Tag: Family

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Pack Rat, by Louis Brown

You could say my parents were a kind of pack rats. They inherited a large volume of furnishings, oil paintings, gowns, chinaware, crystal ware, jewelry, silverware and a large volume of 19th century photographs. My mother tried desperately to sort the photos out and put them in chronological order. Since there was just too much, she finally gave up.

The photos depicted the members of two prominent puritanical families, the Browns and the Wilcox’s. Actually they were Presbyterians. Prudence Aldrich’s portrait was particularly intriguing. She looked particularly dour. My grandmother told me that she looked “dour” and “bitter” because she had had lost three children in childbirth, i.e. 3 miscarriages, 3 still births. So despite her otherwise comfortable circumstances, she was not a happy person. Prudence was born toward the end of the 18th century and lived to be ninety years old. Prudence’s husband was the right reverend James Bishop Wilcox who founded the Middlebury Presbyterian Seminary in Middlebury, Vermont.

My parents were poor, my grandparents were poor, but my great grandfather was a millionaire. His name was Captain Francis Leicester Brown who served in the Unin Army in the Civil War. Mark Hanna of the Republican Party of post-civil war USA offered my great grandfather an opportunity to become a U. S. presidential candidate. My great grandfather turned him down. Francis Leicester tended to give his money to the union soldier veterans in his regiment, to set them up in business or just to pay bills. By the time he died there was not much left to leave his son, my grandfather, Arthur August Brown.

I remember that, among the chinaware, there were several sets of Limoges demi-tasse cups that were truly magnificent works of art. And the Wedgwood blue chocolate pitcher and the Wedgwood green cream pitcher with the dryads dancing on the outside. And the dazzling sterling silverware. And then the jewelry. During the last 4 years of my father’s life, DeWitt Brown became senile and suspicious. He let perfect strangers run around our house. I could not live home all the time. My father never listened to me. I told my brothers in California about my father’s self-destructive behaviors, but they did not believe me.

Included in the vast pile of papers were signed letters from President Abraham Lincoln. Another letter signed Aaron Burr (my great great great great uncle). Another letter was written by Horace Greeley that he had sent to Karl Marx. How it got back into the Brown papers I do not know.

Another antique was a sampler stitched by my great great great great grandmother, Hannah Hopkins Hodge, Prudence Aldrich’s mother. She spelled out a fifteen line religious poem, then the alphabet in capital then small letters. She finished the sampler on her 13th birthday, May 10th, 1819, according to the sampler. So the sampler was not only dated, it gave the birthday of the young girl who completed it. An appraiser saw the sampler and said it was worth a small fortune and belonged in a museum.

By the time my father died, all this stuff had disappeared. I could have opened a Victorian museum with the Victorian furnishings and documents I had. And then, if my father’s visitors were out to exploit him, how could any of them been educated enough to understand the actual value of these documents and antiques?

Francis Leicester Brown’s father was Hiram Brown who was a multi-millionaire due to the success of the Shortsville Drill Company, a precursor of what later became the International Harvester Company. He was also founder of the Owosso Manufacturing Company, in Owosso, Michigan. He founded another profitable company in Chanute, Kansas. But he continued to live in Shortsville, NY. Hiram’s father was Charles Brown, a poor farmer.

Pack rats are usually very poor and accumulate piles of junk to symbolize imaginary wealth. My parents do not quite fit that definition, but we did sort of live in a past of affluence and social status. Also did you know there is a category of elder abuse called “exploitation of the elderly.” It should be taken seriously although my brothers did not take me seriously.

© April 2017

About the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

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Eye Contact, by Gillian

My father spoke a million words to me through his eyes, which is as well because he rarely spoke to me or anyone else in words. He was a very quiet man, but his silence always seemed to me to be one of contentment; a positive silence rather than a negative one, if you get my drift.

