Tag: Elder Life

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House Cleaning by Ray S

The inspiration or need to excavate some 80 years worth of one time essential acquisitions long since forgotten in their deep dark hiding places–under the basement stairs, the long forgotten coal bin, through the trapdoor to the spidery crawl space. You know what I mean. Out of sight, out of mind.

Why start? It’s just a never ending task with so many unknown challenges and memories to be confronted with. You set out to clean up the mess, sort out the savers, discard that which you cannot even remember where it came from, or was it even yours?

Because of a faint flicker of conscience fighting its way to the fore, guilt is the reward for the slacker so get on with it, you haven’t got all day or forever for that matter. The voice of conscience and virtue spurs you on to…let’s start at the top this time–it’s too dark and moldy in the nether regions.

Open the stairway door to the third floor, with trash can, broom, dust pan, and flash light it is an all out attack on the ancient history–stocked, stored, and discarded of 107 Bloomingbank Road. Watch out sleeping dreams of long ago, ghosts of growing and growing older, forbidden and forgotten memories. You’re about to be rousted out of your dusty but cozy shoe boxes, photo albums, school year books filled with pictures of people you can’t recall or one’s you yearned to know well or more intimately.

O M! There’s a picture of gorgeous Ian McCullum. I was in love with him before I even knew about same sex love, or was it lust? Anyway he asked me to be his partner in an Apache dance skit for the senior hight talent night. I couldn’t believe it. He’d been pleasant enough at school, but we weren’t pals. The truth will out. As his partner, I had to appear in black satin pajamas and flowing scarf topped off with a feathered turbin. You can guess where this was going….

After the show ended so did my infatuation primarily because Ian liked girls better than apprentice fags. So much for the 1943 year book.

Wonder if this box of 78 RPM’s would bring anything at collector’s row? Probably Value Village would turn them down. Oh well, let’s move on. Now, look at this all wrapped up in newspaper–the Chicago Tribune, June, 1941–the old and cherished Lionel steam locomotive, all that remains of your train board that you received on an earlier Christmas 1938 which was immediately commandeered by your older brother and dad. But it’s the thought that counts and you did get a tunnel and train station the next year.

Here’s a box of letters to the family when I was going to be an Air Corps hero. If naivete was a qualification for the Army Air Corp, I was overly qualified. After the Army’s foregone decision that washed out all of the cadet squadron, the men (all 18 year olds) moved on the many and varied military positions: guard duty, kitchen police, butt control, and, if you’re lucky, a corner in the squad room.

In the process of pursuing weekend passes and R&R the more important (depending on your point of view) aspects of emerging male on male associations had taken a particular precedence over sporting events and cultural pursuits; such as, the grand old hotel in Richmond that hosted a military gang bang in room 769. Talk about advanced education opportunities.

Look at this–an old post card post marked Chicago, Ill. from dear sweet Tom the warrant office that made my acquaintance on the bus returning to the Air Force Base from D.C. Just enough time to establish the fact that maybe he could find a place for me in his office. Gee, I wish I’d kept in touch after we got our Ruptured Ducks, but he was married anyway and I didn’t know about the subtleties of being BI.

More fodder for the trash bag of years gone by–some misspent, some not–one can only judge from the long view back. Housecleaning, as I told you, can be a never- ending chore that sometimes can only be concluded by one of two situations: the house burns down or you stop reading those letters and breathing.

About the Author

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Time by Merlyn

Time is still on my side and I try to live it without any fear of what comes next.

I believe that only thing that really matters for any human being is the time they spend on this earth and how they use it.

When my time is up and my life is over I know there will be a feeling of peace and understanding and acceptance of that ever comes next.

My first wife died three years ago along with most of my close friends from the first part of life. I have been lucky. I have never had anyone die that I was close to while they were still a part of my life. They just ran out of time.

Last Thursday a stock car racer I knew by the name of Dick Trickle, age seventy-one, died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound in a N.C., cemetery.

Trickle’s family said he had been suffering from pain that doctors couldn’t diagnose or stop, and that led him to commit suicide.

