Cooking by Merlyn

     I don’t like to clean up the mess In the kitchen when I cook so only fix food that doesn’t make a mess.

     If you open my refrigerator you may find a jar of peanut butter, some kind of butter, a package of sharp cheese, beer and loaf of bread in the freezer.

     I only cook two meals when I’m by myself.

#1
Take one slice of bread.
Put it in the toaster.
Cut a slice of cheese big enough to cover ½ of the slice of toast.
Wash the knife while the toast is toasting.

Put the toast on a piece of paper towel.
Add cheese.
Fold the toast over the cheese.
Leave the kitchen.
Toss paper towel.

#2
Open one can of hot Chile with beans.
Dump it the small blue bowl.
Add about ¼ cup of water to can rinse can and add water into the bowl.
Add a pinch of hot pepper and stir.
Put bowl in microwave push pizza wait 1 ½ min.

When I get tired of hearing the microwave beep I take bowl out 
Stir Chile push pizza button again.
When I get tired of hearing the microwave beep again I take bowl out and eat the Chile.
Wash bowl and spoon and leave kitchen.

   Any kind of food that I put in the oven will someday turn into a house full of smoke. I used to want something to eat so I would put something in the oven, get busy doing something and forget about the food,

     I learned a long time ago that I should never use the oven.
I only use the microwave and toaster.

     The first thing I do when I get a new refrigerator is buy a small carton of milk, place it on the center shelf and keep turning the temperature control colder until the milk freezes. Toss the milk. The beer will be ice cold but it will never freeze. It stays fresh until I want to drink it even if I’m out of town for a while.

     I like my kitchen to be clean with everything out of sight in its proper place.

     Michael’s a good cook and loves to make a big mess in his kitchen; he always asks me what I want to eat. He loves it when I ask him for something that he doesn’t know how to make just the way I want it. I do help him whenever he asks me to do something like cut up food but he is happiest when I leave him alone so he can concentrate on cooking two or three meals at a time.

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.

Game, Set, Match by Betsy

     I started out in the sport of tennis later in life. I discovered that it took very little time away from my three young children to play a couple of sets, not a great deal of expensive equipment, and there were plenty of courts around town, the closest to my home here in Denver being at the time in City Park. This, as well as the fact that I loved it. I started out taking lessons at City Park courts from an old man named Mr. Harper. He could hardly move, but he knew the right concepts and how to teach them. I grew to respect his teaching greatly.

     Through the 1970s and into the 1990s I played many tournaments and leagues as well as for no particular reason at all. I think I still have a few dust-covered trophies in a cabinet somewhere to remind me of the competitions.

     The greatest benefit of playing tennis has been the many friends I made. When I retired in 1998 I decided to get serious about my game and joined the Denver Tennis Club. This is a club for tennis lovers–no swimming, no indoor facilities except locker rooms and sign-in desk and directors’ offices and a place to sit and relax. There is no bar at this club, just a coke machine. The focus is on the 12 outdoor courts located in the heart of Denver where it has been since 1928.

     Many wonderful things have happened due to my passion for playing tennis. Perhaps the best of these was my participation in the 1990 and 1994 Gay Games. The best tennis experience for me was in Gay Games III in 1990. Many athletes in just about every sport along with various GLBT choruses descended on the city of Vancouver, British Columbia, that summer of 1990. Much preparation and practice went into sending about 300 LGBT athletes from Colorado to this Gay Games and Cultural Festival III.

     Our infant tennis team was not well organized and had not had much chance to practice together. But a friend I had know for a number of years, a former H.S. tennis coach, had asked me if I wanted to go to the games and play doubles with her. Of course, I jumped at the invitation. Mind you, one does not have to qualify. You just get your name on the roster and go.

     Team Colorado–all 300 of us–were quite impressive when we finally all stood together in our uniform sweat suits at the ceremonial start of the event–a parade of the 7,300 participants representing 39 countries and 27 sports. The US–which had hosted the first and second quadrennial event, Gay Games I and II, had by far the largest contingent. But many came from Australia and Germany which were soon to become home of future Gay Games events. Canada, of course had a huge interest this being the first games on their side of the border.

