Tag: Elder Experiences

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For a Good Time by Phillip Hoyle

I’m not easily manipulated by advertising. I can watch ads on TV, even enjoy their art, humor, and images, but I never buy their products. I can pour over magazine ads but end up only cutting them into pieces for collages rather than purchasing their wares. I knew this about myself for years, but I learned a valuable exception one night early in my coming out—during my first year living in Denver. I was at Charlie’s of Denver dancing with my friend Dianne. We’d go there once in awhile to practice our emerging bar-stool massage techniques, to drink some beers, and to dance. We were laughing and carrying on when I noticed a decent looking man standing by a table watching me. He smiled. I smiled. I went over to talk with him and invite him to dance with us. Before long he said to me, “Let’s go have sex.”

I responded to his direct message. Perhaps I was also attracted to his strong southern accent, his black hair, his darker skin (I assumed he might be Hispanic), his smile revealing clean, slightly irregular teeth, and his stature just a bit shorter than mine. He seemed my kind of guy although I really didn’t know I had a preferred type. He advertised no price tag attached to sex—just sex. We went to my place and figured out what to do together.

I realized that while I liked what I saw and otherwise sensed, and I enjoyed our simple negotiations, conversation, and other contortions, the good time I experienced really arose from my inner core. All my deepest pleasures originate from an introvert place and preference, although in this instance assisted by a shot of adrenalin, a combination of other hormones, and perhaps was bolstered by a bit of alcohol. They spoke from deep within.

Usually I am happy to be alone, but there are times I easily enough share myself more publically. For instance, there are things I enjoy doing with others, like the visit to the Denver Art Museum with my friend Dianne to see the Yves St. Laurent couture show. I probably would have missed it if she hadn’t encouraged me to take her. Dianne had modeled clothes in Paris in her late teens and twenties and did her first runway job for the designer whose clothing we were viewing as we walked through the rooms displaying his work. Her perspectives drew me deeper into the multitude of beautiful items on display and the world that had produced them. I liked that conjunction immensely.

Furthermore, I enjoy going on trips with Jim, like the trip to North Dakota (a place that requires a local guide for anyone to appreciate it at all). Jim showed me all the places he had lived and had loved way up there in the north, including the field where he sometimes saw moose sitting in the snow when as a child he walked to catch the school bus, the train station where he used to work for the Great Northern Railroad, and the statue of the world’s largest cow. His insistence on driving the whole way through Colorado, Nebraska, Iowa, South Dakota, North Dakota and Wyoming freed me to pay close attention to the landforms where many scenes from 19th century American history were played out and where for millennia great herds of bison were hunted by tribes in their annual cycles of hunt and harvest. And I met many of Jim and Ruth’s family members. Furthermore, I got to know both my partner and his mother in ways I would have perceived only slowly if we had not travelled together. I enjoyed the trip and the things I learned by experiencing it with these two who have become so important in my life.

For a good time: in its popular usage connotes a sexual element and is often a prostitute’s come on complete with phone number and perhaps prices. In my two examples there was something sexual, even if deeply sublimated. Dianne is one of the sexiest people I have ever known. And of course I was having sex with Jim on our North Dakota Odyssey.

And then there are my good times with a Writers group, an Artist Trading Card gathering, and weekly meetings of this Storytelling group. I enjoy seeing friends for coffee or lunch, having sex with a lover, going somewhere to dance (Indian dancing at demonstrations or powwows in my school years, social dances in junior high and high school, two-stepping or rock dancing with my wife, or techno dancing with a good friend in my gay days). I like day trips to the mountains for short walks or visiting a tourist trap, some combination of exercise, shopping, sightseeing, picture taking, and eating. And of course, lots of gab.

For a good time: pleasure can only be defined by the person seeking or experiencing it. For instance, three people share an activity. One simply bears it, another one finds it just okay, while the third declares it was a really good time, one of the best. The pleasure itself is due to personal emotions and feelings, not due to owning an art museum membership or being able to afford an occasional trip. For me, the good time arises from being somehow transformed by the viewings, travel, thoughts and feelings when my social activities become a scene in a story or the inspiration for a piece of artwork. Then I feel even more deep pleasure, my deepest satisfaction. And that’s a really good time!