Dick Trickle was one of the best short-track drivers who ever lived, he won over a 1,000 races on small local tracks before he started racing in NASCAR at 48 years old an age when most drivers are thinking about retiring.

Trickle had a working cigarette lighter in every race car he drove so he could light up during the caution laps.
I will always remember sitting in a little restaurant and talking to Trickle outside a race track sometime in the 90s.
He was fighting a hangover holding a cup of coffee in one hand, smoking a cigarette and laughing about the party he had been to last night.

He drove out the cemetery that he wanted to be buried in called the cops and told them where to find his body, walked a little ways from his truck so no one had to deal with cleaning anything up, and he moved on.

He knew when his time was up and I know he ended his life without any fear of what comes next. That’s how he lived life when time was still on his side.

Time is still on my side and until the day that changes I plan on enjoying it.

About the Author

I’m a retired gay man now living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for the unusual and enjoying life each day.

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No Good Will Come of It by Michael King


I don’t
think that statement, title or subject is true. My philosophy is very
different. I think that given the really, really big picture that good comes
from all things, all disasters, all terrorist activities to name enough to get
a few raised eyebrows and a few smirks. In all the happenings including the
most horrific, there will be those whose lives will have been changed or redirected
thus having the potential to influence others with the growth promotion and
maturity that comes with life changing experiences. Good has a way of
accompanying all experience. Humans can profit from others’ experiences.
Now from a
narrow perspective, as the mortals on this planet have such a long way to go to
actualize the idealism that might resemble the potentials of a perfect world,
we see evil and iniquity, graft and corruption, lies and propaganda, dirty
politics and corrupt corporations, vice and prejudice, hatred and subjugation;
I could go on. From this perspective there is great difficulty to see where
good can or will come of these kinds of effects on people’s lives.
We seem to
think that the victims of this world are deprived of something. They are,
however in the larger picture, there is only good. There is only the eventual
achievement of perfection.
And I will
define the perfection that I am talking about. I was an art therapist at a
residential treatment center for asthmatics and had as many as 110 kids doing
arts and crafts at any given time. One day the kids were working with clay,
this is probably the best therapeutic tools for hand-eye coordination an area
where many asthmatics as children didn’t develop as other kids did. In child
development in which I had much training, this deficiency is very common with
childhood asthma.  Using clay to create
an image of one’s desire is the challenge. 
This was a very successful program of which I am very proud. The results
were life changing for those residents. As I observed a room full of kids
working with clay to achieve an imagined result there was total silence. I saw
that every child was in a state of perfection relative to his or her ability
and capability to visualize and each of them was totally focused on the desired
result. That was a moment that brought about a major revelation in my life.
Perfection is relative.
I know that
it may take an eternity to understand that there is only good, only truth, only
love, only beauty, therefore as we have a challenging experience or see the reports
of disasters, etc. I have to see that in the long run eventually only good
exists and only for the growth potential that is the purpose of all experience.

So you now
see why only good will comes of it. I am not without having had numerous
disastrous and greatly challenging experiences. I only see the goodness, the
truth, the beauty and the superficial ugliness around me. I see those who
struggle without hope. You see reports of disasters on almost a daily
basis.  No good will come of it is a
pessimistic and unrealistic way to look at things when a much higher and more
optimistic opportunity is staring us in our face. I now have only good in my
life. Where I came from was quite the opposite and so were my confused
beliefs.  Previously I never thought any
good would come out of it when I was totally devastated. That happens but it is
always temporary. Right now is the opportunity to be the most positive and to
claim superb self-respect, the secret of maturity, happiness and maturation. In
all situations good will always come of it, we need only to view from that
perspective and develop that outlook. Our experiences will then have a depth
and meaning that expands our consciousness, enrichens our lives and gives
meaning to existence. 
© 6 May 2013

About the Author


I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities,” Telling your Story”,” Men’s Coffee” and the “Open Art Studio”. I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.


