Tag: Elder Life

Posted on

Once in a Lifetime, by Betsy

There are many things I have done once in my lifetime. Which of those things has enough importance that I might want to write about it, I mused. Mistakes, I hope, are not too numerous.

Although, if they were made only once in my lifetime, at least I can say I haven’t repeated them.

I’ve had some once in a lifetime opportunities. Some of those events, adventures I have written about. Missed opportunities? Well, I guess I missed them so I don’t even know what they are.

Some important decisions are made once in a lifetime with consequences that last a lifetime.

In the category of decisions clearly THE most important with lifetime consequences was the decision to come out—that is, to come out to myself. I don’t remember actually making that choice in my head, but I’m sure that’s what took place. But trying to put my finger on exactly when that happened, I am stymied. Coming out, I realize, is not a onetime event. It is an on-going, hopefully progressive process. The once in a lifetime event was when it all came into my consciousness that I would have to make the choice to live as the person I was born to be—or not. That meant I would have to stop playing the role I had previously chosen and drastically change my lifestyle. The implications of doing this were, at the time, and I do remember the moment—the implications were quite profound and rather threatening. However the choice not to do this was no longer possible for me.

Analyzing further as to why I delayed making this choice until I had lived almost half a lifetime, it occurred to me that I never repressed my homosexual feelings. I acknowledged and accepted them from day one. I was totally conscious of my sexual feelings, and that I was attracted to those of my own sex and not those of the opposite sex. I remember every girl/woman to whom I was attracted and exactly how it felt and how it felt to want to look at, sit next to, touch, and, yes, get into bed with, and..do what lesbians do. I was very much aware of my feelings, I realize now, and I accepted them as absolutely natural. I had no guilt or feelings of revulsion. What I didn’t accept, and what I repressed for all those years was acting on those feelings.

I suppose one reason for that is that in almost every case and until I came out, the object of my desire was also unable or unwilling to reciprocate or initiate some sort of action. Had my feelings not gone unrequited, or had I been able to initiate acting on the feelings, my life may have taken a different course. That may be the number one reason I did not come out sooner.

Another reason I did not act on my feelings is that somewhere in my experience I learned that there was something taboo about expressing this oh-so-natural feeling I had. This didn’t make sense to me, but apparently held great importance—enough importance that it became my code of conduct.

Reason number three is that I also believed it might all change one day, and my feelings and attractions would somehow turn on a dime. When I met the right man, my feelings would change, and then my behavior would be in sync with my feelings.

Needless to say that change never took place even though I stayed married to the same man for 25 years. The three children were probably one reason the marriage endured.

Now that I think about it, for me at least, there’s not much that happens just once, never to have any consequences or influence or effect on future circumstances.

© 20 November 2015

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading, writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.

Posted on

An Awkward Moment, by Gillian

It was in March 2002. The new Schlessman branch of Denver Public Library had just opened a few days earlier and I was excited to pay my first visit. So, obviously, were many other people scuttling eagerly in its direction. The day that library opened, it outgrew its parking lot, so we approached from neighboring streets.We had had several days and nights of that typical Springtime thawing-and-refreezing and there were unsuspected patches of almost invisible ice hiding in the shadows. Suddenly both feet shot out from beneath me and I landed hard on my back, my head making a sickening crack against the sidewalk. Ouch! (Though I suspect I thought words other than that!)

Gathering up what was left of my dignity I scrambled to my feet, making I’m OK gestures to nearby concerned citizens. Though once upright, I wasn’t so sure. I felt a bit woozy. Hoping not to repeat one slightly awkward moment after another, I hastily sat down on the low wall edging the library parking lot. What I am referring to as awkward might be embarrassing moments for some people, but I so exercised my right to be embarrassed in my youth that I grew out of it years ago and now rarely feel that anything goes beyond awkward. But awkward moments I can sometimes excel in. In fact they tend to, with me, very like buses; nothing for a long time and then several, one right after the other.