He had, I suspect, very sexy eyes. But I prefer not to go there. It makes our eye contact intimacy seem somehow slightly incestuous, so let’s just say he had very expressive eyes. I really could read them like a book. It was only in recent years that I began to wonder if he could read mine as eloquently. I hope so. I think, perhaps just because I want to think, that it must have been so. That wonderful eye-conversation that I remember couldn’t have been one-way, or worse still imaginary, could it?

His ocular eloquence shared with me his joy in newborn puppies or kittens – common creatures in my childhood, before prevention became a necessity. It also conveyed the beauty he saw in a sleek new car, and heard in it’s purring engine. In a time and place when foxes were only good for shooting, I remember us going out one snowy morning and finding a fluffy red fox curled under the holly bush. Dad put a hand gently on my arm to stop me going any closer, gestured with his head towards the animal, and said, with his eyes: Just look at the beauty of that creature. Just look! If we leave very quietly maybe he’ll stay there. In unison we backed silently away and returned to the house. I thought he would take Mom to look. But his eyes said, you give your mother this special gift. YOU take her and show her. Which I did, and by some miracle the fox was still there, though at my mother’s squeak of delighted surprise, he left; a sleek red streak across the snow.

When it was time to kill an old hen for the pot, Dad’s eyes screamed at me. I can’t do it! I can’t. But why? they begged. Why? I’m a MAN. I’m supposed to do it. Then they whispered. I’m ashamed. My mother did it many times. Why can’t I? I do so hope that my eyes replied. I fervently hope that he read in them: I’m proud that you can’t kill things. I love you for it. And the last thing I want you to be is anything like your mean hateful mother!

What I said, in words, was, ‘I’ll get Mr. Jones.’

Jack Jones was our neighbor, a farmer well versed in the killing arts. I knew he would do it without a second thought and without any judgmental commentary. My dad worked tirelessly to keep Mr. Jones’s ancient tractor running and was owed a few favors.

As I left I couldn’t manage to escape my father’s eyes, now brimming with apology.

Sorry love, they said, I’m even too ashamed to ask him myself. I have to send you to do it for me.

Our very best eye-chats always involved my mother; completely unbeknownst to her. I firmly believe that not once in her entire life did she catch on to our endless silent conversations, so often with her as their subject. Many were variations of a single theme – don’t let Mum know how unsuccessful are most of her efforts at handicrafts, cooking, etc

For example. After weeks, months, of agonized efforts, my mother has finally finished knitting me a pair of gloves.

‘There!’ she cries, triumphantly, dropping them on my lap.

The day I have dreaded has arrived.

One quick glance tells me they don’t look exactly like a pair. I glance desperately at my father and immediately my dread turns to an almost uncontrollable need to giggle.

Go on. Be brave, his twinkling brown eyes instruct me. Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks. Though … they continue ….. I rather think it might be!

But not a WORD, they continue, the now stern gaze increasing my urge to giggle.

And show some gratitude, they conclude.

‘Ooooh, Mum, thank you thank you,’ my five-year-old voice squealed in excitement as I hugged her. She tssk’d me away as if it had only been an hour’s effort and wasn’t worth mentioning.

Unable to come up with further delaying tactics, I sat back down and picked up the gloves. I began to pull one on my left hand, then decided the other must be the left. But was it? I glanced anxiously into those eyes across the hearth.

Steady as you go, they said. Easy does it. Don’t forget to smile.

Carefully I urged my little hand into the even littler glove. It was very tight and as it stretched it displayed a dropped stitch right in the center of the palm.

There! said my dad’s eyes, triumphantly. Now you’ll always know which is the left!

The anxiety fled and the giggles returned.

I wriggled my fingers, with considerable effort, into the too-tight, too-short finger tubes.

Oh well, not so bad, I replied silently. At least I hope I did. I couldn’t do this without you: your wonderful love and humor, I hope I added.

But that left the thumb. Where was it to go? I slithered my thumb around, searching for a hole. Ah! There! No, that was the dropped stitch in the palm. After what seemed like minutes, I managed to jamb my thumb into a distorted and very miss-located little tube, causing considerable discomfort.

