored
membership-fee notices mailed to me.
Since then, I was introduced
to the Story Time group.  Here I have
found people who have something worthwhile to say, who have had interesting
lives, and who are interested in hearing about other’s experiences, thoughts,
and feelings.  These members are genuine
people who share without pretense and who provide a welcome atmosphere of
trust.  These are the people I look
forward to seeing each week.
 © 4 March 2015      
About the Author 
  

I have had a life-long fascination with people
and their life stories.  I also realize
that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too
have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
Posted on

Angels, Santa Claus, and Fairies by Lewis

In 1897, Francis P.
Church, newspaper editor, wrote the following to an 8-year-old Virginia
O’Hanlon in response to her letter wanting to know if there really was a Santa
Claus.  It seems one or more of her
friends had told her no such “person” existed.  His words have become classic:
Virginia,
your little friends are wrong.  They have
been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age.  They do not believe except what they see.
They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little
minds.  All minds, Virginia, whether they
be [adults] or children’s are little.
Yes,
Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.  He
exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that
they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary
would be the world if there were no Santa Claus!  It would be as dreary as if there were no
Virginias.  There would be no childlike
faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence.  We
should have no enjoyment, except in sense and light.  The eternal light with which childhood fills
the world would be extinguished.
Not
believe in Santa Claus!  You might as
well not believe in fairies!…The most real things in the world are those that
neither children nor [adults] can see. 
Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn?  Of course not, but that’s no proof that they
are not there.
You
tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is
a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest [adult]…that ever
lived could tear apart.  Only faith,
fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view…the beauty
and glory beyond.  Is it all real?  Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is
nothing else so real and abiding.
No
Santa Claus!  Thank God, he lives and he
lives forever.  A thousand years from
now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to
make glad the heart of childhood.
I suspect that much of
Frank Church’s prose went right over young Virginia’s head.  It likely was written with an eye to
newspaper sales more than a child’s enlightenment.  But it apparently touched the hearts of many
parents of the late 19th Century–at least, those belonging to what we now call
“upper middle-class white America”. 
But there were a number
of Americas then, just as there are now. 
There were the wealthy Industrialists such as the Rockefellers and the
Mellons and the Carnegies.  It was the time
of robber barons, Reconstruction, and child labor.  For thousands, if not millions of children,
there were no newspapers in the household and they likely could not read them
if there were.  There also were almost
certainly no presents under the Christmas tree (if there were such a thing) in
their living rooms.  For them, Frank
Church’s promise was as illusory as the fairy on the front lawn or a front lawn
itself.
Essentially, I believe
that Santa Claus, angels, and fairies (the ethereal kind) are conjured up out
of a very human need for deliverance and salvation.  Santa Claus “delivers” in a
simplistic, materialistic way on Christmas Eve. 
He reminds us that we are worthy of love because we receive the material
things we hope for, things that will “gladden our heart”.
According to Wikipedia,
angels in the Abrahamic tradition “are often depicted as benevolent
celestial beings who act as intermediaries between heaven and earth or as
guardian spirits or a guiding influence”. 
I will take the liberty of casting them in the role of bringing “heavenly
gifts” to God’s children–a Santa Claus for the post-adolescent set. 
But what do they have
in their bag of treats?  Not material
things, of that I’m certain.  Perhaps a
soupcon of salvation, a lotion of love, a fountain of forgiveness?  Fyodor Dostoyevsky has said, “For a
[person], all resurrection, all salvation, from whatever perdition, lies in
love; in fact, it is [our] only way to it”.
Every gift under every
tree this Christmas is there as a representation of the love of one human being
for another.  They are the product of the
human hands which make them and others that wrap them and place them there,
given from one human being to another out of love.   Neither Santa Claus nor angels has a role to
play.  Each of us has the capacity both
to give and receive the fruits of love. 
This is a very liberating concept–one which does not depend upon
fantasy or hope alone. 
The only salvation that
matters is the one in this life and for that I have all the gifts that I need.  I have only to listen to Pavarotti sing
Puccini’s Nessun Dorma or Judy
Collins Someday Soon or Paul
McCartney It’s a Long and Winding Road
to hear the voice of Gabriel.  I have
only to feel a friends’ arm around me to brush against the Divine.  Standing at the foot of the Giant Redwoods
and glancing up at the sky, I know all of Nature is a Cathedral.  Gazing up at Michelangelo’s David, I see in my own humanity evolution’s
greatest gift.  What temptation could
Angel or Santa Claus possibly offer me now?
© 15 December 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.
Posted on

