Tag: Holidays

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Memorials by Gillian

In the UK there is an expression, the Fortunate Fifty, referring to only fifty villages in the country, which did not lose even one man to the horrors of the First World War. Every other village has a war memorial, portraying a long list of those from the village killed in World War One, with a sad addendum below of those killed in World War Two. The second list is, thankfully, usually much shorter than the first.

The First World War was one of the deadliest in the history of mankind, with estimates of total deaths ranging from ten to fifteen million. In small villages it was so devastating because at that time all the men from the village served together, and frequently died together, so in many cases a village’s husbands, sons, brothers, sweethearts and neighbors all died on the same day, leaving the village essentially bereft of an entire generation of young men.

I was walking past one of these ubiquitous memorials one day, in some village in the north of England, I don’t even remember where I was or why.

Tudhoe Village War Memorial, United Kingdom
Photo by Peter Robinson used with permission.

I glanced at the tall granite pillar with the usual almost unbelievably long list of names, and an old farmer shuffled up to me. The tip of his gnarled old stick bumped down the names engraved in the stone.
“Aye, but we showed the buggers!”

He stabbed his cane at the more recent list below,
“And then we showed the buggers again!”
He stomped off with evident satisfaction.

My mind turned to those old, grainy, jerky, black and white films taken in the trenches.
Did that young man, so fresh from his father’s farm, now lying in agony over the barbed wire of no-man’s-land, gasp with his dying breath,

“Aye, but we showed the buggers!”

I doubt it.
Nor, I imagine, was it the last thought of the pilot of that Spitfire, plummeting to the ground in flames; he too injured to bail out.

In the nineteen-fifties I was on a train crossing northern France. We passed rows of identical white crosses. For miles and miles, they flowed up the hillsides and into the valleys. I had never seen such a sight. Nor have I since, come to that; just some of the countless dead of the First War. A French couple in the seat across from me waved their hands and jabbered animatedly. My French wasn’t good enough to get it all but I got the gist; a French version of,
“Aye, but we showed the buggers!”

When I spent some time at a volunteer job in St. Petersburg a few years ago, my young interpreter took me to the Siege of Leningrad Piskariovskoye Memorial Cemetery. Half a million of the estimated 650,000 people who died during the 900-day blockade, are buried here. From 1941 to 1944 the population, cut off from supplies and constantly bombarded by planes and ground guns, starved to death.

There are heartbreaking photographs from that time, and stories which my escort, visibly puffed up with patriotic pride, translated for me. Of course she had not even been born then, neither come to that had her parents, but that fervor burned from her eyes.
“Mother Russia will never give in!”

I pictured the starving mother, huddling in the corner of the cellar in the bitter cold of a Russian winter, cuddling her starving children. Did she feel that? She, and the other 650,000, were given no choice.
Katya was waving a dramatic arm and saying something in emphatic Russian.
Clearly some approximation of, “Aye, but we showed the buggers!”

It never fails to sadden me, this surge of patriotism that seems to overtake so many people, of any generation and gender, when contemplating memorials. How will we ever see an end to the need for memorials for the war dead, when, instead of shedding sufficient tears to make Niagara look like a trickle, we continue our attitude, in any language, of,
“Aye, but we showed the buggers!”

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.

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Prisoner C.3.3 – A True Queer Irishman by Pat Gourley

“The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself.”

Oscar Wilde from The Picture of Dorian Gray – 1891

     March 17th is the day many celebrate all things Irish and it has often been said that everyone is Irish on that day. It certainly has evolved for many into an excuse to get royally pissed, often on green beer. Though the exact year of St. Patrick’s death is somewhat a matter of conjecture there seems to be some historical agreement that the actual day was March 17th sometime in the 5th century.

     Snakes and shamrocks are often closely associated with Patrick. He may have actually used the shamrock to teach the mystery of the Holy Trinity, i.e. three-in-one. The shamrock was certainly a pagan symbol and as with so much of Christianity was co-opted by the new religion probably to enhance recruitment.

     The snakes are a bit more of a shaky matter. Post-glacial Ireland never had any snakes but Patrick gets credit for driving them all out of Ireland. One account relates that he may actually have hallucinated being attacked by snakes after completing a 40-day fast and then defeated them. That sounds about right to me. After a good night sleep and some real food and water the snakes were all magically gone.