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Memorials by Merlyn

My life has been a series of what
I think of as turning the page, leaving the past behind and moving up to a new
level trying to learn more about life and how to be a better person.
The people I left behind were
and always will be a part of my life. I do hold a special place in my heart for
them and the time we shared together. I realize that they are not part of my
life now and would not even know the person that I’m today.
My way of keeping memorials
has been to make a word document, paste whatever I found out on line about
someone from my past and how and when they died, into a doc and saving it in a
folder called old docs with their name on it.
The last time I talked to my
Mother was in 1965, It was during one of the only times that I ever really needed
help, I talked to her and she told me I was on my own.  A year later when she called me  and told me she wanted me come over and fix
her car I told her no and she let me know if I did not come over right now I
would never be welcome again. I hung up. And I turned the page.
In 1996 I got on line and
looked up my father he died in 93 and is buried in a veteran’s cemetery near
Detroit. I did not go there the last time I was in Michigan.
When I looked up my mother the
only thing I able to find out was on a state of Michigan’s web site that said
the state was holding money from a life insurance policy waiting for someone to
claim it. She died in 1995. There were eight kids in my family and the last
time I checked no one had claimed it. That money would not bring anything good
into my life.
Bobby G was a friend of mine
He is the only friend that was still a part of my life when they died. I met
bobby on line on a men s social web site. He introduced me to Michael at a
coffee shop on a Monday morning when I was passing though Denver a year and a
half ago.
My way of saying goodbye to Bobby
was going on line, reading his profile and sending him a short message even
though I know no one will ever read it. I copied his profile, pasted it into
word and put it into my old docs folder. My message and his account will be
deleted after 90 days of inactively from the web site. But I have his Memorial.
Bobby left a will; he had a
lot of stuff that he wanted to give to his friends.
After his memorial service, his
son opened his apartment for people to come over and take anything they wanted.
Michael wanted a statue of two naked men wrestling. I was not going to take
anything. Bobbie’s son let us in and told us to please take anything we wanted.
Anything left was going to go to the goodwill.
I had been shopping for a new
vacuum cleaner the day before and right next to the front door was a newer yellow
vacuum cleaner. For the first time in my life it felt like it would be OK to
take something from someone who died. I know Bobby would be happy if he knew that
I had it. I will never see it or use it without thinking about him. It reminds
me that the people that really knew who Bobby was are better people today
because of him.
© 28 January 2013

About the Author

I’m a retired gay man now living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for the unusual and enjoying life each day.

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Weather by Colin Dale

Just before leaving home, for the fun of it, I checked the temperature in Elsinore, Denmark. The castle in Elsinore, you recall, was Hamlet’s stamping ground. Well, at 1 PM our time, or 9 PM Denmark time, the temperature in the courtyard of Hamlet’s old castle was 9 degrees Celsius, or a comfortable 48 degrees Fahrenheit. That’s about right for a Danish evening in June. Which makes me wonder if Hamlet ever had to put up with a string of super hot days like we’re having here in Denver.

Yet it was Hamlet who said, ” . . . there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”

I grew up in the Land of Ouch! I grew up in the Land of Ouch! and it has made me the man I am today, for better or worse. My mother and father were perpetual sufferers. They lived afflicted by demons, imagined, or if not imagined, then at least fed and made fat by my parents everyday fears. Now, before I say another deprecating word about my parents, let me say that I’m now old enough to once again respect and love them. I’m old enough to have made it through those long middle years when it’s common and, in fact, expected to loathe one’s parents. I see them now as the long-suffering strivers they were.

But long-suffering is the operant phrase. Long-suffer they did, and cry Ouch! at the most unexpected of times and at the most inconsequential of bad moments. As a kid growing up around my mother and father, I grew conditioned to vaulting from my room at all hours at the sound of Ouch! Or Damn! Or This is killing me! What I’d find arriving at the ambush site, time after time, was my mother or my father looking helplessly at a dropped slice of toast, or a slightly larger-than-usual phone bill, or a tabloid story of a crime wave happening a hundred miles away. I continued my Pavlovian response to my parents’ homicidal demons until my breakaway moment when, at 21, I allowed myself to be drawn, pretend-kicking, into the Army.