     The Province, a conservative Vancouver newspaper, writes on its editorial page:

     “Almost a year ago, we called these gay games ‘silly.’ What’s next? we asked. Bisexual games? Asexual games? What, we queried, does sexual orientation have to do with the high jump? Since then, we’ve been educated. We’ve learned that these games are intended to build bridges, strengthen community and bolster self-esteem. Members of groups that bear the brunt of society’s ignorance and fear need to make special efforts to support each other. And sometimes they need to stand up and be counted. “It is not for us to question — so long as others are not being hurt — how the homosexual community chooses to celebrate itself and to educate us, any more than it is our place to question how native Indians or blacks or women choose to define and redefine themselves.” “What of the AIDS spectre? AIDS as a sexual issue is no more relevant to these games than it is to a convention of heterosexual mountaineers or carpet layers. These games are, above all, about having fun. It isn’t often we get to have fun and, at the same time, learn about tolerance, compassion and understanding. B.C. residents should go out to some of the events of the 1990 Gay Games and Cultural Festival.”*

     Vancouver is a wonderful city and we had a ball. Another comment that sticks in my mind was from another article in The Province. An event called Seafest was going on in the city at the same time as the games. The newspaper described Seafest as a drunken brawl with loud, rowdy, trash dropping people from all over the world attending. It goes into some length describing the unruly behavior of the Seafest participants. The article continues.

     “The GAY GAMES also brought in Zillions of men and women who spent lorryloads of money and indeed cluttered up the sidewalks, but who picked up their garbage, laughed a lot, said ‘excuse me’ and ‘good evening’ and ‘thank you’ a whole ton and, if they got drunk and disorderly, at least had the good taste not to do it under my bedroom window. In fact, the only disconcerting noise in the West End during the games was created by the yahoos who cruised the streets in their big egos and macho little trucks while shouting obscenities at anyone they deemed to be gay.”*

     Gay Games III was in every way a memorable experience for me personally. Gill was there with me cheering me on. Most of our time however was spent sight-seeing and enjoying watching the sports events. It was all quite new to me–all these gay people together. The men competing on the croquet lawn with their exotic hats and chiffon gowns flowing in the breeze as they wielded their mallets– that image will be with me forever.

     I managed to win a silver medal in the tennis competition. All the tennis awards were presented by a gay man whose name I forget. I do remember that he was an openly gay member of Canada’s parliament. Of course he was out. This was Canada.

     Four years later I would participate in Gay Games IV in New York. I was able to share this experience with my daughter Lynne who lived not far from NY City in New Haven, Connecticut. This is when my lesbian daughter came out to me. When I told her I was coming to New York to play tennis in the Gay Games she replied Oh good!! We’ll go together. I’m going to participate in the games too, Mom. I’m playing on the Connecticut women’s soccer team.” Yes, that was her coming out statement to me! We did enjoy that time together and watched each other in our respective competitions and cheered each other on.

     The New York event drew 12,500 participants from 40 countries. It was definitely a proud and memorable moment for me when I found myself marching with my daughter in a parade of 12,000 LGBT athletes through Yankee stadium to the cheers of tens of thousands of supporters and spectators.

     I do like the sound of that word “athlete.” It is important to note that the event was never intended to be focused on athletic ability alone, however. In the words of Olympic track star Tom Waddell whose inspiration gave birth to the games in the 1980s, “The Gay Games are not separatist, they are not exclusive, they are not oriented to victory, and they are not for commercial gain. They are, however, intended to bring a global community together in friendship, to experience participation, to elevate consciousness and self-esteem and to achieve a form of cultural and intellectual synergy…..We are involved in the process of altering opinions whose foundations lie in ignorance. “

     I have not attended another Gay Games since 1994. But the event continues in various parts of the world and has forever etched it’s name in the annals of sporting events.

     I am still playing tennis 20 years after the NY Gay Games–no tournaments, just an old ladies’ league called super seniors and with friends two or three times per week at the Denver Tennis Club. I suppose the day will come when I can no longer hit that ever-so-satisfying backhand down the line winner, but I’m not planning on that happening any time soon. As far as I’m concerned I will keep getting better until I can’t hear those three little words anymore–game,set, match!