Triumphantly I held my gloved hand out in front of me, the way ladies of old do when trying on soft, leather, hundred-dollar gloves in the movies. My dad and I both beamed at my mother.

‘By ‘eck,’ said my father, driven, I think, by true admiration for both Mum and me, though for different reasons.

He beamed encouragement at me. One down and one to go! said the eyes.

Turned out, the right hand was easy. It was huge.

‘I thought perhaps I got the other just a bit too small so I added a few stitches.’ Mum announced proudly.

My hand was lost in the wide woolly spaces. How would I ever keep it on? If I wore it I would lose it the first day.

Doesn’t matter, Dad’s eyes replied, you know neither of us wear your mother’s creations once we’re out of sight. You’ll just put them in your pocket and have cold hands. Like we always do.

Dad and I gazed at each other in mutual satisfaction.

Driven to verbosity for the second time in two minutes, he avowed, ‘That’s grrrrand!’

My happiest memories, and in fact the majority of all my memories, of my father, are centered on what I now see as a true gift we had in our silent communication. Without it, I wonder now, how would I ever have known my silent father? Perhaps we developed it because of his lack of words? I shall never know, just as I shall never know if our conversations were truly two-way.

I shall simply choose to believe they were, and the eye contact with my dad will always be one of the true miracles of my life.

© December 2016

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

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The Recliner, by Nicholas


Last week I mentioned that my heroes include my parents, whom I strive to emulate in many ways. One of those ways is napping.


When I was a kid, my mother worked so I and my sisters had chores to do in getting dinner ready like cooking a pot of potatoes and setting the table. Mom would come home and put the finishing touches on dinner. We would all gather and share dinner and then Mom would put things away as I or my sisters washed the dishes.


Then Mom would go upstairs and change out of her work clothes and into a nice warm caftan and her slippers for an evening of relaxing.


If it wasn’t my night to wash dishes, right after dinner I’d head to the big recliner in the living room, put my feet up using the wood crank on the side to lift the footrest and read or watch TV. I knew it was my only chance to get into that chair because it was Mom’s chair. She only needed to walk over to the chair, look at whoever was occupying it, and you knew your time was up. My father knew never even to try but we kids would steal a few minutes now and then. We might pretend to resist but just a glance from Mom was enough to enforce her prior right to the recliner. Objections were made only in jest. I would, in grumpy kid fashion, of course yield, put down my feet, slowly rise from the chair, and find somewhere else to sit. She would joke how I’d warmed it up nicely for her.


Mom took to her recliner like it was her nightly throne. Putting her legs up on the raised footrest, she would read the newspaper or watch some TV. Many times she would pull out her favorite rosary and say her prayers, a habit she continued from her mother who prayed many rosaries every day.


Pretty soon, however, the recliner triumphed. Mom’s head would droop forward or to the side, her eyes closed, rosary beads lying still in her hands. After a bit of a snooze, she would awake all refreshed and act like nothing had happened. She joined in any conversation going on and then continued her prayers or watching TV. I marveled at how watching TV did not seem to interfere with her prayers nor vice versa.


I don’t own a recliner but I do have a Morris chair in my living room which can be adjusted to almost recliner levels. After dinner, while Jamie cleans up, I stretch out in my chair. Rarely do I have to chase Jamie out of it. He knows whose chair this is. I don’t say rosaries and there is no TV to watch but I do sometimes wrap myself in a cozy, light wool blanket on a cold evening as I settle in to do some reading. I read until the book starts to droop along with my eyelids which eventually shut as I doze off. After a short time, the book clatters to the floor, rudely waking me up. And then I’m good for a few more chapters.


© January 2017

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.

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Greens, by Gillian

Sitting on the patio writing this, I see at least twenty-five shades of green in the plants around me without really looking very hard. Several of them are in the spruce trees, though, and we call them blue, so maybe I’m cheating a little. So I’ll leave them out. Even without them there is still an amazing display of innumerable varieties of greens.