What, you have every right to ask, does all this have to do with weather? I’ll admit there’s some connecting called for here. To do that, I have to introduce what I call the Curmudgeon’s Bill of Rights . . .

The Curmudgeon’s Bill of Rights is a catalogue of entitlements earned when someone has lived at least three score years. You can tell if someone is invoking his Curmudgeon rights when he (or she) starts by saying, “When I was growing up, people didn’t [fill in the blank],” or “You’ll find out when you’re my age that [fill in the blank],” or “People today have no respect for [fill in the blank],” or some other clue of curmudgeondom.

But so far, you’re thinking, you’ve only told us about the weather in Denmark. True, but I’m getting close.

There’s yet another right, available to curmudgeons but rarely invoked–Clause 11.4–and that is to debunk anything said under the Curmudgeon Bill of Rights. Or, for that matter, to debunk anything said by anybody, no matter his or her age–any Ouch! or Damn! or This is killing me! said under the First Amendment.

Confession time: I subscribed to Clause 11.4–the debunking the debunking clause–of the Curmudgeon Bill of Rights long before I was eligible–soon after I left home, in fact, eager to escape the Land of Perpetual Complaining I’d grown up in.

And now, the long-awaited convergence: weather, with everything else . . .

I am tired of hearing people complain about the weather. Now, I’m not talking about people who are genuinely suffering, ill, or living in really stuffy, airless houses. No, their misery is real. I’m talking about 90% of the people I meet every day, my friends and neighbors, who seem to take perverse pleasure in kvetching endlessly about the heat. When I hear from these people–“Oh, this heat is killing me,” or “I’ve never been so miserable,” or “When will this hot weather end?”–all I hear, from my childhood, is Ouch! or Damn! After all, none of my friends or neighbors–ages young to curmudgeon–is hammering up plywood sheets against a Katrina or praying Godspeed! for a fishing crew lost in a Perfect Storm. For my reasonably healthy friends and neighbors it is merely hot. Stinking hot, yes, I’ll admit, it is stinking hot. But, for these reasonably healthy people, it’s not lethally hot. Or toxically hot. Or death-dealingly hot. For my friends and neighbors who, for the most part, go from one air-conditioned bubble to another, only occasionally sampling the real world, these temps in the 90’s and low 100’s are hardly going to make the black camel kneel down. They’ll survive this, my pampered friends and neighbors, to kvetch–a very few months from now–about the winter: “This cold is killing me!” or “I hate the ice!” or “Don’t we have enough snow already?”

I began by saying that growing up in the Land of Ouch! made me the man I am today. My impatience with the hale & hearty and their relentless complaining about the hot weather is neither right nor wrong. It’s just how it is. And who I am. It’s me invoking Clause 11.4: my debunking the debunker’s right.

Now, some of you are probably ready to hit me with That’s easy for you to say! In my defense, I’ll admit I feel this heat as much as any of you. I walk most everywhere. I drive with the air-conditioner off. I live in an un-air-conditioned house which, now that I’m retired, I’m in 24/7.

Okay, I’m done kvetching about spoiled kevetchers. I’ll back off my molly-coddled friends and neighbor and let them get back to complaining about the weather and everything else that simply is.

I do, though, apologize to anyone here who might be ticked off by my rant against Ouch! What I would do, if I’ve ticked off anyone, is encourage you to say To hell! with what I’ve said–which is your right–if you’re old enough–under the Curmudgeon’s Bill of Rights: another rarely invoked clause (Clause 17.7): to say To hell! with even my self-righteous complaining, otherwise known as the debunking of the debunking of the debunking clause.

Remember Hamlet, the guy who said, ” . . . there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so”?

Well, I’m realistic enough to think even Hamlet, after a few weeks of temps in the 90’s and low 100’s, in his starched ruff, brocade doublet, and wool pumpkin pants, would have said, “All the thinking in the world won’t help, not when it’s this freakin’ hot!”

