Tag: Elder Experiences

Posted on

When I Get Old by Phillip Hoyle

I don’t know why people freak out over getting old. I suspect they may be worshipping at the Shrine of Madison Avenue, a power so great that in the span of a couple of hours of TV watching promises the worshipper a plan to get over the fear of running out of money in retirement, others for long life, clear skin, non-wrinkly skin, beauty, medicines to counter every ill, all for dedication to the eternal worship of youthfulness. This menu doesn’t make sense to me. I don’t believe a bit of it! Deceitful is the god that promises eternal youth. The TV shrine can never deliver its promise since Chronos keeps ticking away at the same rate for everyone: for young, middle aged, and elders, even those of great old age. Crisis over old age seems most likely if one doesn’t look into the promises and judge the reality of eternal youth. Talk about a religious scam. We hear, “Just buy our product.” That’s like, “Send us your money and we’ll pray for you,” the line of too many TV evangelists. Or was that “…and we’ll prey on you”?

I’m old. When I was turning 25 I realized I would be old someday. I also knew that 30 would not be the end of the world and my life, and so I decided then that at 50 would be old, the time I would enter the final third of my expected survival to age 75. I announced that on my 25th birthday to my surprised co-workers. We laughed together, but I was serious.

So when I get old… Oh, Chronos just reminded me; that happened 17 ½ years ago according to my standard.

And I wonder: what have I learned since that time? Here’s a partial list: 

I can live well on very little money. 
I can thrive in a very small space. 
I can feed myself—meaning shop for, cook, and still lift the spoon to my mouth. 
I learned I can retire, to cut back on my productivity (even though that productivity in my adulthood occurred in the service arena). 
I learned I can still lead a group, still write a story, still paint a picture, still love my friends, still support my family, still help out folk I don’t even know by contributing to their welfare, and still maintain my own vital life.

I’m going to have to say something here about “when I get old, old.” That will take imagination because if I last beyond 75, I’ll be getting closer that that categorization and will have to think out a plan!

I’ll do the things I’ve discussed above. Plus I’ll hope to find someone to listen to my stories of the good ol’ days. I’ll hope someone will accompany me to my favorite museums—you know push the wheelchair. I’ll hope not to become a terrible burden on my family or society. If I can’t walk, I’ll still hope to be able to think!

Of course, I don’t know. So right now I’m saying through my writing and painting what I want to say. I do it with a sense of purpose and hope for the world my kids, grand kids, and great grand kids will live in. I express my ideas in ways I hope others will find helpful—at least pleasing or entertaining. I think that’s enough; I sure do hope so. Life goes on even if it is not my life. Eventually may I be caught up in the great mystical one however it may be described or may actually occur.

Denver, © 9 February 2015

About the Author

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

Posted on

Still Learning after All These Years, by Phillip Hoyle

My artist and poet friend Sue keeps learning. She has studied art with teachers and has produced art in several mediums for years. She has managed co-op art galleries, displayed her works in solo and group shows, and taught art to youngsters. But now Sue has extremely limited money resources. For awhile she kept up her learning about art processes by watching arts and crafts shows on TV. When she got a PC, she switched to following art blogs and watching tutorials. Still she is learning. Still she keeps experimenting. Still.

I likewise keep learning bolstered in my resolve to do so by watching Sue’s creative efforts and by recalling the concept of lifelong learning I promoted during my long career as a minister. I try to practice what I preached. For instance, I have long participated in a writers group that, although it does not critique pieces, affords me a constant source of response and learning. When I read something to that group of writers, I hear my words differently and pick up problems I’ve missed in my own reading and editing. I also get positive feedback.

When possible I have attended art workshops. One of the most helpful processes I learned in a week-long event with Houston artist Polly Hammett in 1998 was a process of self-criticism. She recommended the process that continues to teach me about my work and its direction. Her SELF-CRITIQUE is this:

Select from your current work several of the pieces. Set them up as a gallery. Decide three things you like about each piece.