     One thing historians agree on was that a young Patrick, a Brit actually and not Irish himself, was captured by raiding Irish pagans and hauled off from Roman Britain to Ireland where he spent several years as a slave. Eventually he did return to Ireland as a missionary. I think we can give him at least some credit or blame for converting Ireland to Catholicism although even this is contested by some. He certainly has become the patron saint of Irish Catholics.

     As a young Irish Catholic lad my coming out as queer was in retrospect heavily influenced and directed by that peculiarly intense version of guilt inducing religiosity, Irish Roman Catholicism. St. Patrick then for me represents in some ways a stifling religion that has done more than its share of oppressing Queer people.

     Though certainly not unique to Ireland or the Irish the whole messy and very sad kettle of fish that is clergy sexual abuse has really come home to roost in recent years in Ireland. The far-reaching tentacles of this perversion are currently in the press in the form of Cardinal Keith O’Brien and his resignation for inappropriate sexual advances. Cardinal O’Brien is Irish and was born in Northern Ireland. He recently resigned as the religious head of the Catholic Church in Scotland because of “drunken fumblings” of a sexual nature towards several other much younger clergy and students.

     This was apparently not a case of serial pedophilia and perhaps could even have elicited some sympathy for a man only able to address his gay sexual nature when drunk. An unfortunate but not infrequent manifestation of internalized homophobia still today. However, this guy’s self-hatred manifested itself only just a year ago in a public diatribe condemning the “madness of same sex unions and the tyranny of tolerance.” Sorry, no sympathy here, only pity.

     So on this St. Patrick’s Day I prefer to celebrate a different Irishman. Not one of the O’Brien’s of the Church or an old and largely mythological saint of a religion that is rapidly imploding into irrelevance. Rather I prefer to honor the legacy of a much more honest and open queer Irish man, Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), dramatist, novelist and poet.

     I acknowledge that what got Oscar in so much trouble, ending in a severe two-year prison term at hard labor, was in part the result of “yielding to his temptations”. Oh yes and then taking very queenly umbrage at being implicated as a sodomite by the father of one his young lovers.

     He decided to sue this man for libel. Obviously Oscar was not openly embracing his inner queer here, but it was the 1890’s in Victorian England. At trial things didn’t go so well. Wilde eventually ended up being charged and convicted of “gross indecency” and the charge of libel against the father of his lover dropped. Sodomy in those days in England was a felony. In the English penal system Wilde was Prisoner C.3.3.

     I would like to end with a couple more delicious quotes from Prisoner C.3.3:

“ Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative.”

“We are all in the gutter but some of us are 
looking up at the stars.”
“Scandal is gossip made tedious by morality.”

     Happy St. Patrick’s Day everyone and don’t forget to lift a pint to Oscar! His life I think on balance was a positive way to yield to temptations in a manner that keeps one’s soul from growing sick.

For St. Patrick’s Day, March 17, 2013

Oscar Wilde’s grave in Paris, France
Photo by Pat Gourley

About the Author

I was born in La Porte Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I am currently on an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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Reflections on Bayard Rustin for MLK Day, 2013 by Pat Gourley

“The barometer of where one is on human rights questions is no longer the black community, it’s the gay community. Because it is the community which is most easily mistreated.” 
Bayard Rustin, 1986.

          I grew up in an all white Irish farming community and went to Catholic schools where African Americans, or any people of color for that matter, were as rare as hen’s teeth. FYI, hens have no teeth. I did though have the opportunity to be informed and sensitized to the amazing reality of racial inequality in America in the late 1960’s by my high school government/civics teacher. This teacher was a Holy Cross nun whose enlightenment on these issues put her truly in a league of her own in northern Illinois in 1967. An amazingly dynamic woman named Sister Alberta Marie (SAM) showed me the harsh realties of racial injustice in America and the horrible folly and crime that was the war in Vietnam.

          SAM was herself very involved in peace activist work primarily, though not exclusively, aimed at opposing the war in Vietnam. She brought the great Jesuit activist Father Daniel Barrigan to our high school my senior year, an effort I always thought instrumental in getting her booted out of the Order a short time later. Important for me personally she arranged to send a small group of her students, myself included, to rural Mississippi to observe the activities of literacy teachers working primarily with poor black farm workers. This trip to Mississippi coincided closely with my own first male sexual encounters with a wonderful mentor several decades older than myself. My senior year was quite busy and many of my activities had lifelong and very positive implications.