Cockburn, Lyn. “Some Games can be a real education.” Pacific Press Limited, The Province, Sunday, August 12,1990.

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.

Mayan Pottery by Betsy

There’s MY an’ YOUR pottery, and MY an’ YOUR china, and MY an’ YOUR cutlery, and MY an’ YOUR household items of every variety.

When my beloved and I decided to live together, we, of course, were forced to merge many of these above mentioned items. So into the common household they went. Over the years most of the pottery, in particular, stayed in cupboards. Occasionally the need would arise to pull something out, dust off the cobwebs, and put it to use, then put it away for another few years after the guests left or after the special occasion was over.

This is how the conversation would go.

“Do you remember where we put the glazed pot–the one that’s about this size?” Indicating with hand gestures what the thing looks like. “It ‘s the one my grandmother gave me when I was married.”

Depending on who came up with the question, the other would reply, “Well, if it’s the one I think you mean, it’s not blue it’s green and it was given me by my mother.”

“Surely, we can’t be talking about the same piece. The one I’m thinking of would be perfect for this occasion because it’s blue. The one I’m thinking of I have had forever and I can remember the day my grandmother gave it to me.”

“Let’s find it and get it out and then decide if it’s the one you are thinking of or the one I’m thinking of–the green one my mother gave me.”

The piece under discussion is pulled out from the very back of a cupboard. It turns out that it is neither blue nor green but very old.

We both scratch our heads and mumble under our respective breaths, Well, I could have sworn…….and I know it’s mine.” Then out loud, “But it doesn’t matter does it.”

And so it went–many such discussions and discoveries–the origin or ownership of the item never resolved.

Then, sometime around the turn of the century, it came to us almost simultaneously. 

My honey and I were about to have another of the above discussions when we realized that we had been together a long time and furthermore planned to stay together. These household items we talk about are OURS–not mine and yours.

The business of separate ownership is a problem that comes with middle-aged marriage. Each has accumulated stuff and that stuff goes with you wherever you go.

The mystery of past ownership is now, we both agree, a moot point. For some reason it was the new millennium when this dawned on us. Perhaps because we were approaching almost 20 years together. Maybe it was that, or perhaps our respective memories were becoming less and less reliable and we were able to admit that of ourselves and of each other.

I don’t know the reason for sure but the discussions are a thing of the past. MY an’ YOURS had become OURS. And so it will continue to be, I expect, until the end of our days.

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.