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. 
Posted on

Holiday by Phillip Hoyle

Holiday: an old word arising from the elision of holy and day back in the years of Middle English. Often the word connotes in modern usage a break from the usual, its old religious origin often forgotten. Philosopher Josef Pieper’s essays on Festivity bases holidays as a break in schedule, a change from the norm. The European origin, and probably others, is located in setting aside time and activity in honor of the Gods and in some Christian groups to the Saints who afford access to God.

I can ask: What holy things are found in the American Christmas Holiday? Of course there is always the theme of deified incarnation, the reading of holy stories from a holy book, the cult of midnight mass, Christmas communion, and a vast array of holy songs sung. But I often attend a family Christmas Eve function of my partner’s clan in which not one word of religion or prayer is spoken. There is a tree in each of the houses through which the celebration circulates. There may be Christmas music on the stereo system, but movies watched are not religious in nature. No word of piety is breathed. If there is a religious symbol present, it is the family itself or a bauble on the tree.

My guess is that my partner’s father, the one who died over ten years ago, did lead a prayer before the meal. He was pious in some sense related to his Holiness Methodist upbringing and may have led a prayer with and for his family at such gatherings. When his voice ceased, no son or daughter took up the task.

Well, back to the philosopher Pieper. The clan does leave work and gather on such days as Christmas and Easer. Some of these folk do go to church—two Catholic families, one Lutheran, and one wife in another who is Pentecostal. Most grandkids and great grandkids seem to have no current religious connection. The concept of civil religion seems to have triumphed in my partner’s Scots-Irish derived clan. The day off is sacred in itself; family responsibility rules the gathering; and thankfully, individuals in the group generally like one another.

But this analysis begs the question of our storytelling group. I’m supposed to be telling my story. I do retain a meaningful relationship with holy notions and practices. I attend the annual confab as the gay partner of a son of the family.
They are kind of my family now—well, one of them—these past years.

But what about me, about my Christmas? I pulled away from the church, professionally; a dozen years ago I left the planning, programming, and pastoring aspects of church life. I attended a number of churches after that but didn’t find a home. I began to work on some Sundays. I ended up with gay partners who didn’t attend services or otherwise identify with a congregation.

So Christmas comes. Do I want any part of it? (I analyze so much I can’t stand it), but I do like the gatherings, the giving, and the great gobs of goodwill, to say nothing about the generous portions of food. I like the decorations. I like the specials on TV and radio. I like the music although I tire of its incessant use for sales promotion.

I like the music but don’t believe literally the mythology of births, Santas, elves, Saints, shepherds, kings, and angels. I loathe the content of the well-meant sentiment of putting Christ back into Christmas as if he were a commodity to be manipulated. I laugh at statuettes of ol’ Santa (that means holy) Clause kneeling before a manger that cradles a holy baby. I accept that such symbols may be meaningful, sacredly meaningful, to others, and I don’t sneer publicly. I simply groan inwardly and think how relieved I am that I don’t anymore work daily in the task of religious education!

I want to keep Christmas, so my Cratchet asks Morley for the day away from the office. I want to keep the day holy. It’s in the Big Ten to remember certain days to keep them holy. So I do keep a holiday in which to recall a divine idea that lets laborers and working animals rest as the old myth asserts of the creator who rested on the seventh day.

I try to relax, sing a song, laugh, tell a story, give gifts, receive gifts with gratitude, take stock of the human condition as I understand it, have sex, read a book, tell a joke, hug and kiss my partner’s relatives, and say “Merry Christmas” in a polite and warm manner. 

So on this day of days I say “Merry Christmas to you, too.”
Denver, 2010 (revised 2013)

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. He worked in churches for thirty years, and for fifteen years kept a massage practice that funded his art activities. He has retired and now focuses on creating beauty in art and writing. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com