© 9 August 2012


About the Author

Colin Dale couldn’t be happier to be involved again at the Center. Nearly three decades ago, Colin was both a volunteer and board member with the old Gay and Lesbian Community Center. Then and since he has been an actor and director in Colorado regional theatre. Old enough to report his many stage roles as “countless,” Colin lists among his favorite Sir Bonington in The Doctor’s Dilemma at Germinal Stage, George in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Colonel Kincaid in The Oldest Living Graduate, both at RiverTree Theatre, Ralph Nickleby in The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby with Compass Theatre, and most recently, Grandfather in Ragtime at the Arvada Center. For the past 17 years, Colin worked as an actor and administrator with Boulder’s Colorado Shakespeare Festival. Largely retired from acting, Colin has shifted his creative energies to writing–plays, travel, and memoir.

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The Interview by Betsy

“So, Betsy, what makes you think that
your soul should be allowed to move forward and take residence in a higher
creature, a creature better than yourself?”
“The application for elevation of my
soul that you sent me says I must demonstrate that I have made a supreme effort
to be honest, trustworthy, loving to my partner and family and friends, and
sensitive to the feelings of others.   It
may have taken me a lifetime, but I am quite confident I have done this and that
I qualify for elevation.   And the effort
has continued throughout my life.  I try
to be loving to people I am close to. 
Sometimes I do get wrapped up in my own activities and I forget to be
considerate to my partner, but mostly I am loving and I do try. 
“I have been conscientious about following
the rules.  Actually, I did follow the
rules early in life.  I suppose they were
my parent’s rules; but when I became an adult I realized the rules were
different depending on who made them.  I
mean, I was married to a man because I heard that marriage is only between a
man and a woman.  But then, I learned
that that rule wasn’t the truth.  And I
tried to follow the guidance of my soul. 
Yes, I did have to hurt the man I married, but he got over it and is
better off for it now.  The important
thing is it was not my intention to hurt him. 
“I’ve always tried to be as honest as I
possibly can.  Yes, I know. I Iied to my
parents about eating the candy before dinner and well, yes, I know, about
having to be sent to the cloakroom that time in the third grade, and about not
doing my homework, but that was just once; and that was before I understood
that I have a soul and that I have an ego that can lead me astray when I am not
paying attention.  And punishment is so
hard on my ego.
“The application also says I must show
that I have made a positive contribution to society during my lifetime.  I bore and raised three children. I am rather
counting on them to make significant contributions to the world. They are smarter
than I, and they work hard.” 
“Well, Betsy, I do believe we can put
you on the short list, but the committee will have to make the final
consideration as to the direction your soul will take.  In the meantime, we recommend you do your
best to follow the straight and narrow. Actually, in your case forget the
straight, but keep that ego in check. 
After all, it’s only an ego.  It
has nothing really to do with your soul. 
You wouldn’t want to sabotage your soul for all time just for the sake
of your silly ego which is a temporary thing. 
Remember, you still have a bit of road to travel before the final
judgement is made.  We’ll get back to you
then.”
©
16 July 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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House Cleaning by Merlyn

I did a mayor house cleaning 2 years ago when I left Portland. Almost everything that I hadn’t used in the three years before I left Portland I sold or gave away.

I live in a small studio apartment that’s easy to keep clean. I have a place for everything and don’t keep things I don’t need.

I can fix a whole meal and only have two or three things dirty that I wash right after we eat so there’s never anything dirty in the kitchen sink.

I use one coffee cup for coffee, tea and water and one wine glass.

I have never cared much about fashion; I wear something until it is dirty and then put it in the dirty clothes basket. So there’s never a pile of clothes that were only worn for an hour or so on the back of a chair.

I like a clean house. When something needs to be cleaned I clean it, but I don’t get carried away house cleaning.

About the Author

I’m a retired gay man now living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for the unusual and enjoying life each day.

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Communications by Phillip Hoyle

Communications involve much more than words, a fact that to me seems especially true of communications made in the context of love, sex, and romance. In those contexts I feel uncertain what anyone is communicating to me. Why? Perhaps because I live too much in my own world. Perhaps I don’t hear anything except the words. Perhaps I just don’t get the emotional content of things said. Perhaps I didn’t get to practice love talk as a teen because I didn’t feel impelled toward girls and assumed boys were not interested. Perhaps I just cut off any expectation of falling in love so as to keep from getting hurt. Perhaps I married too young. I really cannot settle on any of these possibilities. 