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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Piece of Cake by Gillian

It isn’t just my age that makes it seem like many things that surely should be are not a piece of cake these days. Oh yes, I forget where I put things and logic occasionally skips a beat, but I’m talking about things made more complicated than they need to be by others, not myself.

Betsy and I regretfully sold our old camper van a few months ago. It was eating money and parts were becoming too hard to find. The man who bought it apparently drove it home on a toll road because a few weeks later we got a bill from the toll company for $3.20. Now even I am not going to quibble over three bucks, so I mailed the check and forgot all about it. Piece of cake! A few weeks later we received another bill for the same vehicle, time, and date, from a differently named company. It seems the toll collection passed to a different company without, surprise surprise, much communication. Other than the fact that this bill was mysteriously thirty cents higher, the bills were identical so we printed off a copy of the processed check, mailed it and forgot about it. Just last week we got a second bill from the toll company for sixty unexplained cents. Honestly! Can’t someone program their computer not to generate bills for amounts below a dollar? I am tempted to tape sixty pennies to a sheet of paper, but I know the computer wouldn’t know what to do with that. The next thing we’d receive would be a bill for $20.60 after they added a twenty dollar late charge. So I guess I’ll just write a check. I can honestly say I have never written a check for less than a dollar, but then, a woman in her seventies should probably be grateful for any new experience!

Have you noticed how people these days have developed the skill of completely ignoring evidence right in front of their eyes? Betsy’s granddaughter Lisi owed us some money and was paying it back via automated monthly checks mailed to us from her bank. Piece of cake! When she later closed out that account, the checks kept right on coming. After three monthly checks we should not have had, we visited a local branch of the bank and explained the situation. Yes, the young man agreed, that account was indeed closed and contained no money, therefore we would receive no checks. I pounded my poor pinkie on the paper until it pained me. There were the checks. Three of them. Keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the computer screen he continued to nod his agreement that the account was closed and empty and no checks could be issued. He simply refused to see the evidence before him. Really! What kind of bank continues to send out checks from a closed account with no money in it??

In fact, closing accounts just seems to cause problems. I closed out a savings account, withdrawing all the money. The next month I got a statement claiming I had thirty-nine cents in that account. I called the branch, but neither they nor I had any explanation for the thirty-nine cents.

“Oh well,” I said, “Just cut a check for the amount and toss it in the trash, then close the account.”

She explained that she could not do that, as the computer would not create checks for less than a dollar.

“Can I just pop in and you give me the cash then?”

Cash, all thirty-nine cents of it, was apparently, for some incomprehensible reason, not an option. I gave up.

After a couple of months my thirty-nine cent statement was accompanied by a letter expounding upon the joys of paperless banking. Yes! I thought, hastily completing the authorization. At least I would no longer be irritated every month by this three-page documentation of my thirty-nine
cents. I would never have to go on-line to look at it; it would be forgotten. Piece of cake! After the second month of continuing to receive the mailed statement, I phoned the 24 hour customer service number. Definitely, I was told, since I had signed up for paperless banking I no longer received hard-copy statements. I assured her that I was holding one in my hand at that very moment, and she continued to affirm that I no longer received statements by mail. I gave up, but the following month I took my apparently imaginary paper statement to the local branch and explained my problem. Eyes glued to the screen, the young woman agreed wholeheartedly with me. Yes, I had signed up for paperless accounts and no longer received hard copy. No amount of waving pages at her could distract her attention from that screen. I gave up. Now, each month as I watch my three-page proof of thirty-nine cents die an ignominious death in the shredder, I remind myself that I no longer receive hard copy.

I find, more and more, that I fail to understand what people are telling me. And no, it’s not because I can’t hear, or that English is their second language. No, English, as far as I know, is their first language. Yet they somehow speak it in a way I cannot follow. I understand the words, but the way they put them together makes no sense to me. Betsy recently e-mailed a very simple question to our insurance company. The reply, and I promise you this is a direct quote, read, “Yes your property is currently covered (but not now).” How in God’s name is a person to interpret that? How can something be currently but not now?

I think hell on earth must be struggling, from half way around the world, to deal helpfully and politely in a relatively unfamiliar language, with an angry American trying to set up his Smart TV. A few years ago, Betsy and I bought a new flat-screen TV, and, for the first time, splurged on Cable. The Comcast techie rushed off after a very speedy installation, leaving me no chance to ask questions. I could not figure out where to attach the DVD player, so in desperation I called the HELP number. After many minuets on hold and many more in conversation with a very frustrated young man, both he and I had had just about enough. His voice had risen an octave over the time we had spent together, and I was beginning to doubt his chances of reaching his twenty-first birthday without a heart attack.