1. See them. As you look at each piece see what you like.

2. Say them. Aloud say what it is that you like. Say aloud all three things.

3. Write them. Write down those things you have decided. If you are working on paper, write them on the back of the piece itself. If not, write them in a notebook. Write them.

Then choose your favorite piece. Decide, say, and write why it is your favorite, how it is related to the other pieces, and how it is different. “Do this,” she said, “so you keep affirming what you like. You will do again such things if you repeat them verbally.” She also stressed not to spend any time on the things you don’t like or you’ll end up doing them again and again! I have applied her advice to my work over the past fifteen years.

When I worked at a spa clients would sometimes ask, “How long have you been doing massage?”

I told them, “I’ve given massages professionally for eight years.”

“What did you do before that?” they almost always responded.

“I was a minister,” I said. That stopped the conversation almost as effectively as being introduced as a minister to a group of people drinking heavily in a bar.

“That’s really different,” many of them would eventually respond.

“No,” I answered with a chuckle. “My clients still tell me their problems.”

We’d laugh together. Then I’d clarify. “Actually it is different. In the massage context they edit their stories much less.”

Even in this last year of massage I have been learning new processes, new applications of things I learned in school, and sometimes a realization of what my teachers were trying to communicate about the work all those years ago.

In 2013 I am still learning not only about my art and massage, but also about personal relationships, things I never before could have imagined. The things people have told me about their lives probably were just details I couldn’t imagine about folk in churches when they told me their troubles. I have learned about life and about people, including many things about the varieties of GLBT folk!

Enough of these stories. Here’s my elder advice:

* In learning and work, both go it alone and collaborate with others.

* Adopt a rookie attitude about your life, skills, and learning even if you are ancient.

* Like Sue, find novel ways to learn.

* Keep your eyes open, your ideas transportable, and your attitudes creatively engaged.

And let me tell you; I hope to keep learning right up to my last breath.

Denver, © 2013

About the Author

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

Posted on

Where Do We Go from Here? by Ray S

Where Do We Go from Here? (or something like that)

“What are you thinking about?” my drinking partner Jack inquired. My mind wondered: this may be the last time we’ll get together here in the rosy glow of the pink neon—the trademark of the famous art deco watering hole. Everyone owes it to themselves to visit this Denver landmark in the equally landmark Oxford Hotel. The post-Prohibition décor is purported to be an architect’s interpretation of a cocktail lounge on the HMS Queen Mary. Enough background history.

“Well,” I replied, “you’re leaving for Phoenix and a new home and a new life.” I thought to myself, as long as he can keep the cancer at bay. I wanted Jack to be my friend from the first time we met, and he is that, but now he is slipping out of my life as effortlessly as he slipped in. Where do we go from here? With that, Jack excused himself to go to the Men’s.

Almost magically, Harry the bartender set down two new Martinis—each a one olive and Tanquary up. My thoughts moved from the loss of my friend Jack to the last part of my question, “Where do we go from here?” Jack knew and I realized, like the rest of my past life, I had not inkling. If I woke up in the morning, I only knew to make a pot of coffee—from there on it was up for grabs—once I finally gained consciousness. Unless someone had engaged me for some sort of business, it always was me on call or demand. That is the way I was, am, “housebroken or trained.” Seemingly never having to make an important decision on my own—someone or circumstances always did that for me. When my Day Timer was full each day I could just move from one hour to the next until the dance card was filled—no thought, just move on.

Lost in thought, I stared at that olive at the bottom of its sea of gin and willed it to come up and jump into the little bowl of munchies next to my glass. Better drink some so I can save that poor olive from a possible drowning.

The other day a friend was telling me about discussion with his son the subject of always looking ahead and having a goal, and then go for it. Easier said than done for me, especially when one’s parents hadn’t alluded to any such philosophy—let nature take its course, and I have stumbled on in the realm of being the reactor, always in the state of “ignorance is bliss,” but at this age and the advent of another year to what kind of bliss? Seek a goal seems much too late, besides I don’t think I would be able to recognize a goal, even if that olive made its trip.