And sure enough, here came another one. Resting my head in my hands in an attempt to ensure my equilibrium, I noticed a tickling sensation on both hands. Half-opening my eyes, it was impossible NOT to notice the steady drip of blood falling onto the sidewalk. Shit! Gently I felt the back of my head, which did not cause me any great pain but my hand came away covered in blood. Shit! Was I right in thinking I could just walk back to the car and drive home? I felt that I could. I knew Betsy was not at home, she was in Birmingham on a family visit, so there was no point in going into the library to call – not to mention the slight problem of dripping blood all over their nice shiny brand new floor.

It dawned slowly upon me that quite a crowd was gathering; a lot of concerned faces were turned in my direction. This was before the days when absolutely everyone had a cellphone, but one cute young blonde thing was waving one around, vaguely in my direction. I tried to trawl through friends and family phone-numbers I knew by heart, but my slightly fuzzy brain was unable to offer much help. A young man with a little boy by the hand said, to me and the gathering crowd, that he thought I should go the hospital. The cutie with the cell phone nodded agreement.

‘May I call an ambulance?’ she asked, politely.

I was not sure. I wanted just to go home. But maybe, I wondered, watching the blood dripping ever-faster onto the cement, I was not really thinking too clearly.

‘Really,’ another voice offered, ‘You should go the hospital. You’re bleeding badly.’

Murmured agreement rose from the onlookers.

No shit, Sherlock, I thought, ungratefully.

I hesitated. I gave in. Shit! They were the ones thinking clearly, not me.

I had never been strapped onto an ambulance gurney before. Come to that, I had never been in an ambulance before. Another cute young thing patted my arm and talked soothingly of nothings as we sped through Denver, sirens wailing. I supposed it should have been at least a little exciting, but I felt rather a fraud. My head didn’t hurt very much, and felt much clearer than it had for a minute there. Wrapped securely in some delightfully soft something, it might have still been bleeding but at least was no longer dripping on everything. I gave a mental shrug.

What the hell?

Four hours later, a disgruntled young man perched on the edge of my bed in St. Jo’s E.R.

‘It really is nothing,’ he decreed, glaring at me for wasting his valuable time, of which he had spent all of perhaps one minute with me.

‘The nurse will be back, then you can go home.’

He made me feel as if I should apologize profusely for unnecessarily occupying this prize piece of real estate in the form of a bed in Emergency.

Almost another hour later, another cute young thing appeared. There were so many of them around that day, I was starting to wonder if the knock on my head was causing me to have hallucinations – if very pleasurable ones.

‘Better safe than sorry, Honey,’ she said, agreeably, reading my mind, as she unnecessarily helped me up off the bed.

‘Sure was a lot of blood but it’s no more than a bad graze. We can’t even put a dressing on it without shaving a real lot of hair off so best just leave it. It’ll heal in it’s own time,’ she concluded, comfortingly.

Now feeling nothing but a very slight throbbing in my head, and a worse stiffness from lying in a cold room for hours, I decided I would simply walk home and evade all the logistical complications of finding someone to come and pick me up. I could get a cab, but having seen the blood-covered back of my yellow jacket and the front of gray sweatshirt, I rather doubted one would agree to take me anywhere. Anyway, the day had warmed up considerably and a walk home in the late afternoon sun would be good for me. I would go through City Park, always pleasant. At that time we lived in Park Hill, and this of course was the old St. Jo’s, so it was probably, at the most, three miles.

I had gone as far as the path around the south side of City Park Lake, where I stopped for a minute to enjoy the cormorants, sitting about as they do with their wings spread out and held up as if drying their underarms. A young woman, pushing a stroller containing a small child, jogged past me. A few yards on, she stopped. She looked back at me, hesitatingly, then turned to walk back towards me. Yet another cute young thing. I should bang my head more often.

‘Umm …. excuse me …. er ….. I guess ….. you do know that your head is bleeding?’

Oh Lord. I had forgotten all about my blood-spattered clothes. I smiled reassuringly.

‘Sorry, I forgot about the blood on my jacket.’