“No no no! You are not listening to me. How then can I help if you do not listen?”

“I’m sorry. I am listening. Really.”

Like a recalcitrant three year old.

“Now.” He sighed; at the end of his tether.

“We are at the very top, on the left side of the television. This TV is not a person. It is not the left side of it of which we speak. No! It is your left. You are facing the screen. Yes?”

Without waiting for confirmation he plunged on.

“You are reaching out your left hand and placing it on the top of the side of the television that is there, closest to your exact left hand. Very good! Now, the first connection on top of all the connections on that very side. You see it. It is being very red and you do not use it.”

I replied that actually it was yellow, but no I did not use it.

“It is red!” he said, dismissively. “Now you move down your exact left hand and the next one is yellow and you do not use it.”

I saw little point in saying that it was white, and we moved rapidly on to the next which was supposedly white but was in fact red. Why wasn’t my TV like his picture of it? We had confirmed the model number.

“Now,” he said with an air of accomplishment, “in the next one below under your exact left hand is the unused white into which you place the white of your DVD cable.

I willed the thick cable already plugged into the dirty-mustard yellow connection to disappear, but it remained.

“Something’s already in that one. The cable box. Or maybe the DVR …” I said doubtfully, peering into the dark corner behind the TV and the tanglement of wires and cables nesting there.

“No no no! You are indeed not following me!”

I thanked him for his time and hung up.

And you know, among the endless frustrations of modern life, occasionally someone appears who reinvigorates your faith in people and even technology. Forgetting the DVD player, I worked on getting the DVR to work. Having failed on that score too, I called Comcast where the phone techie agreed that it was not working correctly and scheduled a real person techie visit in two days. She strode into the living room, an obvious lesbian wearing her overstuffed tool belt with pride. After a cursory glance, she began ripping out cables and wires and dumping them in a tangled mangled heap on the carpet. She scooped up the messy bundle and retreated to her van, returning with new, neatly coiled and labeled, cables and wires and connectors. In what seemed like no time she was demonstrating to me that the TV worked, the DVD player worked, the cable box worked, and the DVR worked. She gathered up her tools and waved a cheery goodbye.

Piece of cake!

© March 2015

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

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Spirituality, by Gillian

“I don’t believe in God, but I miss him….” Julian Barnes

I haven’t believed in God since I decided, at the age of nine, that it was all hogwash; at least, in the way God was portrayed by the church. I did miss him, but believing is not something you can learn or force yourself to do. You either do or you don’t, and I didn’t. However, not believing left me with, as they say, a god-shaped hole. It was this, I suspect, which drove me, eventually, to begin to delve seriously into Spirituality, and so, a few years ago, to a group at the nearby Senior Center who were about to read, and discuss, Eckhart Tolle’s book, A New Earth.

OK. I know those of you who have been in this group for a while are sick of me droning on about Tolle, so feel free to groan loudly right now and get it over with.

(Pause for communal groan!)

But he became, via that group, my spiritual guide and leader. Not that his thoughts are original, as he would be the first to say, but he combines the best thoughts of the other main spiritual teachers from Buddha to Christ and many many more, and nets them out succinctly and in a language so easily understood. And, most valuable of all, he then proceeds to illustrate each point with everyday examples, and makes it clear how we can apply it to our own lives; our own inner selves.

At the first of these study-group meetings we were all asked to say what we hoped to get out of the group. I completely surprised myself by saying,

‘Peace for my soul.’

Where on earth had that come from? I had never spent very much time contemplating the condition of my soul. Not only did I not know it was not at peace, I most certainly did not know that I knew it. My, how we can astonish ourselves at times!

To cut a rambling story short, I have most definitely found that inner peace I needed via Tolle’s teachings and practices. Not to infer, lest you get the wrong idea, that my work is now done and I can relax. Oh, no no! Spirituality, like anything worth doing, requires endless effort and constant practice.