Green was my mother’s favorite color. Now, personally, sorry Mum, I find choosing one color as a favorite quite ridiculous. All colors are incredible in their endless shades of beauty. But she couldn’t help herself. She taught first graders all her life and it’s simply one of the many silly things you ask little kids. What’s your favorite color/animal/food? in turn necessitating choosing one yourself.

On the more sensible side of my mother, however, I don’t recall her ever saying anything as foolish as, be sure to eat your greens! I’m not sure that we had much concept of greens supposedly being an essential part of a healthy diet back in the distant days of my childhood.

We just ate what was available whenever it was until it was gone, and on to the next. I don’t think anyone valued green beans or lettuce over orange carrots or yellow onions.

One of my stepsons, however, went through a phase during which he abhorred all green food. I, even in my pre-destined role of evil stepmother, never insisted he eat his greens. But my husband was not to be so easily deterred from the rightness of things, and insisted.

‘But it’s greeeeen’, wailed Davie, in tears every time beans or peas, lettuce or spinach, appeared on his plate. It was not a dislike of vegetables per se, but simply anything green. This was aptly demonstrated in a masterful stroke of vindictiveness by his sister when she sweet-talked her friend’s innocent mother into making him a green birthday cake, which he greeted with howls and tears and steadfastly refused to eat.

Now, fifty years later, he grows, and eats, all manner of green things and has no memory of what it was he ever had against them.

Whatever it was I doubt it came down in his DNA because his grandmother, mother of my ex-husband, loved to cook collard greens. She fried bacon, then tossed the leaves into the pan and stirred it all up into a greasy green mess which, I am forced to confess, was delicious, though I can feel my arteries grinding to a halt just at the memory.

These days, of course, green is synonymous with healthy: good. We have MAD Greens restaurants, and Green Superfood for sale, the Green Ride to DIA, the U.S. Green Building Council, and green energy. We even have a Green Party to vote for in November. Green is in; green is good.

But I wouldn’t be too sure it will last. After all, we have a long history of believing that the grass is always greener somewhere else!

© August 2016

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

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Family, by Ricky

Too many choices to pick from. Which family should I write about – my growing up family, my waiting for the divorce family, my step-father family, my Boy Scout family, my married family, or my widower family? I have actually written about all of these “my families” before so if you want to read of them again look up my past stories on the SAGE blog or my personal blog.

So this leaves me with only my LGBT family to write about. I did not list LGBTQ because I don’t know of any Q’s in my LGBT family unless I make the Q stand for “queer” instead of “questioning”. I also did not list the “LGBTQ alphabet” written about by Will a couple of years ago because, if I did write about it, I would still be here reading it to you when you came back next week and would still not be finished.

In the vernacular of the times, it appears that the LGBT “family” is referred to as a “community”. In a particular viewpoint, community is correct as a metaphor. After all towns and cities are made up of neighborhoods and communities of biological families or individuals. LGBT communities are made up of non-biological groups / ”families” of lesbians, gays, bisexuals, and transgenders; each category which also has sub-categories of preferences.

Since LGBT marriages are now legal, there will also be legitimate biological LGBT families with children either natural or adopted. These relationships existed before but were not usually sanctioned by law or the hetero communities they lived within.

There was a time in the not distant past (which may come again) when gays were persecuted. When meeting together in public places they would talk among themselves using female names do disguise the fact they were gay. This practice continues to this day in the modified version of calling each other “girl”. I personally dislike the practice because, I am gay but I am definitely not a girl.

To close on a positive note, I have a gay friend who if he wants to know if someone is gay will ask, “Is he family.”