Where do I go from here? It is like standing at forks on this road of NOW. The signposts are myriad.

The Yellow Brick Road—but I never got Over the Rainbow.

The Road Home—You Can’t Go Home Again.

The Primrose Path—not all it’s crocked up to be.

The Road to Shangri-La—no way, it’s too cold a trip.

The Road to Mandalay or to Loch Lehman—don’t like to travel abroad

There’s a Long, Long Road a ‘Winding—now there’s one I’ve been on, and haven’t come to its destination yet. Not certain when, but this I am sure of: it will end when you’re not planning for it. You see someone else will make that decision for you.

The hotel restrooms here are a long way too, but Jack made the return safe and sound. “Did you notice the original antique features? Part of the ‘charm’ of this old place?” Those urinals were built for some by-gone giants. You had to be careful; you were a goner if you fell in!

While my friend began a detailed description of what he had learned about the old place, my mind wandered to my recent escape from my self-imposed closet. Finally, a decision I made of my own volition. Ironically, along with the joy of liberation, discovering a loving community, finding and acknowledging the real me, the monkey on my back, self loathing, is still with me.

The Gay Road was a good choice, now which road leads to this self love/hate resolution?

“Hey, snap out of it, you’re missing my Cook’s tour of this place, and put that olive back in the glass.”

© 4 January 2016

About the Author

Posted on

Alice’s Adventure in Purple Passionland, by Ray S

The question had been looming in my frustrated mind for at least forty-five minutes. Where the hell am I, and what can I do? In my haste to leave for this dinner date I neglected to confirm the specifics like apartment number. When I had confirmed that I was at the right building, I was unable to find their names on the directory much less their apartment number. This occurred after mindless wandering between a couple of other similar high-rise buildings. In case you wonder why I failed simply to use my cell phone to let them come rescue me from the street people, I couldn’t remember their number. Would the papers announce: “Little old man found comatose under a loading dock; Doctors suspect senior molestation.”

At that moment I looked up to see two men approaching. Who else but Marty and Bob, one of my hosts and the other dinner guest whom I hadn’t seen for at least a year. I dropped my bag and almost floored them as I threw my arms around them and kissed my saviors. “We thought you had forgotten about tonight,” was all they could say in disbelief, probably thinking, “He really must be slipping.”

As dinner was about ready friend Bob produced a small box of hors d’oeuvres and invited all to sample freshly made brownies. They were made by him and Betty Crocker with the addition of Bob’s own prepared formula of something with the unfamiliar name “Lower List” and “Purple Mist.”

Then Marty’s husband Tucker inquired, “Haven’t you ever smoked pot?” He was incredulously amazed that it was possible that pot wasn’t a part of everyone’s life.

Bob allowed as how just a crumb of the “edible” would be okay. “Go ahead; take this chocolately bit. It won’t hurt.” I later learned that all three of the boys were tripping along nicely. I am reminded of Alice and the bottle with the inscription: DRINK ME.

Sometime between the soup and salad courses I began to wonder at Marty’s mastering the kitchen activities, but the plated dinners made it to the table perfectly. About part way into the salad course and then to entrée, I became aware of a soft haze dropping down over the dinner guests. Having my trained eye for color I can describe for you that it was soft and transparent and in shadings of lavender edged in the finest corona of deep purple no more than a thirty-second of an inch wide. I had been told that that little crumb MIGHT start to react but not to worry.

Dessert was a luscious apple strudel a la mode. I looked down at it on its dessert plate, and it looked up at me as if to say: TRY ME, you’ll like it.” I’d heard that before.

I was enveloped in that Purple Mist when I heard the other three discussing:

What can we do with his car?

It’s parked on the street.

Well, he certainly can’t drive it.