Let’s take just one aspect of the myriad facets of Spirituality; living in The Now. Tolle clearly thinks this is one of the biggies, as he devoted a whole book, The Power of Now, to the topic. Of course what it’s all about is keeping your mind and spirit in the present, not your body. Where else would a body find itself, after all? But somehow our minds, whisked away on thoughts, love to linger in the past or dash off into the future; and so we rob ourselves of the present. That voice in our heads drones on endlessly, reminding us of how much better things were before Mom and Dad divorced, Hubby left with that young chick, or the kids left home. Or piling on the guilt: if we’d been better parents Roger wouldn’t be an alcoholic, or Sally would not have run off with that complete delinquent. Or we trip off into the future on a sequence of what ifs. What if we lose our jobs, or that pain turns out to be cancer, or those damn Republicans take away our Social Security? Or we fall into the trap of coloring all future happenings with a rosy glow which reality can never live up to and we condemn ourselves to endless disappointment. Words chatter continuously in our heads. Tolle refers to it as the tapes playing over and over, though he’s rather dating himself there. I supposed a more up-to-date image might be u-tube videos constantly playing, but that didn’t feel quite right to me. Then it came to me. Of course! Streaming! That’s exactly what it is; words streaming endlessly across your mind and filling up your thoughts.

But, oh, the glorious peace, the blessed silence, when you can just turn that streaming off.

These days I rarely fall victim to that endless chatter, and if I do, I can usually recognize it and shut it off. The last time I remember really having to deal with it was when I treated my wrist to a compound fracture in a silly ping pong fall. I lay at St. Jo’s being prepped for surgery and the words were streaming and screaming. You knew you were wearing the wrong shoes but did you bother to change them? No! What an idiot. Why don’t you act like a grown-up? Didn’t you learn anything from when you broke your ankle? You’re a moron. And now what? We’re planning to go off on a camping trip soon but now you won’t be able to drive for who knows how long and Betsy won’t want to do all that driving herself and anyhow what sense does it make to go camping at all with broken wrist. A fine mess you’ve made of things. Why in hell didn’t you change your shoes……and round and round the voice goes, over and over and over.

Finally I recognized what was happening and applied the brake which Tolle recommends. A few deep breaths, relax, and ask yourself a very simple question. But what exactly is wrong this very moment, this exact current second tick of the clock? And almost invariably the answer is – nothing. Absolutely nothing. Yes, my wrist was hurting a bit, but that was it. All that angst was over whys and what-ifs of past and future. Keep yourself in the now, and there are no problems, no recriminations, no anger or guilt or fear. That one key question is one of the most healing things in my life.

At first this whole concept confused me. Other Spiritual teachers I read had the same concept, of living in The Now, but I didn’t quite get it. I have to live in this world. I have to plan when to take my car in for service and what to buy for the week’s groceries and what to write for Monday afternoon, and so what if I like to remember that wonderful beach in Mexico or think fondly of my mother in days long gone? Ah, Mr. Tolle to the rescue! Another question to ask myself. Am I in psychological time or clock time? Clock time has no emotional entanglements, it is purely for practical use. What time are we meeting for lunch? Psychological time is time that comes with all that baggage. Remembering Mom is fine, but not if the memories are accompanied by resentment, or guilt, or any of the multitudes of emotions we entangle ourselves with, drag them into the present, and ruin a perfectly peaceful Now.

Strangely, for me, Spirituality has provided all those things that I rejected when offered by the Church: angels and demons, Heaven and Hell, and, yes, God. None of these are in the form religion offers them, but they work for me in their re-creations. All of them are within me. They are me. And through spiritual practices I will get more in touch with those I need, and learn to minimize those I reject. Simply, I must believe in me; that me who is part of everything, as everything is part of me. And therein lies true peace. At least for me.

© January 2015

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

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Spirituality by Lewis J. Thompson, III

Ask ten people how they would define “spirituality” and you will likely get eleven different answers–and they would all be correct. I feel spiritual when I see a colorful sunset or listen to the main theme from On Golden Pond. I also feel spiritual when I lie down after a busy day or hear a great sermon on Sunday morning or taste a particularly good chocolate ice cream sundae. All of these experiences are even more spiritual when I share them with someone for whom I care deeply.