          The harsh realities of life for the black folks I ran into in Mississippi were almost incomprehensible for a little middle class white kid. I was though aware of Martin Luther King Jr. and viewed him as the leader of the Civil Rights movement but it was this trip that started to bring it all home in a very real and substantive fashion. I knew about the 1963 march on Washington and the “I Have a Dream Speech.” Someone I was not aware of, though I may have at least heard his name, was Bayard Rustin. As it turns out this very openly gay man was not only a mentor for Dr. King, he was the main architect for the 1963 March on Washington and the person most responsible for bringing the potent concept of nonviolent action to the Civil Rights movement.

          Remarkably Bayard was boldly open about his sexuality in the 1940’s and 1950’s. It was an arrest and conviction on “morals charges” in California in 1953 that was to haunt him and in many respects diminish the credit he richly deserves for his role in the Civil Rights movement. The “crime” he was convicted of was sex with a couple other men in the back seat of a car; it did not even involve being busted in a public cruising area—the most common form of institutional terror inflicted on gay men at the time. He was throughout his life a frequent target of FBI surveillance and, I suspect, mischief meant to discredit his powerful organizing capabilities that in many respects made him such a potent target of the racist forces opposed to civil liberties for African Americans in the early 1960’s. Strom Thurmond in an attempt to derail the 1963 March made a point of publically stating that a “pervert” was largely organizing the whole affair.

          Bayard was though a very active proponent of civil rights long before the 1960’s and was pushing to sit in the front of the bus long before Rosa Parks. He was a Quaker and had been involved and active in a group called the Fellowship of Reconciliation. His involvement with this group also was curtailed by the public humiliation that came along with his arrest and conviction for the “crime” of loving another man. He was also a strong advocate of workers rights and a strong supporter of the Trade Unions. He was of course, as were most activists worth their salt back in the 1930’s and 1940’s, involved with the Communist Party. He did significant prison time in the 1940’s for resisting the draft. This activist pedigree when looked at in its totality including in part being a felon, a draft dodger, a pervert, a nonviolent disciple of Gandhi, an African American and a communist is quite impressive and really has no equal when compared with LGBT leaders of today.

          One of his most profound insights and something he stressed through sixty years of activism is that we are all in this together. Certain Buddhists refer to this as the concept of One Taste. Bayard Rustin truly grasped the essence of One Taste in the following statement: “We are all one and if we don’t know it we will learn it the hard way”. So on this MLK day in 2013 I would encourage all my LGBT brothers and sisters to remember these words from our dear comrade Bayard and be willing to expand our work and activism beyond our own, albeit legitimate, concerns of marriage and military service. What a great gift from our community if we could produce more Bayard Rustin’s fighting for income equality, world peace, repeal of the Second Amendment and a Manhattan project to address climate change.

          If you are more interested in the life of this great gay man who played such an integral role in the life and activism of Martin Luther King, Jr. I highly suggest the award-winning documentary film Brother Outsider: The Life of Bayard Rustin (2003), available on Netflix. Also the very extensive biography, The Lost Prophet (2003) available on Kindle by John D’Emilio, is well worth the read.

About the Author

I was born in La Porte
Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of
my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse,
gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I am currently on an extended sabbatical in San
Francisco, California.
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Christmas Details to Remember by Jon Krey