They decided to see if I was able to walk. So Tucker decided to see if I could walk twenty feet. Success! So I could accompany Bob to show him if I could find my car, and then he would drive it into the garage. Then what are we going to do with him besides an anti-climax of strong coffee—as if it made any difference.

What fun I was having wallowing in all of this attention. Yes it was another time and place.

Dear Bob had done wonderfully guiding the old sedan to the garage, after which he took leave of our jolly band. For the next three hours some sort of trigger activated my talking machine. Marty and Tucker kept an eye on their errant guest by sitting up and encouraging other-worldly philosophies on how love prevails.

About 3:30 AM Marty pointed me to the guest bedroom with the firm suggestion I fall into the bed. Tucker said “Good night or morning.” and the two of them offed to their own bed, with the assurance I’d be wakened for breakfast.

After some coffee and fruit I found a good degree of sobriety and lots of sleepiness. No more ethereal lavender-purple mist. As I set about the trip back home, I reviewed this most recent TRIP and what gratitude I had for my two Fairy God Fathers.

Pulling out of the garage, I stopped at the gate and looked up to their balcony and there the two of them were waiving their magic wands in a farewell gesture with one hand while holding onto their diamond tiaras with the other.

“Adieu, my two Fairy queens, with love and appreciation for the finer joie d’vie.”

Alice

Denver, © 7 March 2016

About the Author

Posted on

Wrinkles, by Will Stanton

Human cells are supposed to repair themselves by being replaced with duplicate, new cells. If that process worked perfectly, then we would look about as young as when we first were fully grown. Mother Nature, however, with her cruel sense of humor, arranged it so that, sooner or later, that replication begins to fail, resulting in malformed or even diseased cells.

Aging is a major contributing factor to this breakdown in replication. So are disease, injury, smoking, chronic drugs and alcohol abuse, and too much sunshine. Unfortunately, cellular deterioration can occur with any cell, inside the body and visible on the surface. I once read that medical research has identified 12,000 diseases and afflictions humans are prone to, many caused by cellular failure. I imagine by now that many more have been discovered.

For many people, wrinkles are the most obvious evidence of aging, along with a few other delightful imperfections, such as gray hair, baldness, obesity, and loss of those youthful facial features. My time spent at the mirror is minimized to those brief moments when I am required to shave. Otherwise, I avoid mirrors almost as often as do vampires.

Speaking of other bad contributing factors, it is well known that chronic stress can contribute to premature wrinkles. Outdoorsy-people, such as traditional farmers and cowboys, often ended up with wrinkled faces and skin like leather. I also have seen a picture of a pair of identical-twin sisters aged fifty. The one who smoked and drank heavily looked seventy-five; whereas the one who did not drink or smoke looked forty. I have seen pictures of men and woman who have abused methamphetamine, and their faces looked like actors from the movie “Night of the Living Dead.” Meth is terribly destructive. On perhaps on a more positive note, there are such things as “laugh lines,” too. So, if your face is very wrinkled, just tell people that you laugh allot.

It is said that facial wrinkles give a face character, showing much of one’s life-experience. That makes sense among us superannuated folks. Of course, the young, and also those who admire or even envy the young, would prefer never to show signs of aging. Why else would billions of dollars be spent on face-lifts, botox wrinkle-removal, cosmetics, expensive hairdos and fancy clothes?

Ending on a silly note (and I must hasten to explain that I very rarely, if ever, indulge in humor that possibly can be regarded a repellent) the subject of wrinkles never fails to remind me of a little story once told to me. Now I can inflict it upon everyone here.

Once during one hot summer, two little boys were taken to their great-grandparents’ house for a weekend stay. The little boys woke up early the next morning. Hungry and bored, they went looking for their great-grandparents. They climbed the stairs to the sweltering second floor. Very quietly, they opened a bedroom door and looked inside. They were surprised to see their great-grandmother lying naked on the bed. The littlest boy whispered to his brother, “What are those wrinkles all over Great-Grandma?” — “Great-Grandpa.”