I would say that beauty possesses its very own spirit, as does companionship. Put the two together and nirvana can happen. Standing on the rim of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison with a loved one is spiritual to me. Meditating on my bedroom floor alone, not so much. Sharing our stories around this table is spiritual. Having lunch together? Fun, but not spiritual (although a hearty belch after a couple of beers can come pretty close). There are TV commercials that are spiritual to me but they are rare–ones for the benefit of disabled veterans or destitute children come to mind. Open displays of piety turn me off. Nothing is less spiritual to me than a politician justifying his or her vote to deny assistance to someone in dire need on the grounds of religion. Bigotry and prejudice do not dress up well in vestments.

Recently, I volunteered with the AmeriCorps’ Reading Partners’ program to tutor an elementary school child in reading. Last Tuesday was my first session with 8-year-old Eduardo. In getting acquainted with each other’s stories, there came a moment when we both felt a strong connection. We “high fived” in a spontaneous gesture of friendship. My eyes began to tear up, as they often do at such times, but I wasn’t particularly embarrassed. If he noticed, I couldn’t tell nor did I particularly care. I have come to realize that most of my spiritual moments happen when there are people I love around me. I think it’s more than a coincidence.

© January 25, 2015

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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When I Get Old by Will Stanton

What do you mean, “When I get old”? What a weird topic suggestion. I already am old. And, why would I want to go and get it? That doesn’t make sense, considering all the problems associated with old.

I never got old. I became old, or one could say “I grew old.” But, I sure did not go out to get it. As far as I’m concerned, that would be like going to some place to get Ebola. If I had had some means of avoiding old, I would have done so.

If, for some inexplicable reason, one wished to go somewhere to get old, where would one go to get it? Are there shops that have old? Can one get old on-line, perhaps through Amazon? If so, how much do they charge for getting old? I assume that there are different sizes, colors, qualities, and prices for old. Considering what has happened to me now that I am old, I assume that the price can be quite high – – in my case, extremely high.

I don’t encounter very many young people; but if I do, I certainly won’t suggest that they go looking for old. That myth about the so-called “golden years” rarely lives up to its reputation. The only gold that I associate with old is what I need to pay for daily expenses, along with all the medical bills.

Now that old has been dumped on me, I “give it the finger.” Old is shabby and not worth the price.

© 9 February 2014

About the Author

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

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ABCs of Life by Betsy

A FEW THINGS I HAVE LEARNED IN MY OLD AGE

Respect your elders–even ‘though they may become fewer and fewer in number left on this earth.

Take care of your body–no new models are available.

Make friends with and understand your ego. When it is out of control you will need to counsel it and put it in your pocket.

Take your medicine everyday and know what it is and why you are taking it.

Exercise every day.

Learn something new every day.

Think, think, think—everyday.

Never stop seeking adventure. Never stop dreaming.

Take a nap everyday even if it’s only a two minute one.

Listen–listen to the birds, listen to the wind, listen to your children–even after they have become adults.

Measure your worth and accomplishments according to your own values–not those of others.

© 2 April 2012

About the Author

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

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Bumper Stickers by Lewis

My favorite bumper sticker has long been that classic example that combines humor, existentialism, and a zinger, all in one–“If you can read this, you are following too close.”

I thought I would try to come up with a list of “The 10 Bumper Stickers I Would Like to See but Haven’t”. Here they are, in no particular order:

* I thought World War II was fought so that I wouldn’t have to eat sushi.

* Police are no more racist than the rest of us but they have a license to kill.

* Have you noticed that when a Texan says “Bible” it sounds like “Babel”?

* Boxer shorts must have been invented by a woman.

* Phones seem to be getting smarter while people are getting stupider.

* I wish the Tea Party would “bag it”.

* Over the Hillary and “Into the Woods” to Elizabeth’s house I go.

* If gays are only 2% of the population, we must possess 98% of the “fabulous”.

* If climate change is not a threat because “God is still up there”, isn’t that what Noah thought?

* And, finally, Your two-year-old knows where your gun is hidden and he’s after it.

© 5 January 2015

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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When Things Don’t Work by Will Stanton

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

8 December 2014

About the Author

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

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Endless Joy by Phillip Hoyle

The minister’s wife from the church my wife and I attended one year while going to college was a joy addict. By that I mean that she emphasized joy all the time. Her gifts featured the word joy. Her correspondence addressed the topic. Her conversation seemed always to include some idea or experience concerning her take on joy. Joy seemed to be in her every thought.