© 5 September 2016

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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My Favorite Gay Role Model, by Ricky

This should be an interesting topic
for our story group.  I can imagine that
there will be several gay role models written about; perhaps, one for each of
the group members.  But, I can also
imagine there will be some members who, like me, have no gay role models.  In which case, it will be interesting to see
how those group members respond to this topic.
        As far back in
time as I can remember, I only met one gay man (Jim Nabors) that might have
become a role model but, was not.  The
problem was two-fold.  First, I did not
know he was gay until decades later and second, I did not know (or admit to
myself) I was gay until decades later.
        In my pre-teen
years, I did get to watch Liberace, if he was a featured guest on someone’s TV
show.  I did notice his flamboyant costume and signature candelabra sitting on top of his grand piano and thought it was
strange when compared to other pianists I had seen in movies or on TV.  However, no adult ever mentioned that he was
probably a homosexual in my presence.  It
would have been strange if they had brought up a sexual topic to me at that
age.  If fact, the only people who did
speak about sex were my peers when we finally reached puberty and began to
share forbidden information, magazines, and photos taken from our fathers’
“hidden stashes”.
        In high school,
I did not know any gay males.  In
college, while I did mentally lust after a few males in my dorm, I did not act on the
feelings because I was afraid of being labeled “queer” and, at that time, I was
terribly shy and did not know how to make friends, straight or otherwise.  After I married, there was very little
incentive to even mentally lust after males. 
So, it was easy to consider myself “normal” and not homosexual.  Besides, I really did want a family.
        Like many gay
men of my generation, marriage was expected by society and it became a place to
hide one’s orientation and consciously or unconsciously suppress the
desires.  Thus, during the marriage
period for me there was no opportunity to develop a relationship with a gay
person, so no role model appeared.
        At my current
age, I am fairly set in my ways and I have yet to find or (in my opinion) to
need a gay role model.  I obtained role
models when I was young.  Not human role
models, but philosophical role models. 
·      
If
you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything.  (I don’t follow this one all the time, in
fact never did follow it exclusively.)
·      
Do
unto others as you want them to do unto you.
And then came the philosophical role models that still
dominate my life:
·      
The
Boy Scout Oath and the Scout Law. These two underpinnings were cemented in
place by my joining the LDS Church.
This is why I am the nice-guy I am.
        The Boy Scout
program stopped me from becoming a juvenile delinquent.  I was already on the path to become one
because I had no parental supervision and lots of time for my idle hands to
find the “Devil’s workshop.”  I could say
that my scoutmasters were my role models at the time I needed a role
model.  It was a pity that they did not
know I was sexually confused and they were not gay.  Who knows what or who I may have become if
they had un-confused me at that age.
©
23 February 2015 
About the Author 
I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale
and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I was sent to live 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.
My story blog is: TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com 
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Eavesdrop Follow Up, by Ray S

At lunch the other day I was concentrating on my ham on rye when I couldn’t avoid overhearing two men on the adjoining bar stools. Maybe their two-martini lunches encouraged their animated conversation when one exclaimed to the other, “But I don’t understand, how after all these years she could do that to Harry? What about the business? What about the children?”

His friend responded, “She’s been that way all her life—so they say.” I wonder who ‘they’ were and why Harry didn’t have a clue.

“Guess not, be damned if the two of them aren’t friendly with each other, all three of them, that is.”

The next response was something like: “Look, you ought to know. You’re married. Women are so flighty and unpredictable, like lovey dovey and then ‘Not tonight, I’ve got a headache,’ or ‘We did it last Wednesday.’”

I’ve got experience, what with a wife and two daughters. I can’t figure them out. So I just grin and bear it. The other guy followed with something like, “I’d throw the bitch out—after marriage counseling. Ha!”

By this time the ham on rye was finished and so was I. I felt like an intruder, unwanted guest, and personally imposed upon by their noise. I picked up my check and headed for the cashier, and back to the office. Somehow the experience at lunch hung over my thoughts all afternoon—so much so that that evening I called a longtime friend who is a counselor at the GLBT Center here in town. She and her partner were the first lesbians I ever met and a real eye opening pleasure for a straight man.

We talked for quite awhile. The over-heard story at lunch time made me wonder too about their question—idle curiosity I guess, because when I met Nel and Liz I simply accepted them as another new couple of acquaintances to add to my list of good friends.