ABC’s of Life by Donny Kaye

It
seems that life is about mastery.  In my
mind, Mastery is not to be confused with perfection but rather the ability to
actually experience life as it presents, moment-by-moment. Mastery connotes
experiencing life effortlessly, without resistance and in the spirit of
surrender.  By surrender, I am not
suggesting submission or irresponsibility. 
There
was a time when I experienced life in a very black and white manner, with little
tolerance at all for the shades of gray that constitute actually living life as
it presents. My personality needed knowledge and control to assure me that I
was on some predetermined “single” pathway.
          There is a part of me that
would like to believe that life can be guided by a list such as The ABC’s of
Life, however; my experience suggests that about the time I master A, B and C,
life requires guidance from X, Y and Z!
If I
were to create such a list, the wise one within would begin with
ALLOWANCE.  As I use the term allowance,
I’m not thinking of the seventy-five cents a week for taking out the trash or
cleaning off the dishes nightly from the dinner table.  Allowance is a pre-requisite of being able to
meet life’s challenges just as they present. 
Allowance is a way of looking at my life events not as obstacles to
getting what I want but rather as stepping stones.  Allowance cultivates trust.  Trust that everything that appears appears as
it must.  Trust that comes through the
experience of allowance, allows for certain things to fall away from my life as
well as for certain things to come into my life.
The
B in A, B, C, is just that, be!  Being is
about cultivating a capacity to be present to what is.  Being allows for an informed response to what
is, rather than the experience of constantly reacting with either agreement or
disagreement.  The constant reaction to
what appears begins to lessen and a true sense of wonder serves as the lens for
viewing life’s experiences.
Change is constant, becomes
another critical aspect for me in understanding life.  I have found that when I am able to surrender
to the changes that are life, I am better able to stop resisting and instead,
allow what life’s experiences bring to me. Change is constant!   What must I do to create the ability to
remain flexible in my thinking and my actions? 
To allow and be, requires flexibility and surrender to the realization
that change is inevitable.
My
years of experience in this lifetime, and quite possibly, previous life times,
make the development of a full list, A-Z daunting and perhaps impossible to
create.  As an educator, I remember using
excerpts with my staff from the book, Everything I Needed to Know, I Learned in
Kindergarten.
As I
look back on that listing of essential learning from kindergarten, I am
reminded of the following ABC’s of Life, by Robert Fulghum:   
·       
Share
everything.
·       
Play
fair.
·       
Don’t
hit people.
·       
Put
things back where you found them.
·       
Clean
up your own mess.
·       
Don’t
take things that aren’t yours.
·       
Say
you’re sorry when you hurt somebody.
·       
Wash
your hands before you eat.
·       
Flush.
·       
Warm
cookies and cold milk are good for you.
·       
Live
a balanced life – learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and
dance and play and work every day some.
·       
Take
a nap every afternoon.
·       
When
you go out in the world, watch out for traffic, hold hands and stick together.
·       
Be
aware of wonder. Remember the little seed in the Styrofoam cup: the roots go
down and the plant goes up and nobody really knows how or why, but we are all
like that.
·       
Goldfish
and hamsters and white mice and even the little seed in the Styrofoam cup –
they all die. So do we.
Everything you need to know is in this
list of ABC’s somewhere.
And
then remember the Dick-and-Jane books and the first word you learned – the
biggest word of all – LOOK.
LOOK! I must develop my capacity to
witness my life, without bias or expectation, and always with a sense of Wonder
for what is.  Realizing that “what is” is
precisely the life event that is needed for a certain life lesson. 
I
am not suggesting a naive or Pollyannaish outlook on life but the creation of a
life which when viewed by the witness within is viewing the life experience
with clarity, through a lens which does not distort, nor color everything as
rose colored glasses might. 
In
David Whyte’s poem, “No Path”, he states in his opening line, “There is no path
that goes all the way. Not that it stops us from looking for the full
continuation.” To exist with an expanded sense that there is no one way, be it
right or even direct, but the experience of life from the perspective that
everything belongs is entirely possible and practical. 

About the Author 

Donny Kaye-Is a native born Denverite.  He has lived his life posing as a
hetero-sexual male, while always knowing that his sexual orientation was that
of a gay male.  In recent years he has
confronted the pressures of society that forced him into deep denial regarding
his sexuality and an experience of living somewhat of a disintegrated
life.  “I never forgot for a minute that
I was what my childhood friends mocked, what I thought my parents would reject
and what my loving God supposedly condemned to limitless suffering.” StoryTime
at The Center has been essential to assisting him with not only telling the
stories of his childhood, adolescence and adulthood but also to merely recall
the stories of his past that were covered with lies and repressed in to the
deepest corners of his memory.  Within
the past two years he has “come out” not only to himself but to his wife of
four decades, his three children, their partners and countless extended family
and friends.  Donny is divorced and yet
remains closely connected with his family. 
He lives in the Capitol Hill Community of Denver, in integrity with
himself and in a way that has resulted in an experience of more fully realizing
integration within his life experiences. He participates in many functions of
the GLBTQ community.  

Is that the Rocking Chair Creaking or Is It Me? by Nicholas

          I don’t have much to say about fingers and toes. I have the usual number of each and none hold any fascination for me. My digits perform the usual duties and pleasures just fine, require the usual routine care, such as clipping of nails, and have yet to pose any problems. No story there.

          Other body parts, however, are getting to be more challenging these days. Yes, I’m of that age where body parts, though still the sources of many pleasures, do require attention. As someone once put it, when I wake up now everything is stiff except what used to be.

