Tag: Exploring

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Exploring, by Ricky

Boys and “exploring” naturally fit together like peanut butter and jelly or love and civil-unions because it is part of a boy’s job description. I began my career as an explorer in January 1949 when I began to explore my home by crawling about on the floor and tasting small objects I encountered. Eventually, I reached other rooms as I began to walk and could “disappear” if my mother turned her back for more than 2-seconds. I don’t think the term “baby-proofing” existed yet so drawers and cupboards were never off-limits to me. Mom did empress upon my mind, via my behind, exactly which bottles and boxes were dangerous to me.

Somewhere between the ages of 1 and 3, I learned without spankings that spiders with the red hour-glass emblem were very dangerous and to stay away from them. I suspect what I actually learned was, “if it has red, stay away.” Once I began to open doors and explore outside the house, it was child’s play to open the gate in the fence and do some serious exploring. I quickly learned to take the dog with me so no one would notice I was gone.

My exploration of kindergarten began in September 1953. I looked over my classmates for a suitable playmate (I mean classmate) with which to be friends and chose a girl of all people, Sandra Flora. I loved to color and play with all the messy artistic stuff. In first grade, Sandra and I were sent to a fifth grade class to be an example to the other kids on how to work quietly. I’m sure I did not measure up to the teacher’s expectations as I kept getting out of my seat, quietly of course, and going to the book shelves trying to find a book with lots of pictures. Being unsuccessful in finding a book to keep me interested, I think the teacher became frustrated and eventually sent us back to our class.
Now enter 1956, I (a newly arrived eight-year old), was sent to live on my grandparents farm in central Minnesota while my parents were arranging their divorce. Suddenly, I had a whole farm to explore that summer (and ultimately), autumn, winter, and spring in rotation. Eighty acres of new frontier for the world’s greatest explorer and trapper to collect beautiful animal pelts and bring them in for the women back east to wear. (Okay, so they really were not bison or bear pelts, but if an 8-year old boy squints, just right, under the proper lighting conditions, gopher skins can look just like bison or bear hides only smaller.)
1956 was the year of my awakening to the expanded world of exploring everything on the farm: the barn, milk house, hayloft, silo, chicken coop guarded by a vicious rooster, granary, workshop (nice adult stuff in there), equipment shed where various farm implements were stored until needed, and the outhouse (the stink you “enjoyed” twice a day). State and county fair time brought other places to explore: animal barns for varieties of chickens, pigs, cows, sheep, horses, etc., judging of canning, 4-H, displays of quilts, new farm machinery (tractors, bailers, rakes, yucky manure spreaders, thrashers, and combines), and of course the midway in the evenings.
As summer waned and school began, I met and made a few friends.
I rode a school bus for three years in Los Angeles so that was not new. One of my neighboring farm friends and I were part of the “space race” as we would design rocket ships every evening and then compare them on the bus ride to school the next morning. Another farm boy and I did a bit of exploring of another type while riding the bus to school with our coats covering our crotches (use your imagination—and “No” we never were caught).
Another schoolyard “exploratory” activity involved games. One favorite among all students (townies and farm boys) was marbles. Our version involved scooping out a shallow depression next to the wall of the school, placing the marbles we wanted to risk (bet) into the depression, and then stepping back a distance (which increased with each turn) and attempting to roll a “shooter” into the depression so it stayed. If more than one boy’s shooter stayed in, the two “winners” would roll again from a greater distance and repeat the process until there was only one shooter in the depression. The winner would then collect all the marbles in the hole and the betting process would begin again. Sadly, I don’t remember the name of this game.
The second game we called Stretch. I can’t speak for the townies, but all self-respecting farm boys had a small pocket knife in one of his pockets all the time (including at school). In this game two boys would face each other and one would start by throwing his knife at the ground at a distance calculated to be beyond the reach of the other boy’s leg. If the knife didn’t stick, it was retrieved and the other boy took his turn. If the knife stuck, the other boy would have to “stretch” one leg/foot to touch the knife all the while keeping the other leg/foot firmly in place where he had been standing. If he was successful in touching the knife without moving the other foot, he retrieved the knife, returned it to its owner, and then took his turn of throwing the knife. If he could not touch the knife, he lost the game and another boy would take his place challenging the winner.
The third and fourth games were “King of the Hill” and snowball fights (obviously reserved for winter recess). I trust I do not need to describe these. In all of these games, we boys were “exploring” our limits or increasing our skills.
The elementary part of this school was of the old style, a “square” three-story edifice with one classroom located at each of the corners of the first two floors and storage rooms on the third floor. The restrooms were in the basement and (miracles of miracles) the rope to ring the bell up in the cupola on the roof ran all the way into the boys’ restroom. “Yes,” even during a pee break (raise one finger and wait for permission) I would occasionally “just have to” “explore” pulling on that rope and then run back to class, (mischievous is in a boy’s job description).
Once I turned 10, I began to explore the woods around our home sites in South Lake Tahoe. My Boy Scout Troop provided many opportunities to explore not only the great outdoors but also my own leadership skills and camping abilities. About this time, I also began to explore other boys; not sexually, but socially; learning to interact with them and developing an understanding of what “boy culture” is and is not. Well, to be completely honest, of course there was a little pubescent sex play occasionally, but not on troop hikes or campouts.
During those halcyon days of early adolescence, more and more I learned that it is not what a person looks like on the outside but what a person is on the inside that really matters. Therefore, I now explore the minds of new acquaintances by getting to know them enough to determine if they are friend or faux material.
Those early years of exploring my environment’s people, places, and things shaped my personality and instilled within my mind, a large dose of curiosity combined with a love of knowledge. Those who know me best can certify that I ponder on the strangest things or ask unexpected questions on unusual topics in my searches for answers. If that bothers some people, it is just too bad, because this is who I am; a curious little boy trapped in an adult body.
© 29 April 2013