© 13 September 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

Solitude, by Phillip Hoyle

Little Tony stopped by to save me from my solitude. I actually have a lot of it even though I live with two other people. They tend to be quiet; I tend to go off to my art studio or to my computer, and sometimes I just watch TV alone.

Tony’s text Saturday evening had read, “R u and jim at the bc tonite? I could use a drink or 2.”

I responded, “Sure. What time?”

“I’m almost home. Maybe 15 or 20.”

“Ok probably just me but I will invite Jim. Park at the house. See u soon.”

At the Black Crown we discovered singers doing their best to the piano accompaniment of a player who surely was doing her best, but their bests attracted neither Tony nor me. He suggested a bar downtown, so we drove to it where he drank three mixed drinks to forget the anger a work situation had produced in him the day before. The bar was full of young people. Like so many times in my Denver years I was the oldest patron present. I drank a beer as we talked about a number of common memories.

We left just in time to avoid getting a parking ticket and drove south out of downtown. On Broadway we stopped by a bar where years ago we used to go dancing. Even though the lights were really nice and the music quite acceptable, only one lonely or independent man was dancing. Tony smoked a cigarette, and then we left.

We drove back downtown to the X Bar where I knew there would be lots of activity. The place featured very loud music, video images, and many people dancing. Tony insisted on buying another drink. I said, “Sure, a Miller Lite for me.”

We stood around listening to the music, looking at the young people, mostly gay and lesbian, a few transgender folk, probably undetectable bisexuals as well. Perhaps a few straight couples out for something different on a Saturday night. The energy of the place was high.

We talked swaying a little and finally he began to dance a little, somewhat like years ago when we went week after week to the Denver Compound to dance on Saturday nights. I saw his characteristic moves and began doing my own.

A young Hispanic guy started dancing alongside us, enjoying what I took to be his favorite song. He was cute, fun to watch, moved like the supplest of sinews, and as he danced, smiled with beautiful face and dimples. We enjoyed his movements and beauty. We danced for about twenty minutes. Then a young woman came up to me and began to dance with me, to touch me, to actually feel me up. I thought, uh oh, this one has had too much to drink, but we danced as best we could. Then I noticed my friend Tony was dancing with a young man, someone maybe his own age or close to it. I was so pleased for Tony. He needs to be dancing with someone not old enough to be his father, and he seemed to love it. I had a bit of conversation with the young woman as we kept dancing. Then the guy who had been dancing with Tony came over to me, and we started dancing. The woman started dancing with Tony. I learned some things about them, that she, a single mother, was his best friend, that he was living with his mother in Albuquerque due to the breakup of a 20-year long relationship in New York and to her disintegrating health, that he had driven up to see her and take her out since she rarely has the opportunity to do much of anything besides work and take care of her two-and-a-half year old, that he’d really like to get laid but couldn’t because he was with her, that they assumed Tony and I were a couple, and they wondered how long.

Finally Tony and I told them goodnight, left the bar, and he drove me home. I recall looking at the time as we were leaving—1:39 a.m. I hadn’t almost closed a bar for many years. In fact, I hadn’t been out dancing for several years. I realized just how much I miss the activity. I had danced a lot in my first five years in Denver, almost always the oldest man on the floor. With Tony I learned to be very expressive in the dance. He and I always enjoyed our evenings out.

Tony dropped me off at the house and said he’d wait until I got in the door. What is he? A youngster taking care of the elderly? Anyway, I waved from the doorway as he pulled away.

I hurried to the basement where my computer was waiting. There I began this story of my temporary delivery from solitude and, of course, sat alone as I typed, enjoying being alone just as much as I loved dancing with my friend and the other youngsters.

Denver, © 2013

About the Author

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

Posted on

The Art of Crafting, by Betsy

As a youngster in school or Girl Scout meetings, arts and crafts was always one of my favorite activities. I am very grateful for the time spent making things because I still enjoy making things. So when I started thinking about todays topic, I naturally pondered the question what is the difference between an art and a craft.