          Aches and pains rove around my body from head to toe, stopping most frequently in my lower back. But other areas have put in their demands for attention as well. For a while I had to deal with plantar fasciitis—what used to be called heel spurs—which appeared and disappeared mysteriously. There’s little relief, except for some ineffective exercises and angrily cursing, until it just goes away.

          To celebrate enrolling in Medicare, my body decided to launch a whole new issue by blowing out my knees. I came home from a trip to San Francisco, a great city to walk in and up and down, with aching knees. The ache went away and then it didn’t and then it went away and then it didn’t. Now except for walking, standing, sitting, kneeling, stooping or laying down, I’m fine. Running is out of the question, but that never did appeal.

          So, I saw a knee specialist doctor who informed me that this was just part of growing older and just happens to a lot of people regardless of injury or prior abuse of delicate joints. I was showing early signs of osteoarthritis in my knees. Early?, I said. What’s it going to be like when it’s late? I’m hobbling around now. He told me not to climb stairs or walk up or down hills (but I am going to San Francisco), use ice for other than cocktails and take Aleve.

          He told me to put off any surgery as long as possible. No argument there. I’d rather keep my old knees than get new ones. Luckily, the thing I enjoy most—bicycling— is about the best thing I can do to combat the degeneration. And I have a whole new set of stretches to do each morning. And there’s always Aleve and ibuprofen and maybe glucosamine to help.

          Well, what can I say except that getting old sucks. Sure, it’s better than the alternative but it still sucks. This is the first experience I’ve had of physical limits due to aging. Suddenly comes the realization that I’m not making all the decisions here. Choose as I might to be active, that activity might be reduced because, well, I just can’t do it anymore—like spend hours on my knees tending my garden. Now limitations mean changing how I live each day. My independence is being questioned.

          Since my ego hurts far worse than do my knees, I refuse to give in. My response is not to just fall onto the couch and grab the TV remote even though I am fully entitled to do so. I’m doing the regimen of stretches the physical therapist gave me though I don’t much like them. And I’m cycling and spinning as much as I can. And the ice—which actually feels good even if it doesn’t do much.

          A friend who has also been dealing with this stuff and is in his 70s still takes five-mile hikes, limping along at his own pace. So, I say screw it. I’m not into five-mile hikes but I will take my walks along the ocean shore when I’m in San Francisco next week and will probably walk up too many hills to get to that fabulous restaurant at the top, but that’s what I’m going to do. And when the time comes for a knee replacement—which I hope is years away—I’ll deal with that.

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

Breaking into Gay Culture by Donny Kaye

          My new home is only a couple blocks down the street and along the park from the coffee shop where my most recent introduction to gay culture started, some ten years ago. To understand the significance of my new home’s location I must go back in time to my earliest introduction to gay culture.

          After I graduated from college and before I was married I hung out with several colleagues who were friends of mine. The selection of hangout spots was always determined by a couple of the gals within the group. Their choice was either a country and western themed dance club or a gay bar on the outskirts of the city limits. We partied weekly as we danced and drank together unwinding from the challenges of work.

          On those nights when we would decide to go beyond the city limits and visit the bar heading up the hillside to the west of town, I paid close attention to the men who flirted with one another in the darkened recesses of the bar, typically men with men seeming very much at ease as they maintained close physical proximity with one another. Once in a while I would observe knees touching, hands caressing one another and even an occasional extended kiss. My heart would quicken and my mind engage. A few different nights I went back to that bar alone to not only watch but to be.

          On each of those occasions, feelings of excitement stirred deep within me. I got what I was looking for in terms of physical connection that would lead to the parking lot just outside and on one occasion; I actually went home with someone, caressing each other as I excitedly drove down the darkened roadway. My excitement was accelerated by desire and the experience of allowing what I then tried to repress and consciously deny.

           Within moments after the exchange I would be filled with guilt and shame as the awareness that within months I was to be married returned to my consciousness. It seemed so right and yet at the same time not allowable within my understandings of relationship, sexuality and my naïveté regarding models I had experienced for “doing” life, as defined by religion. There seemed to be no other choices. Being like I wanted to be seemed to also include the diagnosis of me having a psychiatric disorder! I just liked guys, why did it have to be so complex?