A psychiatrist challenged my over use of ‘perhaps’ and ‘maybe.’ He would say, “There you go again, waffling. Just tell me. Make up your mind.” That’s a problem. In my own defense I could have appealed to my scores on the Myers-Briggs inventory with its use of Jung’s conscious ego states (I was a strong perceiver and weak judge), but then maybe the psychiatrist wasn’t interested in Jung! Setting that aside, I will try to make a synthesis of these ideas—all my perhapses—and that synthesis begins with a story.

When I was in my mid-forties living in Albuquerque, Teresa, a pastoral counselor, attended the same interdenominational clergy support group I did even though she was not clergy. I liked that for I had always thought the clergy/lay distinction rather meaningless given my background. It seemed good to have present in the group the experience and perspective of someone not trained so thoroughly in theology and congregational life. Pastoral counseling is a category of psychotherapy alongside, for instance, family-systems counseling and other specialties. In addition to psychotherapeutic techniques used in other approaches, Pastoral counseling employs spiritual and religious themes as they seem appropriate to the counselor and counselee. (I say this to be as precise as possible.) Pastoral counselors offer pastors and parishes a referral resource for cases that go beyond the training of local parish pastors.

I liked Teresa. She liked me. When my high-school age daughter needed support in a particularly tough time, I asked Teresa if she’d be her counselor for about two months. Teresa told me it was not her practice to work with children of colleagues, but she trusted me and agreed to talk with my daughter. They met on two or three occasions and helped pave the way for Desma’s decisions to be successful. Teresa told me how impressed she was with my daughter.

Some months later Teresa opened up to me about her frustrations with work. We developed a caring and trusting relationship in which our communications always interlaced mutual respect and humor. She asked me about how I dealt with the dynamics of being an associate minister. I saw she needed help thinking through how to deal with some kind of power inequity in her own work. We talked informally over several weeks as she met whatever was her current crisis. Then she told me, “Phillip, you’re the best defended man I’ve ever known.”

I really didn’t know what she was saying to me but decided to take it as a compliment. After all she had said ‘best,’ and mom had taught me to say ‘thank you’ to compliments, even those I thought I didn’t earn or didn’t quite understand. For years I mulled over Teresa’s evaluation. I knew she was an astute observer of human behavior. I knew she took a woman-oriented point of view. I knew she followed current trends in psychoanalytic perspective. I knew she was kind. So I accepted her comment as I tried to understand its insight in order to better understand the dynamics it could reveal both in my personality and in my work relationships.

My musings eventually went far beyond work and landed me back at the point in my teen years when I must have been feeling the juices of sexual yearning churning in my system. I had watched my older sisters fall in love with guys and get hurt over it. I reasoned if you didn’t fall in love, you wouldn’t get hurt. I have no memory that my homosexual proclivity entered into my reasoning. I simply wasn’t interested in being hurt. I liked both boys and girls. I got hard-ons over both girls and boys. I liked both a lot. I decided that was okay, of course, even quite enjoyable. I dated girls. I sometimes had sex with a boy. I kept busy with music, studies, art, reading, various church and school groups, and my part-time work at the grocery store. I took care of the lawn at home. I was a nice kid who fit in well. I lived into my life. I defended myself from love’s potential pain.

When from my old age perspective I look most searchingly at my young self, I realize that probably something homosexual was at play, but it was deeply submerged. I liked the same boy who broke my sister’s heart, but I didn’t want the hurt she experienced. I wasn’t able to picture a social price for being gay because I couldn’t imagine two guys living together into adulthood. I pushed down what I didn’t even know. I feel fortunate my parents had not taught me guilt feelings or self-loathing. Those would have been destructive. As a teenager trying to figure out life and desire, I took my practical approach and set aside the potential of same-sex love. My defenses were sure and served me well. I didn’t reject my interest in other guys, just watched it. I enjoyed the feelings but didn’t pursue them into any kind of institutional form.