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

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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.
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Exploring, by Phillip Hoyle

I was a Boy Scout but never an Explorer. Still I had
explorations I really enjoyed. They usually took place in the stacks at the
public library, at the piano when facing a new score, or at home or office when
fulfilling a project for school or work.
These explorations kept me busy and mostly out of trouble
for years, but things have changed so much that these days I most enjoy messing
around with words in an exploration of rhythm, contrast, and other aspects of
storytelling.
You might conclude as have I that my life-long explorations
are mostly projects of mind and imagination. That’s been quite enough for me
although I do like to go to the same places by differing routes, say take the
scenic lane, stop by and see something I’ve always missed, or approach a
similar project in a slightly different manner. So today I’m reading something
again related to my childhood and continuing fascination with Native American
cultures but this time in poetic form. My interest in a peyote fan at the
Denver Art Museum served as the starting point, but the verse tells of my
childhood imaginings.
© Denver, 2013
Magic Fan
By Phillip E. Hoyle
The clutch of feathers
worked magic, at least for the boy
Who slid them over the
back of his hand,
Between his fingers,
On the skin of his face
Transporting him to a
world of freedom
Where he was one of the Indians
he had read,
Who moved freely through
the life
Of prairie and forest,
Of hunt and survival,
Through the endless
tracks of his mind.
His room, his lodge
festooned with portraits
And costumes of leather
and feather
Faithful companions in
his world of flight,
This fullness of fancy
barely
Tethered by nearness of
family.
There in his lodge, he
worked his feathers
Formed into headdress,
bustle, and fan,
Costume for his great
dream
Of being an Indian
dressed up in style
That spoke of tribal
belonging.
The basement, the space
for a dance
Of adoption, the
footwork of fancy,
Steps made real by the
presence of
Feathers that moved air
and spirit
Through ceremonial smoke
of love and desire.
His dances were brief,
three minutes or less
—sad frontier of 78s—but
He practiced the joy
Shown in dip, turn, and
stomp;
The movement expressing
the life he could feel.
His fan led the way as
he pranced,
Swift feet moving in
moccasins that
Circled the room of
ceremony and smoke.
Bustles shimmering,
bells resounding
Sisters worrying, ‘He’s
at it again.’
In echoing basement his
beads bounced
His body the drum, the
people, the dream
Of roach and shirt,
breechclout and leggings.
Of such transportation:
The magic of feather and
fan.
© Denver,
2012 
About the Author 
 Phillip Hoyle
lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In
general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two
years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now
focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE
program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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Exploring by Ricky