          Ten years ago I was helping my good friend with the opening of her hair salon, immediately next door to one of the area’s leading gay coffee shops. On each of those days after my early morning work at her shop, I always enjoyed sauntering into the coffee shop ordering my coffee, watching, wondering, and considering the possibilities. I felt very much at home there and I recognized in that setting my secret wasn’t of significance.

          In the interim between those early days and the coffee shop on ninth Avenue there were experiences, especially when work-related travel removed me from the confines of suburban life as a married man. I frequented various theaters, on occasion a gay bar, porn stores and occasionally an extended eye contact followed by a wink, a touch and caress. My experience of gay culture was reduced to a rich fantasy life and the expression of short stories in my creative mind as I ran miles at a time, trying to control my interests in men.

          The coffee shop became a weekly haunt, long after the work at the hair salon was completed. I began to relate to other gay men whom I met through a close friend who is gay. The longing to be in gay culture, at least as I had always known it to be, had started to shift from that of cruising, sexual connection and guilt, to something much different.

          My desire increasingly has included wanting honest relationships with men and women who understood me; who accept my desire, passion, and longing as a man of a certain sexual persuasion. I want to be around those who seemingly understood me and who have an allowance for me being the me that I have always wanted to be AND who are like me in that they are more diverse in their sexual orientation.

          The gift of my life now is the opportunity to integrate a culture rich in sexual diversity with the aspects of my former life, especially my children and grand children.

          Living within the hood allows me to interact in a much more complete and authentic way than I ever considered possible. The culture is no longer someplace I visit in secret in the dark of night and the anonymity of a setting where I’m just passing through. It is no longer restricted to Thursday mornings when I would linger at the coffee shop for hours on end, dreading the return to life as I had crafted it to be.

          My experience of my culture now allows not only for the expression of my natural sexual orientation, but allows for you my dearest of friends. It allows for this space, this time this opportunity to just be me.

          I live just up the block and through the park. I look from my balcony onto the streets and across the space of my neighborhood, which allows the experience of my culture. No longer separate or someplace I’m passing through. It’s where I flourish, the place I call home. My culture. My family. The place I rest in for this moment in time.  

About the Author

Donny Kaye-Is a native born Denverite.  He has lived his life posing as a
hetero-sexual male, while always knowing that his sexual orientation was that
of a gay male.  In recent years he has
confronted the pressures of society that forced him into deep denial regarding
his sexuality and an experience of living somewhat of a disintegrated
life.  “I never forgot for a minute that
I was what my childhood friends mocked, what I thought my parents would reject
and what my loving God supposedly condemned to limitless suffering.” StoryTime
at The Center has been essential to assisting him with not only telling the
stories of his childhood, adolescence and adulthood but also to merely recall
the stories of his past that were covered with lies and repressed in to the
deepest corners of his memory.  Within
the past two years he has “come out” not only to himself but to his wife of
four decades, his three children, their partners and countless extended family
and friends.  Donny is divorced and yet
remains closely connected with his family. 
He lives in the Capitol Hill Community of Denver, in integrity with
himself and in a way that has resulted in an experience of more fully realizing
integration within his life experiences. He participates in many functions of
the GLBTQ community.  

Natural Enemies by Gillian

          Where we live in Lakewood there are several Rec. Centers within a few miles, and through Kaiser’s Silver Sneakers program membership to all of them, including 24 Hour Fitness, is free.

          So I have a stack of membership cards of which I was quite proud until Betsy the physical fitness freak explained patiently to me one day that the cards themselves in fact do very little to improve my fitness.

          I have to go to these godawful places.

          And worse than that, I have to stay there. For an hour, two, or even three.

          And still worse, I have to do unspeakable things while I’m there.

          Ah well, I suspect The Gym and I are simply natural enemies in the way of the fabled snake and mongoose. I will never learn to love it, but if I could simply leave my body there to get on with it and send my mind off elsewhere it wouldn’t really be too bad.

          However, much as The Gym is the epitome of mindless activity, there are pitfalls associated with excusing my brain from attendance.