I decided that art is a creation of the imagination, a craft is the result of making something by hand which is a copy or an impression or a depiction of something else. Further investigation reveals that the word craft comes from an old English then German word originally meaning strength then later, skill. Skill is the key word here when it comes to the word origin. However, the meaning for me is broader inasmuch as I have crafted many an item without the application of an ounce of skill. At least so it would seem.

In my dotage I have taken up the craft of counted cross stitch. My friend Carlos has shown some beautiful examples of his work. The two main skills required for this craft are patience and good eye sight. Also being systematic about transferring the pattern from a paper to the cloth is essential.

Is this art? Technically, in my opinion it is not. I may be creating a piece based on a painting or an artist’s rendition of an object or a scene. It is imagination that produces the image upon which my craft is based. That’s the work of art. Designing the cross stitch pattern and then stitching it is the craft. Does it matter to me which it is called? No. Call it art, call it a craft, I really don’t care. I enjoy doing it. Another of it’s assets is that it’s a great filler activity very useful when watching sports on TV, when waiting for commercials to end, or when watching something entertaining which doesn’t require a lot of concentration (which is most of television, by the way.) Other times when it is a useful activity are when waiting or when one can’t sleep.

A few years ago in our travels to the National Parks, I noticed in the gift shops, cross-stitch kits of scenes from whatever park we were visiting. So I bought that first kit that I found, and have been buying them and completing them since. So far I have Monument Valley, Zion NP, Rocky Mountain NP, and I am currently working on Arches NP. I think it will be another year or maybe two before I finish Arches as it is quite large; that is, if I work on it regularly.

My last visit to a National Park was about a month ago when we spent a day at Denali NP in Alaska, home of Mt. McKinley now called Mt. Denali. I found no craft kits in their gift shop, but later in Anchorage I came upon a craft shop that had cross-stitch patterns for typical Alaskan flowers and animals. As a result of going into that shop I have now, I think, four or five cross-stitch projects waiting to be started. Considering that some projects can take two, three, or even four years to complete, I realize I better get on with it. So many projects, so little time.

By the way, I also knit baby blankets, so if any of you are expecting to be expecting in the near future, let me know early on (before you are showing) so I can get started on a baby blanket.

Ahh! So many projects, so little time.

© 2014


About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

Posted on

Flying, by Lewis

Although for me swimming might be “staying alive in the water”, flying does not mean to me “staying alive in the air”. It’s more like “staying sane while traveling”. Between spending two hours in the airport before the scheduled departure time–after circling the parking lot for fifteen minutes looking for an empty space; trying to fit everything needed for the trip into a single checked bag; anxiously waiting in long lines when not rushing to your next destination; fruitlessly searching for space for my toilet kit in the overhead stowage compartment; not knowing whether my connecting flight actually has an airplane waiting for me at the next stop; trying to fit my 95th- percentile-long legs between the seat cushion, fold-down tray which no longer holds a single thing that I don’t have to pay for, and whatever might be under my seat; being unable to get comfortable in a seat that I cannot recline far enough; putting up with whatever the passenger next to me is doing; and needing to have instant access to the loo which does not allow me to turn around unless I raise my hands over my head (in which case, I have no control over the directionality of my by-now-headlong-rushing stream), well, it just isn’t worth the time saved.

Furthermore, to me travel is more than a trip from Point ‘A’ to Point ‘B’. That’s for business people. I want to know the landscape between Point ‘A’ and Point ‘B’. The only way to do that is by automobile. Furthermore, I know that, when I reach my destination via air, I will have to deal with rental cars–the only enterprise with a business model worse than that of airlines. Either way, there will be relatives who will want me to sleep with their non-hypoallergenic cat, expect me to sleep on THEIR schedule, and leave me alone during the day while they traipse off to work. With no wheels, what am I supposed to do–paint the bathrooms?