I apologized, meanwhile pulling said jacket closed in front and hoping she had not noticed more dried blood on my shirt. Perhaps I did look rather like an escapee from somewhere.

She said nothing more but simply looked pointedly back in the direction we had both come.

A trail of blood spattered as far as I could see. Shit! Why hadn’t I grabbed a handful of tissues before leaving the hospital?

I explained the circumstances briefly to her and, still looking skeptical and requesting several assurances that I really would get home OK, she jogged off.

I arrived safely home after only one more encounter. An older man and woman in a shiny Lincoln passed me along Montview Boulevard, pulling over to park near the library which I assumed was their destination. But no, as I walked up beside their car they both got out, faces full of concern. This time I jumped in first: an apology, a brief explanation, an assurance that my house was now only a block away. No matter, they insisted, they would take me home.

‘I … might … um …. mess up your beautiful car …..’ I offered, looking through their eyes at my bloody clothes which by now were further stained with new blood over old.

Not only would they refuse all argument but insisted, upon arrival, in walking me to my door and seeing me safely inside, where I sank exhaustedly into an armchair the moment the door closed.

Shit! Nosy people had turned what should have, would have, been a perfectly pleasant, relaxed, walk, into a series of uninvited encounters. Shit! Why didn’t people just mind their own dam business? I sat grumpily in my chair. Gingerly fingering my head I realized it had stopped bleeding. I supposed it was the walking motion that had started it off, and kept it going. My irritation lifted and I found myself smiling. People were really so very nice, I thought. And even now, when I need to remind myself of that truth, I remember that day. I don’t relive the awkwardness of some moments, but rather the caring kindness of strangers.

© December 2016

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 been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

Posted on

The Recliner, by Betsy

I do not own a recliner. In fact I never have owned one. I do not recall ever having one in our house when I was growing up. So I cannot say I really miss having a recliner. But I cannot say I never sit in one either because I have utilized certain recliners throughout my life. At this time in my life I find myself in one twice a year on a rather consistent basis.

I have always been conscientious about taking care of my teeth. Early in life my parents made me do that. So I guess I developed a good habit then which I continued into adulthood.

As a child my visits to the dentist were frequent. Like most children I dreaded them. I regarded them as trips to the torture chamber. The day my baby teeth were all gone and my permanent teeth were in place, my dental problems began and so too my frequent visits to the torture chamber began.

I was never offered the option of fluoride to protect my teeth which teeth were above average in their propensity to decay. In the 1940’s when fluoridation of water was first introduced, it was from the start controversial. In the 1950’s and 60’s fluoridation of the public water supply was regarded by some as a communist plot to undermine the health of the people of the United States. This belief had been especially entrenched on the east coast where I lived. Consequently it was not until I was about 60 years old then I had my first fluoride treatment.

By then, however, I had had most of my molars drilled out to nubbins and filled with amalgam which lasts about 40-50 years. When I came to Colorado in1970 and had my first appointment, every new dentist I had said the same thing. “Now open please. Ohhhh, hmmmm, I see you’re from the east coast. Your teeth seem to be in good repair—mostly repair.” Well, my fillings had been there for 40-50 years and they were beginning to crumble.

Fortunately I had a wonderful dentist when I was in my 50’s and 60’s. I had a good job which provided some kind of dental insurance. My dentist said to me, “ We have to replace all your repaired teeth with crowns.” That meant almost all my molars needed crowns. It took about ten years to accomplish that. It got so that every visit to the dentist when I walked in the door the staff would announce , “Betsy’s here for another coronation!” Dr. Jones said to me once, “I only know one other person who has more crowns in her mouth than you, and that’s my wife.” Anyway those crowns are still serving me well today. I would love to have some of the glue they use to glue them on. Wow, what a glue that is—really strong and never dries out.