          I find it necessary to count and/or time my activities, or else I cheat; 100 of this repetition, 50 of that, ten minutes on this machine, fifteen on that.

          I would so much prefer not to think of any of it and free my mind to write about our current week’s topic or listen to a book on CD, but alas I’ve found that when I try this, my workout is miraculously curtailed. Twenty minutes and I’m done!

          Well I thought I did at least 100 leg lifts, and surely I sweated on that machine for half an hour?

          No, I’m not to be trusted, so my mind must remain in the dreaded gym with my body at all times.

          By it’s very nature, the Gym is an unlovely place.

          But those who are in charge seem to go out of their way to add to the awfulness in all possible ways.

          Walls of mirrors, for God’s sake! What’s that about? Whatever nasty activity I’m performing I’m forced to see myself at it from ten different angles with no place to go to get away from myself.

          Now perhaps some of those young svelte creatures, bodies apparently not yet affected by the pull of gravity and clearly created without sweat glands, like nothing better than watching themselves in fluid effortless motion.

          And, I have to admit, why not? Their brightly colored form-fitting Spandex clings to every perfect curve without even a hint of one ounce of excess fat.

          I on the other hand am in little danger of engendering narcissism as I catch glances, no matter how hard I try not to, of this lumbering old body draped in ragged sweats, huffing and puffing amidst rolls of misplaced misshapen flabby flesh.

          It really should be confined to the privacy of it’s on home.

          So, yes, I try not to look at the mirrors which grace every wall, but what other choices are there?

          I can of course simply gaze with longing upon the aforementioned nubile young things, but I’m forced to confess that palls after only a few minutes.

          At my age it’s a bit like a dog chasing a car. Whatever would I do if I caught one??

          What does that leave? Oh God forbid, the TV. Banks of them, high up on the wall beyond the reach of prying hands hoping to change channels.

           Oh no! You will watch what they, whoever they may be, want you to watch or whatever they have decided you should want to watch. That means half a dozen sets tuned to ESPN and the rest of them showing FOX News. The latter is definitely not on my agenda so that leaves endless replays of Sunday’s NFL games or, no, wait a minute, there’s live football…oh, but it’s two local high school teams and the score is 73 to 3 – and it’s still the first half.

          The best, perhaps the only entertainment provided by the TV is the automated translation of the spoken word into printed words on the screen, as of course all the sets are muted.

          The computer programs which perform this function work much better than they did not so long ago but they still fall into frequent misinterpretation.

          President Obama undressed Congress. Now there’s an ugly vision.

          Dozens of thinks roll down the streets of Lybia. In fact a few thinks might be more beneficial than tanks….but..

          Well at least it’s good for a laugh, which is something not widely on offer at the Gym. This is a serious place.

          And that’s just one more reason I don’t like it, and I suspect it doesn’t particularly care for me. I don’t greatly enhance its image after all.

          But, like that snake and mongoose or the wolf and the moose or many other of nature’s natural enemies, The Gym and I need each other and so our fraught relationship continues.

          As it will, with luck, for many years to come.

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.

Navy Man by Lewis T

     The dark cap is tipped to the back of his head like a macabre halo, perhaps held there by two ears ample enough to suggest a signalman guiding a plane onto the deck of an aircraft carrier.  His thick, dark brown hair is swept up and back, with highlights that suggest murky surf crashing onto the wide alabaster beach of his forehead.  The brows hang close over narrow eyes, perhaps useful when assaulted by wind and spray.  His fine nose is poised above a perfect mouth, inscrutable and delicious.  The graceful lines of his symmetrical jaw and chin converge over a throat that is at once manly and vulnerable.  The tunic, adorned by a vestigial slash of “fruit salad,” a collar marked by three parallel white lines suggestive of the “no passing zone” of some lonely asphalt highway, the incongruous intrusion of an undershirt, and the unexpected glamour of a satin scarf snaking its way across his sternum seem to remind the casual observer that this bit of bone, gut, and flesh is destined not to be the object of desire but rather the means by which the ambitions of admirals are achieved.