No, while I’m driving across country in my very comfortable automobile, I have the pleasure of munching on my Pay Days, drinking my pink lemonade, listening to Sirius XM radio, conversing with my travel companion, and taking in the scenic countryside. (One of my travel secrets is finding off-the-beaten-path routes that encompass rolling hills, gentle curves, lakes, and streams.) My only regret is that I have not found a way to read a road map safely–I LOVE maps–while driving. As anyone who flies will understand, finding a competent co-pilot is not easy.

30 September 2013

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

Forgiveness, by Will Stanton

Where has the time gone? More than three score years. What do I have to show for it? Why so many trials and tribulations along the way?

I have not suffered alone. That is the fate of being human. Everyone is familiar with disappointment, malaise, unfulfilled dreams — some more or less than I.

Since time began, humankind has asked for answers to the purpose of life, why we are here, do we finally go somewhere else. I started out life relatively innocent and painfully naïve. I can’t say that I know much more, despite the experiences I have had these many years.

I have tried to be kind to others and have hoped for kindness in return. They say, and I have sensed, that love is the most powerful force humans may experience. Those who have loved and have been loved may have possessed the greatest treasure humans are permitted to enjoy. Yet, those fortunate ones who have experienced love ultimately are left open to loss and grief. Love is a two-edged sword.

In my own small way, I have made my mark, nothing grand, perhaps nothing particularly memorable. I have helped a few people, and I have made efforts to share with others what beauty exists in the world. But, I have left for posterity no great symphonies, no great architectural monuments, no cure for cancer. Only a select few are granted such privilege.

I am no philosopher; I have no deep thoughts as to the purpose of life. Perhaps the whole thing is some kind of ironic joke. Perhaps Robert Frost sums it up best in just two lines:

“Forgive, Oh Lord, my little jokes on thee
And I’ll forgive Thy great big joke on me.”

© 12 January 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

For a Good Time, by Lewis

There are a thousand ways to have a “good time”. “Good” can mean “exciting” or “feel-good”–whether emotionally, physically, sexually, or by getting high. It can involve exercise, dancing, playing games, telling jokes, jumping out of an airplane, or simply driving to a destination that provides you with a sense of positive anticipation. It might even involve taking a Viagra, putting on something sexy, and waiting to see what cums, whether alone or accompanied.

However, the story I would like to share with you today is of quite a different nature. It does not require a car, a well-stocked bar, reefers, needles, electronics, or jewelry. It does not even require clothes, if one is discrete. What I consider to be about as fun as anything else that I do requires only a chair, a table, and pleasant surroundings. I have to put nothing in my ears or nose, although a little bit of a favorite beverage and a few chips or nuts seems to enhance the experience.

What I do for fun most days is to simply sit out on my terrace and eat a meal, do a crossword puzzle, read from Laurin’s journal or write in my own, or simply sit and watch the amazing beauty of a sunset or my terrace garden. To feel the breeze against my skin, to watch as it caresses the leaves and blooms, to observe the shadows on the furniture, walls and floor and the sunlight as it slowly traverses its path from east to west–this is my private little kingdom which I have created. It is a time to be alone with my thoughts, my memories, my dreams; to anticipate the coming hours and relish the past few.

It doesn’t matter that the cacophony of construction pierces the air from next door. It’s a minor annoyance, no more. I turn my eyes to the horizon, where I see Buckley Field, Fitzsimmons, DIA (on a clear day), East High School, The Pinnacle, the industrial South Platte River valley, downtown, Sports Authority Field, Cheesman Park , and a long expanse of foothills and mountains. I see blue and green everywhere–they are the colors of restfulness and relaxation. The clouds play out their drama before my enthralled eyes and a tear may form. I can hardly wait for the next few minutes until, at last, my favorite time comes, as the sun sets and twilight begins. Soon, it is time to go inside and begin to wind down into sleep, knowing that my “good times” will surely begin again when the morning comes.

© 12 August 2013

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.