Boys
and “exploring” naturally fit together like peanut butter and jelly or love and
marriage because curiosity and exploration are part of a boy’s job
description.  
I began my career as an
explorer in January 1949 when I began to explore my home by crawling about on
the floor and tasting small objects I encountered.  Eventually, I reached other rooms as I began
to walk and could “disappear” if my mother turned her back for more than 2-seconds.  I don’t think the term “baby-proofing” existed
yet so drawers and cupboards were never off-limits to me.  Mom did empress upon my mind, via my behind,
exactly which bottles and boxes were dangerous to me.
 Somewhere between the ages of 1 and 3, I
learned without spankings that spiders with the red hour-glass emblem were very
dangerous and to stay away from them.  I
suspect what I actually learned was, “if it has red, stay away.”  Once I began to open doors and explore
outside the house, it was child’s play to open the gate in the fence and do
some serious exploring.  I quickly
learned to take the dog with me so no one would notice I was gone.
My exploration
of kindergarten began in September 1953. 
I looked over my classmates for a suitable playmate (I mean classmate)
with which to be friends and chose a girl of all people, Sandra Flora.  I loved to color and play with all the messy
artistic stuff.  In first grade, Sandra
and I were sent to a fifth grade class to be an example to the other kids on
how to work quietly.  I’m sure I did not
measure up to the teacher’s expectations as I kept getting out of my seat,
quietly of course, and going to the book shelves trying to find a book with
lots of pictures.  Being unsuccessful in
finding a book to keep me interested, I think the teacher became frustrated and
eventually sent us back to our class.
Now enter 1956, I (a newly arrived eight-year
old), was sent to live on my grandparents farm in central Minnesota while my
parents were arranging their divorce. 
Suddenly, I had a whole farm to explore that summer (and ultimately),
autumn, winter, and spring in rotation. 
Eighty acres of new frontier for the world’s greatest explorer and
trapper to collect beautiful animal pelts and bring them in for the women back
east to wear.  (Okay, so they really were
not bison or bear pelts, but if an 8-year old boy squints, just right, under
the proper lighting conditions, gopher skins can look just like bison or bear
hides only smaller.)
1956
was the year of my awakening to the expanded world of exploring everything on
the farm: the barn, milk house, hayloft, silo, chicken coop guarded by a
vicious rooster, granary, workshop (nice adult stuff in there), equipment shed
where various farm implements were stored until needed, and the outhouse (the
stink you “enjoyed” twice a day).  State
and county fair time brought other places to explore: animal barns for varieties
of chickens, pigs, cows, sheep, horses, etc., judging of canning, 4-H, displays
of quilts, new farm machinery (tractors, balers, rakes, yucky manure spreaders,
thrashers, and combines), and of course the midway in the evenings.
As
summer waned and school began, I met and made a few friends. 
I rode
a school bus for three years in Los Angeles so that was not new.  One of my neighboring farm friends and I were
part of the “space race” as we would design rocket ships every evening and then
compare them on the bus ride to school the next morning.  Another farm boy and I did a bit of exploring
of another type while riding the bus to school with our coats covering our
crotches (use your imagination—and “No” we never were caught).
Another
schoolyard “exploratory” activity involved games.  One favorite among all male students (townies
and farm boys) was marbles.  Our version
involved scooping out a shallow depression next to the wall of the school,
placing the marbles we wanted to risk (bet) into the depression, and then
stepping back a distance (which increased with each turn) and attempting to
roll a “shooter” into the depression so it stayed.  If more than one boy’s shooter stayed in, the
two “winners” would roll again from a greater distance and repeat the process
until there was only one shooter in the depression.  The winner would then collect all the marbles
in the hole and the betting process would begin again.  Sadly, I don’t remember the name of this
game.
The
second game we called Stretch.  I can’t
speak for the townies, but all self-respecting farm boys had a small pocket
knife in one of his pockets all the time (including at school).  In this game two boys would face each other
and one would start by throwing his knife at the ground at a distance
calculated to be beyond the reach of the other boy’s leg.  If the knife didn’t stick, it was retrieved
and the other boy took his turn.  If the
knife stuck, the other boy would have to “stretch” one leg/foot to touch the
knife all the while keeping the other leg/foot firmly in place where he had
been standing.  If he was successful in
touching the knife without moving the other foot, he retrieved the knife,
returned it to its owner, and then took his turn of throwing the knife.  If he could not touch the knife, he lost the
game and another boy would take his place challenging the winner.
The
third and fourth games were “King of the Hill” and snowball fights (obviously
reserved for winter recess).  I trust I do
not need to describe these.  In all of
these games, we boys were “exploring” our limits or increasing our skills.
The
elementary part of this school was of the old style, a “square” three-story
edifice with one classroom located at each of the corners of the first two
floors and storage rooms on the third floor. 
The restrooms were in the basement and (miracles of miracles) the rope
to ring the bell up in the cupola on the roof ran all the way into the boys’
restroom.  “Yes,” even during a pee break
(raise one finger and wait for permission) I would occasionally “just have to”
“explore” pulling on that rope and then run back to class, (mischievous is in a
boy’s job description).
Once I turned 10, I began to explore the woods
around our home sites in South Lake Tahoe. 
My Boy Scout Troop provided many opportunities to explore not only the
great outdoors but also my own leadership skills and camping abilities.  About this time, I also began to explore
other boys; not sexually, but socially; learning to interact with them and developing
an understanding of what “boy culture” is and is not.  Well, to be completely honest, of course
there was a little pubescent sex play occasionally, but not on troop hikes or
campouts.
During
those halcyon days of early adolescence, more and more I learned that it is not
what a person looks like on
the outside but what a person is
on the inside that really matters. 
Therefore, I now explore the minds of new acquaintances by getting to
know them enough to determine if they are friend or faux material.
Those
early years of exploring my environment’s people, places, and things shaped my
personality and instilled within my mind, a large dose of curiosity combined
with a love of knowledge.  Those who know
me best can certify that I ponder on the strangest things or ask unexpected
questions on unusual topics in my searches for answers.  If that bothers some people, it is just too
bad, because this is who I am; a curious little boy trapped in an adult body.
© 29 April 2013 
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 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
Posted on