They say you can’t remember pain. Maybe you can’t recreate it, but I sure can remember it was painful in that early torture chamber. That was before they used novocain. And the drill was so very slow. Dr Bienville, my childhood dentist, was not my favorite person. He would hold the drill in his hand and say, “This won’t hurt.” I knew good and well it would hurt. The instant the torture devise touched my tooth the nerve would send a searing hot pain down my arm to the ends of my fingernails or leg and toenails depending on the tooth being drilled. Yes, it was torture. And it would go on for what seemed like hours.

My teenage dentist was not much better. By then we had novocain and once that was very painfully injected into my gum, I knew there was a God. Mercifully, no pain while drilling.

Getting the injection was painful, the needles were huge, but the pain of the needle didn’t endure for hours like the drilling.

Dr. Young, however, had other means of causing discomfort. He, not so young, loved young women. He was always trying to wipe his hands on my bib, right in the area of……..well you can guess. Yes, he did that. I had been warned about this by my friends, and didn’t think he would try it on me, but sure enough, he did. From then on, I took to sitting with my arms crossed over my chest when his hands were free. He got the message and probably worried that I might tell my mother.

Today I really don’t mind going to the dentist. His cute young always female assistants do all the work and they are gentle and friendly chatting away as I sit there unable to form a word in reply.

I have to say I am a bit intimidated by the exam which entails her probing the edges of my gums and announcing a number from 1-5 depending on how bad the gap between my tooth and the gum is. A quick probe and the number is announced and recorded. I dread hearing “3” as that’s a bad score for any tooth. Several fours and I know I’m in trouble. I always feel like I’m on trial when they do that exam. Will I pass, or will I get scolded for not flossing enough. Flossing, they say, is essential for healthy gums. I must say their strategy is effective. I find myself flossing all the time so I’ll get a good score. They know I like to compete even against my own gums. It works.

Over my lifetime I have not just observed—I have experienced huge strides in the practice of dentistry. A clear journey from the torture chamber to the recliner and pain free application of new techniques and preventive treatments.

I also realize I have been one of the fortunate ones. Even though my teeth were prone to decay easily, I have lived a long life with the same teeth, at least the roots. And the bad parts have been repaired and replaced so that I enjoy a healthy mouthful of efficient chewing machines. This is something for which I am very grateful. Had I not had any dental care I know I would not have any teeth—at least not my own—and along with that I would be having chronic problems with my mouth and who knows, probably problems with my overall health as lack of dental care can cause many general health problems.

So thank you, thank you to all my dentists and their cute young technicians in whose recliners in which I have been fortunate enough to lie.

© 3 February 2017

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading, writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.

Posted on

Cool, by Gillian

Back
in the hippie days, when it was cool to be cool, I was not cool. The cool years
found me married – not cool, too traditional: raising four step-children – not
particularly cool: working endless overtime hours – certainly not cool,
for a major international corporation – just about as uncool as you
could get.
No.
I completely missed out on cool. Or it missed me.
The
only time I remember anyone using the adjective about me was some incident when
I came upon my oldest step-son and some buddies in the throes of one of his
many transgressions, they were so numerous and varied that I don’t recall
exactly what he was into that particular time. But I do remember him shrugging
and saying to his companions, “It’s OK. Gill’s cool.”
By
which he meant, of course, that I was not going to go off into some
unfathomable (at least to him) rage over the smoking or drinking or sex or
whatever it was; most likely all three and then some. That was exactly what his
father would have done, whereas I would prefer to attempt a calm discussion. By
comparison I guess I was pretty cool. But that was a slightly different use of
the expression. I was never to be a cool dude or a cool cat.
These
days, the term seems to have made a comeback – rather too much of one as it
pops up incessantly. One particular example has rather amused me. I have been
asked a few times recently, what Betsy’s relationship is to me. (As I very
recently went on a bit of a rave about this very topic I won’t say much here,
but honestly! Of what significance is the exact nature of our relationship to a
window salesperson and a colonoscopy receptionist??) Where was I? Oh yeah.  When I reply that Betsy is my spouse the
response seems inevitably to be, ‘cool!’ which I find unobjectionable but
nevertheless a little odd. When I was with a man and had some cause to state
that he was my husband, no-one ever found that to be cool. But I mulled it over
and decided it was rather sweet. People feel the need to say something positive
in response. OK. Cool.
But
then, when this topic came up for today, I realized that actually I had very
little knowledge of what it is supposed to mean, these days. I turned to
urbandictionary.com which informed me that cool is, among other things,
and I quote, ‘… a word to say when you don’t know what else to say …..’
And
that, in my book, if you’re talking about my marriage, is pretty un-damn-cool!
© 16 May 2016 
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 been with
my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years. We have been married since 2013.
Posted on