Details: What?
          I won’t get into what that word means because
I’m never sure. However I’ll give an example as I may have seen… it??? At least
I think I’ve seen it. Enough Thorazine helps clear the mind.
          A couple of
nights ago when it all began, it was getting ever more chilly with an early
winter approaching, my friend and I decided to take our “high tea”
inundated with some good ol’ pot and other pharmaceutical “party favorites.”
          On that evening
we lit the seriously tilted candles above my fireplace with difficulty, put on
some appropriate Christmas music and sat down. At least I think we sat down
though I’m not sure.
          Anyway I think
time passed though I’m not sure about that either. We talked incessantly about
the nature of trees, gay dogs and cats, clocks, the Eiffel Tower, room
carpeting, smoke and flowers encased in glass enclosures. Talking about glass
led to other related topics including windows, windshields, wind instruments or
just plain wind. I began feeling an increasingly hot breeze someplace on my
body from some source. Shortly we began to notice the room temperature
apparently rising though I’m sure I’d turned the thermostat down. The candle
light also seemed brighter in the darkening evening. The wafting odor of
wonderful burning Christmas Wax incense pervaded everything as an increasingly
warm feeling crept over our bodies. I was certain our physical passion was
producing the extra warmth. The fireplace was just fine, seemingly ablaze… with
beautiful golden light which grew in intensity. How beautiful that seemed on
such a cold evening outside. The strong odor of pine smoke joining the
Christmas Wax incense. The temperature of our passion rose to such an extent it
caused us to discard our clothes which in turn incited further sexual arousal… greatly.
Momentarily I was pissed that the maintenance crew had failed to fix the
thermostat only allowing our passion to heat us up, or… whatever. We became
deeply fascinated with each others body, the ensuing sweat had become so
intense we decided to move to the balcony where our love making immediately
became interrupted by the serene and melodic sound of sirens below. People
across the street began pointing at us (which added to our heightening
arousal). Their delightful shouting made us feel like real porn stars. I
wondered if we might have been a little too exhibitionist, or, not enough?
Meanwhile the smell of candle wax and accompanied smoke, fog or whatever it was
had raised to such a level that we decided to lower our rope ladder and leave,
having forgotten about the hallway door, elevator and stairwell. Additionally,
all the joyous celebratory shouting was getting on our nerves interrupting our
pulsating rhythm. We tried to overlook all the falderal as just other people
overcome with zealousness at a private building party. In our sexual excitement
we laid down on the grass writhing in ecstasy as the area became covered with
snowy flakes that smelled like burning wood. We both found that ridiculous but
began noticing several very large gray featureless Christmas garlands now
encircling us from several sides. They were wet too. The whole thing was
ridiculous.  For some reason no one was
paying much attention to us anymore either. They kept staring up at the enormous
brilliantly lit Christmas tree and it’s much heavier than usual smoky Christmas
Wax incense. Additional strains of lovely musical siren sounds were accompanied
by increasing screams of delight from observers and more seasonal gleeful
shouting and frivolity. Additionally all the excitement of the huge Christmas
tree light and the Christmas Wax incense had become too much for other
occupants and many were running out of the building. The more elderly were
either crawling or violently shoving their walkers out of the front door while
others pushed their own beds outside. Some were assisted by several studs from
the leather community dressed in cute dark blue and yellow clothes that looked
like uniforms… hahaha. All this for a Christmas show.
          We crawled
further away from the gigantic Christmas tree and all the shouting and strange
siren like singing. Suddenly I noticed I’d forgotten to bring my door keys!!!
But I don’t suppose it mattered too much because the heat from the tree had
become unbearable anyway. Boy did someone in the building know how to throw a
party. Now the handsome leather men insisted we crawl into some kind of party
RV, nude, dildos and all. Fun was on the way!!! 
The short ride to another party bar or bath house had people we didn’t
know who surrounded us staring but not engaging in any affectionate embraces as
we were. I couldn’t stop thinking I needed to get back home and find my damned
keys. It was becoming a real hassle with all these leather guys preventing us
from leaving the party. The bouncer was BIG and held us in!! Hell he even took
our dildos away!
          Whatever!
Eventually after much ado and sexual boredom we snuck away and began the trek
home clothed in some kind of orange numbered shirts and matching pants. Guess
they were some new kink outfits since they didn’t fit well.
          Where was our
building? We couldn’t see since the incense smoke was still super thick in
front of us.
          Altogether, what
a wild holiday evening but a real pisser since I’d forgotten my keys. Besides,
who were these leather guys who kept insisting we go back to the up-tight
party. I didn’t recognize any of them and not one made any physical overtures
though they did engage us in some fun BDSM stuff with leather restrains and
handcuffs. Honestly, some people can be so rude and aloof even when playing.
They didn’t even bother exchanging names or phone numbers but insisted we give
them ours. 
          Whatever! At
least we now share a much smaller apartment with a hunky uniformed valet at a
lovely metal front door equipped with a small viewing window separating us from
uninvited guests. I wondered if it might be too forward to ask for a gilded
chandelier to be put in place of the single naked bulb.
          I guess the moral
of this story is never get loaded and forget where you left your keys. Anyway
it doesn’t matter now ’cause with this smaller home we have all the goodies we
need; new friends, lots of exercise, sex, daily meals, a roof over our heads,
no taxes, all fresh clean clothes plus other amenities AND we get it all for
free!!! I don’t think we’ve ever been happier.