In loving memory of a sailor, scholar, soldier, husband, father, teacher, and lover,

Don L. (“Laurin”) Foxworth, age 18

©  December 12, 2012 Lewis J. Thompson, III

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 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.”

Coping with Loved Ones by Michael King

          After all we are apes and in spite of our self-concepts of advanced culture and civilization we still have the quarrelsome and emotional nature similar to what we see in our wild cousins. Any group, family or pair of humans in association will encounter frustrations and anger either individually or collectively. Our natures can be modified and we can learn to control the way we interact and we can suppress the urge to strike out when upset, but even with those closest to us and that we love the most, we will occasionally have to cope with both their words and actions that bother us as well as our own thoughts and feelings.

          My daughter, yesterday, when I asked her how things were going with their new dog which the whole family loves, said “She has her moments.” I interpreted this to mean that there was a little coping going on.

          My grandparents were always bickering. I decided not to do that. My mother was always bitching and gossiping while my father seldom spoke. I decided to not be like them. I never liked confrontation, arguments or violence so I guess I developed coping techniques that modifies my tendency to strike out, accuse, argue, etc.

          My 25 years of marriages fortunately went by with few disagreements. Merlyn and I don’t argue. However under it all there is that conscious awareness of maintaining mutual respect, courteous and kind interaction and above it all a show of affection, love and understanding while we cope with the amazingly different ways each of us thinks and acts.

          Both of us have been single parents and I’m sure that having experienced the myriad of coping tests one has under those circumstances has helped us develop the abilities to somewhat satisfactorily deal with coping with loved ones.

          I am so grateful to have the privilege of coping with Merlyn. There is nothing I would rather do. It seems that he doesn’t mind coping with me.

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, 4 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.

Cooking by Bobbi

          “Hey, hey, good looking. Whatcha got cookin’? How’s about cookin’ somethin’ up for me.”

          As a child, the only person in our home who did all the cookin’ somethin’ up for us was my Bubi Kate. (Bubi means grandma.) She and my great uncle, Yenny, lived with us. Katie wanted that small kitchen all to herself, and the only time I was allowed in was when she needed help with washing and drying dishes.

          She never made knishes which were Jewish fare, and we never had any pork. We didn’t dare.

          Katie and Yenny were from Hungary so we never went hungry. My mother never learned to cook until Grandma Kate died.

          A short history of my family is needed here in order for my story to be clear. Kate and Bela were from Hungary and met in Philadelphia. Love, marriage, and two daughters later, but they had to leave for Colorado or Bela’s lungs would crater. Tuberculosis had taken hold so Go West Young Man, they were told.

          So they settled in Denver where my mama Sallie was born in 1897 and Bela started a picture frame factory out of their home and it was like heaven. But Bela’s health continued to go down and he needed help in the business so he asked one of his brothers in Hungary to come to this town. Uncle Yenny came, learned the business, and when Bela died, he took care of Kate and raised the three little girls.

          When Sallie married Harry, my sister was born. Sallie was five months pregnant with me, and things got harried with Harry. Harry was an attorney, got into legal trouble, left town, ended up in Canyon City Penitentiary. This all caused Sallie’s bubble to burst.

          That’s why Bubi Kate and Uncle Yenny came to live with us.

          While cleaning out my Mama’s home, I found a wonderful cookbook. It’s called Famous Cook Book and was written in 1916 by the Ladies Auxiliary and given to Temple de Hirsch in Seattle. Pages 147 and 148 have Ham recipes. Baked Ham No. 1, Baked Ham No. 2, and Baked Ham and Eggs. Wonder if they got into the Dr. Seuss craze.

          My first husband, Nonny, from Brooklyn, was a pretty good cook but I struggled along with a cook book. My second husband, Max, did not cook so I learned from a Jewish cookbook. It’s called Love and Knishes and I made many good dishes.

          Alas, the Sprue has hit my gut, so I am gluten free, BUT I’ve learned to cook gluten free and my partner, Linda, has mastered gluten-free zucchini bread and other sweets so my life now is just full of treats.

About the Author

Bobbi, 82, a native Denverite, came out at age 45. “I’m glad to be alive.”