Drifting, Not Adrift by Nicholas

Drifting calls to me. It is one of my
all-time favorite images. I picture easy summer days, though this can occur in
any season, of floating along with the tide or the current. No resistance
though there is movement. Drifting along on an inner tube in a stream. Drifting
snowflakes. Drifting into day dreams. Drifting conjures up images of movement,
movement in a fluid environment, like floating in water. It appeals to me
perhaps because floating is the only thing I actually can do in water.
          Drifting is
not like being adrift. Being adrift is to be aimless and not necessarily moving
at all. Being adrift is akin to being lost whereas drifting is a more
imaginative state of seeking.
Sometimes I think I have been
drifting through most of my life since unlike a lot of other people I never
adopted a certain, single career path that I pursued devotedly–or slavishly–but
have pursued a number of careers. And I never tied myself down with raising
children, seeing the little ones grow because I helped make them grow,
following a course until they went out on their own. I guess I attach a lot of
freedom to drifting. I’ve always had a lot of freedom in my life—freedom to
move on to another place, start or stop a job or a career, make or end
relationships—without being constrained by too many responsibilities.
          Of course, my
life hasn’t been completely unmoored, untethered, without anchor. Being with
Jamie for the last 27 years has certainly brought me out of my self-indulgent
freedom now that I plan life changes with him and not just on my own whims. And
that change has been good as well.
          Now, that in
some ways, my drifting days are over, drifting is even more a state of mind
with my imagination conjuring up memories of wandering. I used to spend days
wandering or drifting around the Northern California coast on Point Reyes or on
the slopes of Mt. Tamaulipas. I used to drift about the fascinations and splendors
of San Francisco. I once spent a summer drifting through the Sierra Nevada mountains.
How nice it was to just drift along, letting the stream carry me, sometimes
literally, to whatever lay around the next bend. Drifting is a form of
exploring.
          Not many
people these days or at my age seem to think of life as an act of exploring. But
that is sometimes the only way I seem to be able to see it. We are all, after
all, just drifting from somewhere to somewhere else or maybe nowhere at all.
          Later this
afternoon you might find me at home, drifting off to sleep

© July
2014

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.


Posted on

Some Ramblng Explorations by Ray S

It was during the summer of his eighth year. Father had set up camp for the family at the Indiana Sand Dunes State Park. Close enough so he could commute into the city and be with the family all weekend. When you’re that young you take a lot for granted and looking back now it is amazing to realize how well planned and engineered the little camp community was. Besides his family, mother, father, and older brother, there were three other families that met at the camp grounds each summer. All with various canvas domiciles. One was even a real circus tent with the interior sub divided by sheets hung on clothes line to allow for some degree of privacy and decorum. But nothing in his mind could compare with Father’s layout.