          So Merry Christmas
and have a Happy New Year.

About the Author

“I’m just a guy from Tulsa (God forbid). So overlook my shortcomings, they’re an illusion.”

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An Old Fashioned Christmas (A Satire) by Betsy

          How could
Christmas NOT be my favorite holiday.  It
was for me as a child an idyllic time. 
          Preparations for
the festivities started early in the morning of the day before Christmas.
Father would ask who wanted to go and help cut down the Christmas tree.  Of course, being a dyke, I never missed this
trip. Father always let me carry the axe. 
We had many trees to choose from–hundreds.  A lifetime supply of Christmas trees in the
woods next to our house. 
          Father would drag
the tree into the house and set it up. 
There it would stand by the fireplace patiently waiting to be
decorated.  Tree decorating always took
place after dinner on Christmas Eve. 
After helping Mother in the kitchen we would gather around the tree
singing carols whilst hanging mostly handmade baubles, snowflake cut outs,
strings of pop corn and cranberries.  
          Then, of course,
the stockings would be hung by the chimney. 
We always took great care in doing this. 
My siblings and I were completely exhausted by this time of the day.
          Oh, I forgot to mention the ice skating. We
always skated on our pond in the afternoon of this exciting day.  It helped to pass the time as the
anticipation of all the Christmas activities was very intense.  Mother said we needed to work off our energy.
          After the
stockings were hung it was off to bed. 
After all, we were told, Santa would not make a stop here unless the
children were asleep.
          Christmas morning
was the best time of all.  We could go
downstairs and empty our stockings any time we wanted.  We could not open any presents until after
the family breakfast and when Father said it was time.  Then he would hand out the gifts
one-at-a-time.
          Before we knew it
it was time to get ready to go to Grandmother’s for Christmas dinner. It was such
a fun-filled day, and we didn’t even have time to play with our new toys and it
was still a fun-filled day.
          Father would go
to the barn, hitch the horse to the sleigh, and park it in front of the
house.  That signaled that it was time to
bundle up, pile into the sleigh, and head to Grandmother’s house. It seems that
there was always on Christmas morning new-fallen snow
sparkling in the sunlight brightly decorating the trees as we flew through the
woods on our way to Grandmother’s house. 
The horse knew the way, of course. 
So even Father could join in the singing most of the way.  So it was over the next hill and through a
dale and we were there.  Grandmother
always had the plumpest of turkeys ready for us for Christmas dinner.  Oh, and Grandmother made the best sticky
pudding for dessert.  We all overate and
began feeling quite sick realizing Christmas would soon be over. The party was
coming to an end. 
          It’s an odd thing
too.  Every year was the same.  Father never could drive the sleigh
home.  I think it has something to do
with his many trips to the barn or the bathroom or somewhere where he would be
alone for quite a few minutes.  He said
he had to take his medicine.  By the time
we got to Grandmother’s he had to take quite a lot.  But that was okay because when he came back
he would feel much better and be really happy–until after dinner at
Grandmother’s and he was so tired he couldn’t even wake up, so Mother would
have to drive the sleigh home.
          So it went for
many years.  How could Christmas NOT be
my favorite holiday?  Does this sound
like a fantastic Christmas?  This is a
fantasy Christmas.  May yours be just as
merry as mine!

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Ghosts of Holidays Past by Ricky

     I expect that anyone alive today over the age of two will have at least one memory of a holiday. Those of us who are fond of saying that “we were not born yesterday,” will have many ghostly memories of holidays past; some good and perhaps some not so good. So it is with me.