Nel was quite open in her reply—after she regained her composure from smiling knowingly and a controlled laugh. “Jim,” she replied, “It isn’t that complicated, just a lifetime of misguided, badly twisted, confusing thoughts about who you really are. And that condition isn’t exclusively homosexual information. From our previous talks about you and Doris, it is something that comes early or sometimes late in life. It’s the relationship between two people who have discovered how much they mean to each other, not how much they need each other. Being needy isn’t being in love, so perhaps the woman who was the subject of your accidental eavesdropping had that epiphany and started to live honestly and authentically with her new wife.”

“Nel, I thank you from the bottom of my heart and with that same heart wish that your thoughts could penetrate the alcohol hanging over those two guys’ heads. And maybe filter through to their unfortunate wives.”

Next time I’ll pass on lunch at the bar. Think I’ll take Doris to lunch. The company will be superior, and I’ll be with my most-loved one.

© 18 July 2016

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Jealousy, by Betsy

Searching my soul I can say that at this point in my life I do not feel any jealousy. It’s hard to be jealous when at the same time I am happy, and at peace, and content. It has not always been that way, however.

From day one I felt like I was in a competition with my brother 1 and 1/2 years older than I.

He was the first-born, he was the ever important son, and, it turned out, the only son in the family. My brother, Whitford, growing up was allowed to go here and there as he pleased. While I, being a girl, had nowhere near the freedom he enjoyed. My jealousy was tempered however by the fact that Whit was assigned by my mother to look after me in certain situations like walking to school, or on the playground, or in the halls of our high school. I loved having an older brother I knew would be there for me if needed. I don’t remember ever being in a situation where I needed him to come to my rescue. But it was very comforting to know help was available if I needed it. In spite of all that I was jealous of his relative freedom, and more important, the abundance of love I was convinced he received for free and that I had to earn. Whether this feeling was justified or not, I am not sure. I think that my sense that I had to earn what he got for just being had to do with order of birth in the family and perhaps our gender difference.

I do not fault my parents for the difference that I sensed. I have written about the compatibility that my father and I had. He and my brother did not enjoy that same bond. Why, I don’t know.

My brother was not excluded. We often did things as a family. But when Dad and I went off on an adventure, Whit simply was not interested.

Sibling jealousy, it seems to me, is a very common family dynamic. I was not jealous of my sister, however. Perhaps I have had twinges of envy in some of my lower moments of adulthood, but I do not remember any jealousy as a youngster. That is probably due to the fact that she is 8 years younger than I. Because of the age difference, I was HER caretaker often being assigned baby sitting duties in her younger years. She was not an easy child to manage either, and I didn’t have much power over her. She could carry on and scream louder than anyone I had ever come across. Alas, ‘though, that was childhood. She grew up to be a beautiful person and she is still that today.

Another object of jealousy I remember was not directed toward any specific person in my life or even a person I was acquainted with. When I began to wake up and become aware of my true sexuality and at the same time married to Bill, when we were out in public places I would always notice when two women were together. I could usually tell by the way they looked at each other or touched—as if I had a super sensitive antenna—I could tell if they were in a lesbian relationship. I can remember this happening a couple of times. I felt jealous of the women and what they had together. This, needless to say, was during the period when my marriage began to fail.

Now, in the autumn of my life (it’s really winter, isn’t it), my jealousy is directed toward simple things like young people who don’t have an aching back, hips, knees, and shoulders, have endless energy to do all the things I still want to do.

And last but not least, there are those moments when I wish I could be as good a storyteller and as good a writer as many of you in this room. But I’m not so sure that what I feel here is jealousy. I’m inclined to regard my feeling in this case as pure, unadulterated admiration.