There were three of the latest no-center-pole square tents. If memory doesn’t fail, they were interestingly or curiously named Dickey Bird tents. Father set the two tents up facing each other with the front flaps joining to make a dining-sitting area–the sides draped with a zippered doorway and made of something called ”bobbinette.” All of this was set upon a 6 inch high wooden deck to keep the sand out and dry in case of rain. The T bird tent was for him and his brother.

The little kids would go swimming, or learned to swim assisted by adults in beautiful Lake Michigan–oblivious of the nearby steel mills of Gary.

There were exploring expeditions in the shore line sand hills collecting little pails full of wild blueberries which Mother made into wonderful pies for the crew’s communal dinners. And, yes, she baked them in a fireside tin oven. The lady was quite adept at camping culinary cuisine.

Usually on the 2nd of July a pit was dug a little way from the tents. About 5 feet square and 4 feet deep. Then the men would build a big fire and keep it going until morning when there would be a goodly pile of hot coals. Fresh ham roasts, loins and pork ribs were seasoned and wrapped tightly in layers of butcher paper followed by three layers of wet burlap sacks, all tied and bound. The bundles were lowered into the pit of coals and then covered over with the excavated soil.

The next day the 4th of July was celebrated with everyone enjoying the pit roasted barbecue and all the trimmings.

Brother and his buddies all went down to the lakeside in hopes of finding some teenage romance. The little kids sat around the campfire watching the adults doing what adults do when it is party time and celebrating the demise of prohibition.

Summer at camp, swim and play, and know there would never be an end to those happy days.

But he does recall how everybody became so quiet and spoke in hushed voices one day. He finally asked Mother and Father why this change in the people’s mood. One of the families actually had a car radio and had heard the announcement of the plane crash and subsequent deaths of the pilot–one Wiley Post and his passenger friend Will Rogers. This was the major national tragedy of the time, the Great Depression not withstanding.

Exploring the childhood days of the early half of the 20th century has led from blueberries, sand and camp to realities of the Graf Zepplin at Lakehurst, the soup kitchens and bread lines in all the cities, the underworlds personalities of John Dillinger, Al Capone, Bonnie and Clyde, the rise of totalitarian governments in Europe and the Orient, and the ultimate reality, World War II.

So much for exploring. On to our next topic “No Good Will Come of It.”

About the Author

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Exploring by Michael King

In my fantasies I perceive myself as one who would explore places, ideas and experiences. Then I remember being in the Amazon and knew that without a guide I would get hopelessly lost. With that in mind I realize that in most areas except in reading books, checking out Google or in conversation I probably need a guide. Merlyn is the perfect guide and has had phenomenal experiences, is knowledgeable in computers and anything mechanical and has traveled and lived all over the mainland 48 states. I on the other hand was (and mostly still am) computer illiterate, non-mechanical and have no idea geographically the distance between one city and another or even the configuration of the states east of the Mississippi. I guess I’m not much of an explorer when it comes to even looking at a map. However, in areas of the spirit, aesthetics, design, color, cooking, feelings and ideals I have a world of my own and explore where few have or would even be interested.
For the most part I don’t even think in a language and probably wouldn’t be able to effectively communicate my inner world to another person nor can I imagine anyone even being interested.

The first time I traveled outside the western United States was when I was in the military. I took photographs while I was in Thailand. They were really excellent and I was so proud to show them to my family both as images representing where I had traveled and as artistic photography. I never did get anyone to even look at them. They weren’t interested. From that time until Merlyn insisted that I use his camera to take a few shots of my paintings and my apartment did I ever use a camera again. Looking back I realize that in Thailand, in the Philippines and in many other places around the world I have done a lot of exploring, especially if I thought I could ask directions if I got lost. I didn’t feel that way in the Amazon or in parts of Africa where I felt I needed a guide. I feel I also need a guide with the computer and not just once but repeatedly.

Exploring the inner world there is a kind of guidance but I only realized that after many years. In research I often find that I am limited by the authors of the material that is either in the library or on the internet. The key there is figuring how to locate what I’m looking for. These days I’m too occupied with activities and relationship to do much serious exploration using books or even the computer.

We spend most of our time exploring antique and junk stores. I am surprised at what one can find in a thrift store. We check out museums, places of interest as we travel and we explore each other’s memories and experiences.

The attitude I have now is to fully experience today and explore the possibilities that exist in the moment. Sharing that with someone makes each day a process of discovery, freshness and exploration.