     One of my happiest holidays from “days of yore” is the Christmas of 1954, while my family was living in our new house in Redondo Beach, California. My parents were still married then. (I know it was a happy holiday because I have seen the photographs of that Christmas. Photos often are more accurate than ancient memories or at least can trigger the return of memories with their associated feelings of happiness.) 1954 was the year I received as gifts: a used, but fully functional, Lionel electric train set; a Davy Crockett wristwatch: and a “Jungle Jim” toy rifle.

 

My Favorite Watch of All Time

     In the photographs I can be seen wielding the rifle over my head (one handed) while wearing a big smile and striped pajamas. Another photo shows me wearing the watch, sitting on the floor getting dizzy while watching my train go around in circles on the few available tracks. I was blowing the whistle and occasionally placing smoke pellets into the “smoke stack.”

     The next most memorable Christmas occurred in 1966. I had graduated from high school in June and started college at Sacramento State College. I would drive home every weekend. (This was the year I learned there was a better life without constant snow on the ground in the winter.) I purchased my family’s gifts at Sears in Sacramento. I haven’t remembered what I got my mother but I bought my half-brother and sister (twins) among other things a “Green Ghost” game. (Did you notice how I cleverly worked a real “ghost” into the title and story?) The Green Ghost game has a glow-in-the-dark board resting on legs to raise it above the tabletop and is played in the dark (hence the glow-in-the-dark part).

It was fun to play.

     I do not know if my siblings enjoyed the game being only 8-years old at the time, but the novelty combination of darkness, glowing game board, secret passages, and the word “ghost” certainly attracted me, which is why I thought they would enjoy it. However, the memorable event for this particular Christmas is the saga of the present I bought for my stepfather, Paul.

     In all of my adolescent and teenage years, I could never think of a decent gift to give him. Ties and socks just did not feel right. In 1966, I found what I knew was the perfect gift for Paul to wear while working outside in the winter (he delivered propane to businesses and homes). After much searching and indecision, I bought for him a pair of red, quilted, long underwear bottoms (the very last pair and in just his size with no matching top available). After waiting in line for 30-minutes to access the gift wrap department and submit my gift to the wrappers (not to be confused with “rappers” who had not yet been invented), I waited another 45-minutes to pick up the now wrapped gift. I noticed they wrapped the underwear in what looked like a shoebox, when I thought it would be in a flatter shirt type box. Soooooo, I naively and happily cradled the package and drove home for Christmas vacation.

     Christmas Eve arrived in due course and the presents were distributed slowly to waiting family members. The twins were anxious to open the big box labeled for them and in which they soon discovered the Green Ghost game. Paul was opening my gift to him while I was opening one for me. I remained confident that he was really going to enjoy his gift. Alas, it was not to be as I planned. (Do you remember the Murphy’s Law which states, “If something can go wrong, it will, and at the worst possible time.”) While paying no attention to Paul, I was busily unwrapping my gift, when I heard him say, “Well thank you, Rick?” with a noticeable questioning inflection. I put a smile on my face and turned around to accept his gratitude and expression of love. My smile turned into a puzzled and confused look, which actually mirrored the look on Paul’s face. For there he was holding out for all to see a pair of pink lady’s slippers. We were all slightly amused as I explained what obviously had happened at the Sears gift wrapping department, but then we all broke out in laughter when I said, “What do you suppose somebody’s mother thought when her loving husband or adoring children gave her a pair of bright red men’s long underwear bottoms.”

     Christmas of 1972 was an important holiday. I lived in relative poverty as a deputy sheriff in Tucson (Arizona, just in case there is another Tucson somewhere). My soon to be fiancé, Deborah, surprised me with a Christmas visit. I have a photo of us sitting around the kitchen table in my apartment with a scrawny, pitiful-looking, 9-inch “tree” with crude decorations on it, and Deborah is wearing a Santa hat. The atmosphere or environment of that Christmas was not fancy, but it held much love and togetherness.

     I have learned that many times in life, it is not the bright, shiny, and noisy moments (or memories) which carry the most important messages, but more often than not, it is the plain and precious moments that convey the most love and affection and deserve to be remembered.

© 22 December 2010


About the Author


Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA

Ricky was born in June of 1948 in downtown Los Angeles, California. He lived first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA. Just prior to turning 8 years old, he went to live with his grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years while (unknown to him) his parents obtained a divorce.

When united with his mother and new stepfather, he lived at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After two tours of duty with the Air Force, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife of 27 years and their four children. His wife passed away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.