Sad but True, by Gillian

It is undeniably true, and equally undeniably sad, that selfish, inconsiderate, people keep insisting upon dying; often at very inconvenient times and in equally inconvenient places. Often they don’t even bother giving me any warning; which actually is of no consequence because, when I do have some presentiment of bad behavior on their part and sternly insist that they mend their ways, do they pay attention? No! They just pop their clogs, topple off their perches, in total disregard of my needs and wants.

Now, most of these people are old enough to know better. They must know that I, at a similar age, am too old to deal with emotional upheavals. Bad things just keep getting harder to deal with. So, do they cease and desist from such things? Far from it. In fact old friends insist on dying with ever-increasing frequency.

Take just last week. Nancy, the chef from Betsy’s cross-country bike trip, died unexpectedly. She was not only cook and bottle-washer, but she also rode her bike, along with the others. So her death was almost a double whammy: the loss of Nan the cook, and Nancy, the co-rider. She was also the first of the group to die, so that hit everyone very hard. I mean, just how inconsiderate is that? She was a perfectionist, and very competitive, so I guess she just had to be #1. (Actually, that whole group was made up of some very competitive people, so in a way it would not have been surprising if they’d chased each other right into the arms of that old Grim Reaper, like lemmings going over the cliffs.) But no, in the event, Nancy had to be first.

On top of that she was only 68, abandoning ship early, leaving old souls like Betsy to pedal on.

In a final act of selfishness, she had to go and die in some remote half-a-horse Wyoming town in the middle of winter. Whoa! How’s that for heaping it on? Just because she fell in love with this Wyoming rancher, just because she wanted to live on his remote ranch, just because she adored the midst of nowhere, we had to traverse the sleet and snow of Windy Wyoming on bitterly cold February days. Huh!

—————–

With that, I guess my attempt at some kind of dark humor has fizzled out. I suppose I had to try it as the only way, at this particular moment, to deal with the sad but true fact that as we age we lose so many friends; faster and faster they fall. All the tired old platitudes, such as death is just a part of life, offer me nothing, though I do try to remind myself constantly that in fact I am very fortunate: in order to lose so many friends you first have to have so many friends. Still, I hate that feeling of always waiting for another shoe to drop, dreading who will be next. Then, one day, I shall be the one who is next. Sad but true.

© February 2016

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 been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

Posted on

Exploring, by Lewis

Lately, I’ve been going
through my late husband’s copious writings–journals, love letters, poems, or,
simply, musings.  For me, it feels much
like returning home after a long, long absence and walking through old neighborhoods.  There are places and features of the
landscape that are fresh in my memory, some that were dusty but are now bright
with color, and others that I perhaps never noticed or had long-faded from
memory.  There are faces and names that
have been obscured by time that his handwriting has brought to new life, as if
I were meeting them for the first time.
His love letters are
truly amazing—full of exultation for the joy of our early, fumbling trysts and
his excitement at our impending life together as a couple.  He was Romeo, Don Quixote, and Don Knotts all
putting pen to paper on the same page. 
When I read them, it is like looking down a tunnel of love from the
wrong end, a 14-year-long journey of discovery that ends, not upon emerging at
last into the light of day, but–as all enduring love stories do—when, at long
last, death does us part.  It is not an
experience that thrills so much as sobers, more like lime sorbet than orange
sherbet.  Yet, I spend every spare moment
in the doing of it.  It is an exploration
that, unlike that for a lost gold mine, keeps yielding the bittersweet nuggets
of treasured memory.
© 29 April 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

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.