© 18 April 2016

About the Author

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

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The LGBT Diaspora, by Louis Brown

The prompt “family”
reminds me of Hillary Clinton having once proclaimed that “It takes a village
to raise a child.” Of course, there is some truth in that. It is a reference to
what many sociologists refer to as the “extended family.” If we take this
broadening view of the “family”, we may think in terms of an extended, extended
family or Diaspora, or world-wide family. Webster’s dictionary defines
“diaspora” as “(1) (a) the dispersion of the Jews after the Babylonian exile;
(b) the Jews thus dispersed; (c) the places where they settled [and by extension] (2) any scattering of
people with a common origin, background, beliefs, etc.”
In this etc. I would definitely
include “sexual orientation”. Lesbian and gay people are everywhere in the
world. If our community could only harness the power, it would mean a better
world for us, a better world for everyone.
In the 1950’s, Senator
Joseph McCarthy, if you recall, went on an anti-communist witch-hunt and an
anti-gay witch-hunt, claiming there were communists and homosexuals in the U.
S. State Department that were trying to subvert and even overthrow the
government. For a while Senator McCarthy was taken seriously. He referred to
the international communist conspiracy as the “comintern,” that is, the
international communist movement and the international gay community as the
“homintern,” presumably meaning the homosexual international.
Many liberals would claim
there is no such thing as the “homintern”. That was just Senator McCarthy’s
overactive imagination. Au contraire,
of course there is a “homintern” although I would call it the gay and lesbian
diaspora. We do not necessarily want to overthrow governments, but we do want
liberation. Our diaspora implies that our struggle for liberation is the most
analogous to that of the Jews. All of which we should embrace exuberantly rather
than shy off for fear of enraging homophobes.
If we take a bird’s eye
view of our diaspora, we note, for instance, that the Muslim world population
is one billion one hundred million. That means that there are one hundred and
ten million lesbian and gay Muslims. Have there been any attempts to organize
these one hundred and ten million people? Yes, but so far the results are
miniscule. In New York City there is one out-of-the-closet gay male Imam. In
time there will be millions like him. The MCC church of New York City provides
a weekly meeting place for lesbian and gay Muslims in that city.
In 1995 a group of lesbian
and gay Muslims held a “congress” in London, England. It would be good if our
Denver lesbian and gay community had an expert historian who could describe
exactly what happened at that congress. More information please?
Recently when I was back
in Jackson Heights, Queens County, NYC, I attended a lesbian and gay spiritual
meeting, at which the topic was gay spirituality in the history of Islam. The
leader asked each of us in attendance what spiritual remark we would like to
make. The leader did mention Rumi*, of course. I
said I think we should remember how many people we are talking about: 1/10 of
one billion one hundred million was 110 million. The leader responded to my
comment by first saying that that was not exactly a spiritual observation and
made other comments indicating that he could not even begin to understand what
I was talking about.
I did not reply to his
evasive reaction. I felt like saying “I cannot begin to understand how you do
not understand”. We have to raise the consciousness of millions of “lesgay”
people everywhere.
Consider also the efforts
of lesbian and gay Russians to organize to resist oppression in Russia. Their
best chance is to organize in Russian colonies abroad located in more liberal
countries, such as Brighton Beach in Brooklyn, NY.
Consider also there was
even a study of gay and lesbian people in the indigenous Maori tribes of
Australia and New Zealand. Let us celebrate our ubiquity, or omnipresence
rather than fear to acknowledge the simple truth.
*Rumi
© 1 Sep 2016 
About
the Author 
I was born in 1944, I lived most of
my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for
many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration,
dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor
dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired
in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in
New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.
Posted on

Pets, by Lewis

After initially thinking I would describe a litany of the pets I have owned over my lifetime–from a dog to a hog-nosed snake to a squirrel to a parakeet–I soon became aware that I had tapped into a very deep well of sadness. More than a moment of grief, it felt as if I had broken the seal on a bottle of “despair Drambuie” that had been corked for sixty years.

Of all my pets, my most dear was the only dog I have ever owned, a mixed fox terrier puppy named Skippy. He was a gift from my maternal grandfather–the only grandparent I have ever known–on a day in May of 1955 that was totally unremarkable. There was no “occasion”. I simply arrived home from another day in the 3rd grade at Morgan Elementary to find a puppy running around the kitchen. I was told by my mother that the puppy was a gift from Granddad Homer, who was living with us but at the time nowhere to be seen.