April 29, 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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Exploring by Merlyn

I have always loved to explore someplace I have never been before. The places I have been that I think about the most are the places I have just stumbled on.

We did not see anyone for three days at small lake in Utah. We were parked under a big tree with a cool breeze coming off the water that kept the bugs away from a clearing that went into the clean water. We had the freedom to be naked and do anything we wanted.

Michael and I are planning on taking a couple of trips this summer. The first one will be a short sentimental journey for Michael that will give us a few destinations in places that he hasn’t been to in 50 years. Michael grew up in Truth or Consequences NM; he went to college in Silver City NM and taught School in Artesia NM. We will spend most of our time south of Albuquerque in southern New Mexico

The rest of the time we plan on just wandering exploring places we have never been. Stopping in small towns and checking out the antique stores, galleries, and museums. The most interesting places we found on the last trip was from talking to people, asking them what there is to see and what they like to do in the area.

If everything works out OK we are planning a road trip east into New England in the fall. I haven’t been in DC in 30 years so I want to stop there for a day or so and see the new monuments that weren’t there then. We are talking about driving up the eastern seaboard from Delaware north then back across upstate New York. Michael wants to see Niagara Falls.

The rest of the time we will just wander.

An ex girl friend sent me the article she cut out of some paper and the picture she took of me on a trip we went on together in the early 80s along the Canadian border in Washington.
She called it “All that wander are not lost.”

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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Some Rambling Explorations by Ray S

It was during the summer of his eighth year. Father had set up camp for the family at the Indiana Sand Dunes State Park. Close enough so he could commute into the city and be with the family all weekend. When you’re that young you take a lot for granted and looking back now it is amazing to realize how well planned and engineered the little camp community was. Besides his family, mother, father, and older brother, there were three other families that met at the campgrounds each summer. All with various canvas domiciles. One was even a real circus tent with the interior sub divided by sheets hung on clothesline to allow for some degree of privacy and decorum. But nothing in his mind could compare with Father’s layout.

There were three of the latest no-center-pole square tents. If memory doesn’t fail, they were interestingly or curiously named Dickey Bird tents. Father set the two tents up facing each other with the front flaps joining to make a dining-sitting area–the sides draped with a zippered doorway and made of something called ”bobbinet.” All of this was set upon a 6-inch high wooden deck to keep the sand out and dry in case of rain. The T-bird tent was for him and his brother.

The little kids would go swimming, or learned to swim assisted by adults in beautiful Lake Michigan–oblivious of the nearby steel mills of Gary.

There were exploring expeditions in the shoreline sand hills collecting little pails full of wild blueberries, which Mother made into wonderful pies for the crew’s communal dinners. And, yes, she baked them in a fireside tin oven. The lady was quite adept at camping culinary cuisine.

Usually on the 2nd of July a pit was dug a little way from the tents. About 5-feet square and 4-feet deep. Then the men would build a big fire and keep it going until morning when there would be a goodly pile of hot coals. Fresh ham roasts, loins and pork ribs were seasoned and wrapped tightly in layers of butcher paper followed by three layers of wet burlap sacks, all tied and bound. The bundles were lowered into the pit of coals and then covered over with the excavated soil.

The next day, the 4th of July was celebrated with everyone enjoying the pit roasted barbecue and all the trimmings.

Brother and his buddies all went down to the lakeside in hopes of finding some teenage romance. The little kids sat around the campfire watching the adults doing what adults do when it is party time and celebrating the demise of prohibition.


Summer at camp, swim and play, and know there would never be an end to those happy days.

But he does recall how everybody became so quiet and spoke in hushed voices one day. He finally asked Mother and Father why this change in the people’s mood. One of the families actually had a car radio and had heard the announcement of the plane crash and subsequent deaths of the pilot–one Wiley Post and his passenger friend, Will Rogers. This was the major national tragedy of the time, the Great Depression notwithstanding.

Exploring the childhood days of the early half of the 20th century has led from blueberries, sand and camp to realities of the Graf Zeppelin at Lakehurst, the soup kitchens and bread lines in all the cities, the underworlds personalities of John Dillinger, Al Capone, Bonnie and Clyde, the rise of totalitarian governments in Europe and the Orient, and the ultimate reality, World War II.

So much for exploring. On to our next topic, “No Good Will Come of It.”

© 1 May 2013

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