My wife loved it and took up the theme for herself. It suited her perfectly: the positive, energetic, loving Myrna. She embodied joy; still does! To this day any card she sends to the minister’s home shows up announcing JOY. The word also became for Myrna an emphasis in gifts to others, letters to anyone, even messages on her answering machine, a usage that has persisted for decades. With both women, the minister’s wife and mine (now ex-), you can assume they are talking about joy, about endless joy, and that they are living endlessly joyful.

The lovely three-letter word almost requires a smile to pronounce it. Something about the shape of the lips to make the initial sound, to form the “o,” and to end with the “e” just looks joyful, especially if one’s eyes twinkle at the same time as the utterance. JOY, like in the Noel “While by their sheep” that says of the shepherds in Luke’s nativity story, “How great their joy!” and then in an ascending scale and increasing volume repeats it three times: “Joy, joy, joy.” Just can’t get enough of this word or of the feeling it represents. While I’ve never attended sheep on a winter’s night or encountered a troop of angels who were singing “Glory to God in the highest,” I do know something of the emotion, and in my imagination it far surpasses the feelings experienced while, say, opening a surprise package from under the Christmas tree or a small box that proffers an engagement ring or even the realization that one didn’t die from the last dread disease! Joy is just plain good in my book.

I like Joy’s feeling of excitement, elevated heart rate, infectious smiles, sense of well being, and its general love of life. I hope to experience it endlessly although I may not quite have enough strength for that. Oh, do I need to define my words? I don’t believe so, but I am aware that my life has provided many, many joyful occasions. This new year I celebrate these:

Being in junior and senior plays,
Singing a solo atop the singing Christmas tree,
Going to college,
Being married to Myrna,
Rearing children in our home,
Going on choir tour,
Conducting my own choirs,
Directing a musical play,
Writing curriculum resources,
Having intense relationships with several men,
Showing and selling quite a few of my paintings,
Completing thirty years of ministry in religious education and music,
Completing fifteen years of giving massage therapy to people in pain,
Reading hundreds of books as well as writing several myself, and
Telling my story to grandkids and sages.

My life has provided almost endless joy when I take time to think about it. May these experiences continue giving me more such emotional riches like the Noel’s, “Joy, joy, joy” in ascending, crescendoing repetition.

© 6 January 2014

About the Author


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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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The Big Bang, by EyM

“I Can’t Help it, I’ve Got to Have You.” Often the only logic involved in human urges is the bio – logic. That’s not all bad. But in our inspired reactions we drape ourselves in all the culturally over loaded accouterments of urges. We acquiesce and make it ever so much more ooy, gooey with love songs, soaring music, new hair dos, extra make up, 3 sprays of perfume and so on. Expectations rise to the sky. Up and up they grow. Expectations go far beyond what any real person could ever live up to.

“It’s All Over, I’ve Got to Have You.” Oh what a thrill, THE BIG BANG, it’s the answer to all I ever wanted. I’ve never felt this way before. This is really the real it.

Until, KABOOM! Itty Bitty little twinklings of our crush, based on absolutely nothing true, gather like chopped up Christmas tinsel swept into a weary old dust pan. There it is our dream come true, match made in heaven, all piled up and ever so dull in the dust of truth.

What do we do? Learn? Oh why do that? Instead we listen to sob story music, indulge in the: oh so blues. We take on layers and layers of misery, and oh so lonely…ness. On we go, on and on we go, weeeeee go… till once again….

Onto a friendly glance, the perfect chin, some pretty eyes, the sweetest smile, or a oh so like me, we slap securely like a strong refrigerator magnet, … the soaring music, the poignant words. Up they go again, those rising expectations. “I Can’t Help It, I’ve Got to… you know, THE BIG BANG,” and of course the terrible crush crashing KABOOM.

Of course you all know that’s not all there is. Maturity at whatever age it anchors its roots into our soul soil and grows full foliage, helps us see a way to deal with hearts more than parts.

Well really, this is all so unsettled and so unsettling. What do I know about it anyway? Now the question sits once more dumped in my lap. I do know and confess: if it weren’t for a good imagination and a very long memory. I’d have no clue about a big bang.

But for the ever flowing, constant craving, awkward, human confusion, I am grateful. I guess.

© October 2014

About the Author

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