This was not unusual for my grandfather. Although extremely generous with his money, he was a five-star miser when it came to communication. I do not remember a time when we shared a conversation, laugh, or tender touch. When he gave gifts, he always did it through a surrogate– our first TV magically appeared in our living room, my first bike was delivered by a Sears van as I sat on the front lawn, my first gun–a .410 gauge shotgun–was handed down from him through the hands of my father. When he died, approximately six months after bringing Skippy into my life, I was not allowed to attend his funeral. Since when does a 9-year-old need closure?

At first, I resented the duties that came with owning a dog. When still a puppy, I attached a leash to his halter and swung him around in the back yard as if he were on a merry-go-round. But soon, Skippy became my trusted and loyal buddy.

On Columbus Day, 1961, I was sitting at my desk doing homework after school in my bedroom. I was 15 and a high school sophomore. Mom was the TV Editor for the Hutchinson [KS] News and hadn’t yet come home. I heard Dad come in the front door and could tell something was wrong. Dad had found Skippy lying in the street dead, apparently hit by a car. His body was unmarked except for a tiny tear in his skin.

I could tell Dad was sorry for my pain. I asked him what we should do. He said we should find a spot to bury Skippy in the back yard.

Dad grabbed a shovel and I carried my dog as gently as my shaking arms would allow. We looked around for an appropriate place of internment. Somewhat baffled, Dad–who could have been the prototype for Jimmy Olsen of Superman fame–said, “Where can we bury that damn dog, anyway?” I had already steeled myself against showing one whit of emotion and his comment only steadied my resolve. We did agree on a final resting place and I placed Skippy into it, along with a piece of my heart.

I never owned another dog as long as I have lived. The pets I have had have not been of the type that one would describe as “cuddly”. They were either reptiles or amphibians, except for one brief turn with a wounded baby squirrel.

Lately, as I have been giving more thought to the notion of once again being “in relationship”, I ask myself, “What kind of person would I be happiest with?” It seems to me that the process is a lot more like selecting a breed of dog to purchase as a pet that some people might think. Am I looking for a guard dog, a lap dog, or a dog to play “fetch” with? Why, I ask myself, are most of my friends women? Why do the men I know mostly seem to be narcissists who talk only about themselves and NEVER ask a question about my life?

At the suggestion of a newly-acquired male friend, I took the online Enneagram Personality Test. I found out that I am a Type 2–The Helper. I am told “people of this type essentially feel that they are worthy insofar as they are helpful to others. Love is their highest ideal. Selflessness is their duty. Giving to others is their reason for being. Involved, socially aware, usually extroverted, Twos are the type of people who…go the extra mile to help out a co-worker, spouse or friend in need.”

Not too bad an assessment, I would say. The description of a Type 2 goes on to say, “Two’s often develop a sense of entitlement when it comes to the people closest to them. Because they have extended themselves for others, they begin to feel that gratitude is owed to them. They can become intrusive and demanding if their often unacknowledged emotional needs go unmet.”

I recoiled from this accusation upon first reading. The idea that I could become “intrusive and demanding” seemed like a ridiculous fantasy. But upon further contemplation, I had to admit that I do have “unmet emotional needs which go largely unacknowledged”. The suddenness of this realization flooded over me like a loss every bit as painful as the death of a beloved pet.

Still, some men I know do engender a powerful resentment in me. These are the ones I labeled a bit ago as “narcissistic”. The conversation is all about them with never a thought about me. This trait among the men I know is so pervasive as to explain why it is that I much prefer the company of women. It’s not that I feel that “gratitude is owed to me” as much as I feel that I am an interesting person who deserves equal time. I don’t think that is too much to ask of a friendship. If all I cared about was caring for and pampering the other, I would go out and buy a cat. Alternatively, I’ll just have to learn how to extend myself less or be more open about verbalizing my own need for caring. Anybody know any Type 2’s out there?

© 18 August 2014

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.