When I was twenty-one, I married a fine woman. When I was thirty, I fell in love with a nice man. I saw what was happening and was thrilled to my toes with the feelings. Eventually an affair began. It was controlled by distance and the uneven needs of my buddy. Some fifteen years later, our on and off occasional contact was not sufficient for me. I wanted to simplify my life, to find something that seemed more natural. Teresa’s comment which was made at around that time may have helped facilitate my changes. I opened myself to more feelings and to acting on them with people who lived nearby. Of course, it was a costly decision that ripped apart the stability of my life. I found thrills, but some twenty years later, even with all my new experiences in love, I still don’t catch onto the emotional content of what may be pick-up lines. I really still need folk to speak to me in simple, straightforward English. I need a hand to reach out and touch me before I am ready to shed my defenses. My settlement these days stands in great contrast to what I did as a fifteen year old, or a thirty-five year old, or even a forty-five year old.

I am so glad this sixty-five year old man had all these experiences. I continue to shed my inhibitions but still don’t want to hurt anyone else with the shedding. I recall when at fifty-five years I was so thrilled over meeting Rafael. I really was. I told a friend about him and wondered aloud at my surprise and at my elation that anyone would be interested in me. My friend Tony laughed and said, “Phillip, you just aren’t paying attention.”

Now I listen more carefully but still am not sure what I am hearing. Does this mean my closet door could open even wider? Does it mean I could become even more gay? I’m listening for the deepest levels of communication in my effort to overcome my own residual defenses—you know that ‘best’ stuff in me—and in my effort I hope really to hear what others are trying to communicate to me.

Whew.

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”

Read more at Phillip’s blog:  artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Goofy Tales by Michael King

It seems that many tales including goofy ones start with “Once upon a Time” Continuing “In a Land Far Away” Then “There Lived a —–“
In my goofy tale I’d like the characters to have detailed and explicit X rated interactions. Of course that’s not the goofy part. The goofy part is when the superhuman abilities and equipment leaves my personal imaginary participation feeling inadequate. And yes, I can be that insecure. Fortunately, I can accept being more average when I feel accepted by others.

Now, since my once upon a time fantasy is my experience on a regular basis, all the goofy parts of the tale that I am living are the fantasies that I never expected to come true. The goofy part is that two or more grown men can giggle, snicker and laugh uproariously over the introduction of silliness, childish humor and gross descriptive imaginary scenarios.

Now, why am I not telling about the details of these goofy tales? Simple, they could not be printed due to the sensuousness and XXX ratings that can finally be enjoyed without embarrassment or apology, but none-the-less censorable content.

Yet to occur is: “And They Lived Happily Ever After.” I’m still living in the wonderful, but really quite goofy present. It’s so nice to be retired, have no real obligations or commitments to preclude my being outrageous, silly, maybe a little funny and a lot eccentric.

I guess that if I were less subjective I’d look somewhere outside of my personal experience for the goofy tales, however I find that my own life is so exciting and spontaneous I don’t need to look elsewhere, I only need to appear to others as reasonably sane. That in itself is pretty goofy.

Writing a story about goofy tales is also pretty goofy. I’m glad I allow my imagination to explore all the juicy unmentionable and provocative details that I only dare to share with my closest friends and my companion until some porn magazine offers to pay me handsomely for disclosing how goofy a seventy-three year old sex symbol can really be.

1/3/13




About the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities,” Telling your Story”,” Men’s Coffee” and the “Open Art Studio”. I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking, and drag.

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Cooking by Michael King

     One of my favorite things is to fix a nice meal for Merlyn. I like assembling various ingredients to create a flavorful and satisfying and attractive as well as a nutritious and healthy meal. I suppose I have a general recipe idea but seldom measure or even use the same combination of ingredients in my concoctions.