Posted on

A Picture to Remember, by Ricky

While researching my mind and previous stories, I found one where I described how I would ponder many unusual concepts, ideas, or things in general and then ask “off the wall” questions about those subjects. Last week or so, I had another episode of that behavior and will share it will you.

Can you picture this?

What would a pipe organ sound like if it were tuned to the Oriental music scale?

Try and picture this.

Why are butterflies not called flutter-byes which would be more descriptive?

Last Wednesday, Donald and I went to the Butterfly Museum as neither of us had been there before. We both found it very interesting. At one point, a butterfly landed on Donald’s head and rested for awhile. 

Not long after, one landed on the front of my right thigh and stayed for a respectful amount time before flying off.

We stayed to see the release of newly hatched butterflies into the habitat. A young boy carefully and slowly walked by into the release area while we waited. What was remarkable about the boy was the large butterfly perched on his shoulder. I was getting my camera ready to take a photo and when the boy noticed, he turned and posed for the picture.  

When it was time for the release, a docent described each butterfly as she released one of each of the different types. When she released a swallow-tail butterfly, it flew in a beeline straight for me and landed on the front of my left thigh. This one was in no hurry to leave and actually overstayed its welcome.

For about 10 minutes, I alternated between standing and walking about the habitat providing free transportation to my getting to be unwelcome guest. Donald and I finally arrived at a small gazebo with two benches. We sat down to rest and the butterfly still clung to my leg showing no intention of leaving. At last I tried to get it to leave my leg by offering my finger and the creature moved to my finger.

After a short passage of time, we transferred it to one of Donald’s fingers

and then to a nearby leaf where it stayed while Donald and I left.

The photos I took will help me remember this event well into the future.

Photos by the author

© 13 April 2015
About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

Posted on

Death in Utopia by Gillian

When I rule the world, we will all have a sane, legal, choice of death’s time and place. Not everyone will make their own choice, but for those who wish to, it will be available.

Why must people be faced with detestable choices when they find themselves, for whatever reason, at the end of their rope? Blow your brains out and leave them all over the wall for loved ones to clean up. Die in a dirty stinking ally from a purposeful O.D. of drugs and/or alcohol. Drive your car off a cliff and leave others to identify the charred remains. Get in the bathtub and slit your wrists; only perhaps you don’t do it just right, or perhaps some well-meaning friend comes along and finds you too soon, so you’re left to struggle on with your disastrous life or try it again.

Why must those who chose the time of their passing, and those who love them, be forced into such indignity?

What do so many old people worry about?

Outliving their money. Outliving the effectiveness of their minds or bodies or both.

So why not remove those worries? If we outlive anything, and chose to go, we can. With dignity and serenity.

When I rule the world, there will be The Utopia Center available to you. It will be very much along the lines of Hospice, but with certain key differences. You check in to a pleasant, quiet room, and nothing can happen for 24 hours. It seems to me that a certain time to reconsider should be mandatory. At the appointed time, if you have had no change of heart, the end process is put in motion. If you wish to have loved ones with you, they can be there. If you prefer to be alone, it’s OK. They have a choice of CDs with music for you to play if you wish, or perhaps you choose to bring a favorite of your own. You lie peacefully on the bed and are gently administered some drug cocktail which will carry you painlessly away. I know Switzerland has something similar, but you have to have two doctors determine that you are terminal with some awful disease, or something like that. Why? Why can’t I simply say, I’ve had enough. For whatever reason. I’m ready to go. I shouldn’t have to explain or apologize. It’s my life; now I’m ready for my death.

What worries a place, a process, like that would relieve us of, would it not? Oh I know I am portraying a very simplified version. There would of course need to be controls re: coercion, undue influence, minors and third parties, to name but a few. But we could do it. But we never will. Religion, alas stands firmly between us and my sincerely held vision of Utopia, or at least one aspect of it. I fear it always will.

October 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

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.