     I often fix eggs, potatoes and toast for breakfast. One of my challenges is how many different ways can I cut up a potato so it has a different appearance and texture. It has a different flavor too. Do I add other ingredients such as onion, cut according to the way the potato is sliced or diced or julienned, green or red or orange or yellow peppers or all the above cut to blend with the potato and onion shapes? Do I add chili flakes or dill with salt and pepper? Maybe I’ll add no other ingredients, just plain potatoes. Maybe I’ll fix a scramlet where I add bacon bits, toast cut in small squares, onions, peppers, add the eggs, stir and top with cheese and maybe parsley flakes; each time fixing a slightly different meal with a little difference in taste.

     If done just right it should be beautiful, delicious and presented on a plate with colors and patterns that shows it off perfectly. On days that I’m not fixing an egg breakfast, about half the time, I usually fix oatmeal or granola. Of course I have to add walnuts, dried cranberries, with one or more fruits, bananas, peaches, pears, apricots, apple, dates, figs, kiwi, etc. I once put thinly sliced celery and apple with the walnuts and oatmeal. Since the celery leaves were on the stalk I added them too. It was very attractive and I thought delicious. Merlyn said he didn’t eat lettuce with oatmeal so I’ve never fixed that again. The only other time he complained was when I fixed oyster stew. He informed me he didn’t eat oysters. Considering that I’ve only had two complaints in aproxamently the 1100 meals that I’ve fixed since we met,

     I feel OK with my food fixing obsession which gets even more complex with lunches and dinners.

     When we invite people over which is rare, but does happen occasionally, I like to make sure it’s a memorable event.

     We once invited our friends Jack and Glenn over. I fixed Cornish hens with an orange sauce, dressing and vegetables on a bed of sliced romaine and tomato pieces on red patterned Chinese plates. The table looked beautiful and Jack and Glenn wouldn’t let us eat until they had taken photos. Then they raved about everything. A couple of days later we receive a nice card with the comment that they felt like they had been transported to another time and space of magic and wonder. I like it when a meal comes off like that, a real ego boost. As with a lot of people who really like to cook, I can go on for hours discussing food preparation, ingredients and techniques.

     When my daughter was diagnosed with terminal cancer she was told that if she didn’t have a hysterectomy immediately she would only have about three months to live. She said no.

     She then went to a healing center where they told her she had a gluten allergy which had caused the tumors. She was given a very strict diet, nothing with gluten which is added to most prepared foods to improve the texture and smoothness and to prevent separation of the ingredients, no eggs or dairy products, no meats except for turkey which is anti-carcinogenic, and no fruit and vegetables like corn and I forget all the other forbidden foods. I got a call for help. Neither she nor her husband knew where to start with fixing foods she could eat. I was also at a loss, but since I was retired and had the time I started studying the problem. With a list of what she could eat I fixed her a variety of dishes like vegetarian split pea soup, vegetable and turkey stew, etc. 

     About a week or so later I was told that she now could have nothing cooked except the turkey. My concept of food preparation had always been to cook everything except for salads and a few fruits and vegetables, and starting with what meat was being served. Now what’s with this raw foodist diet? I had never heard of that and was completely at a loss as to where to begin. Everything had to be completely “natural” and “organic.” I got a few books on raw foodist food preparation which then required a dehydrator and all sorts of possible gadgets for grinding, slicing, processing, etc. To my surprise the best book on preparing a raw food diet with recipes was written by someone I had known for 30 years. I then fixed an assortment of meals that got us through the first couple of months. The tumors started to diminish in size and my daughter was feeling better. She was now allowed to add some fruit and more vegetables. After five months she was completely tumor free and by now could fix her own diet. Shortly after that they moved to Africa. She then got pregnant, had her first daughter, moved back and is due with the second around the first of the year. Had she not listened to her inner voice and had followed the medical advice; she would be living a very different life. Instead she took control of her health and her future.

     I had the opportunity to fix uncooked meals which was at the time a totally foreign concept. Now I get to cook whatever I want to. I can plan and shop and spend hours in the kitchen. I get help cutting and chopping. I get to do what I really enjoy doing and the greatest reward is to be able to do that for someone I love.

About the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities,” Telling your Story”,” Men’s Coffee” and the “Open Art Studio”. I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.