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

Ricky’s story blog is TheTahoeBoy.blogspot.com.

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The Gift by Phillip Hoyle

     There are at least two ways to open a gift—at least there are two ways I know. The first one is my preference.

     If the gift is handed to me by the giver, I politely and genuinely thank him or her expressing my pleasure at being remembered. Of course, if the gift giving  should take place on Christmas in a room full of hyperactive children serving as Santa’s understudy elf assistants, I read the tag and shout out my thank you across the room to the giver. And of course, I shout in the most pleasantly nice way possible.

     Then I inspect the wrapping appreciative of the design, the color combination, and the care taken in preparing the package in such a way as to increase my anticipation at what such a beautifully prepared box may reveal.

     Sometimes I try to guess what may be hidden inside considering the size of the package, its weight, trying to remember if any clues were given previously or if something I suggested I’d enjoy matches what is now in my hand. If no one is watching, I may gently shake it to listen for a clue, or sniff at it (I can always detect the presence of chocolate). Finally, I begin to open the present. I feel the texture of the wrapping, untie the ribbons, remove and set aside the bows; I carefully remove the tape and try to slip off the paper without tearing or even wrinkling it. I fold it and set it aside with the ribbons or other ornaments. I comment on how beautifully wrapped I find the gift. Then with all senses alert, I open the box to find the surprise so generously proffered. I feel the gift’s texture, study its shape, smell its fragrance, hold it up to the light, and smile my pleasure. “It’s beautiful,” I exclaim if that response seems appropriate. And I lay the gift to my side, still touching or tasting it, murmuring my thanks. Oh, I am usually such a cultured gift opener.
     
     But on occasion, I have a more impassioned and impatient approach. Then I tear at the paper, rip it open, cast it aside so eager to see what it is hiding. I break the ribbons, claw at the tape, wad up the wrap, throw it away. I pick up my new gift with enthusiasm. I sometimes scream out my pleasure. On occasion, I may get up to dance my excitement. Should that ever happen to you, my gift, just put your clothes back on and join me in my rumba.

About the Author

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

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How I Learned Some Turkey Anatomy by Nicholas

          It was our first Thanksgiving together so we invited a
bunch of friends over to share a dinner. Jamie and I were to cook the turkey
and other people were assigned other courses for a sumptuous meal.
          We got the bird which was frozen but no problem, we knew
enough to leave it in the frig for a few days to thaw out. It seemed to be
doing so nicely and on Thanksgiving morning as I prepared the stuffing and
prepped the turkey, things were moving along smoothly. Turkey in the
oven, we were on our way to a feast.
          The first sign of trouble came innocently enough when Jamie
was talking to his mother about our celebration. I should point out that this
Thanksgiving was a kind of late rebellion on his part. We had decided not to go
to his parents for dinner, even though they were nearby, so we could have our
own gathering with friends. But mothers have that knack for asking questions
that can throw your plans right into the rubbish.
          Bragging about our turkey in the oven, mom posed the
question, “Did you get the giblets and stuff out of both ends of the turkey?”
          What “both ends,” I demanded. Of course we’d pried out a
bag of turkey parts from its hollow innards. But was there more in some other
secret cavity? Was there something stuffed up its ass, too?
          So, we hauled the bird out of the oven and poked around its
backside to find out that not only was there another pouch of miscellaneous
bits but that our future dinner was still, actually, frozen. Well, it did seem
a little stiff when we stuffed it but now we realized we had a still frozen
12-15 pound animal and all bets were off as just when dinner would be served.
          We threw the thing back into the oven and cranked up the
temperature. Nothing much happened. We turned the oven up higher. Still, not
much changed. It was turkey’s revenge—it would cook in its own time and never
mind our plans for dinner.
          Our guests started arriving and our main course was just
thawing out. We had appetizers and wine and conversation while the bird began
to show some sign of cooking. We reversed the order of the meal and served other
courses like salad, potatoes and vegetable and more wine until at long last we
pulled from the oven what we hoped was a cooked turkey. I can’t even remember
what it tasted like. I guess it was good or we were all too hungry to care. Everybody
ate it, nobody got sick. It was a fun time, even though a disaster.
          My first venture into real cooking did not augur well for
pursuing culinary delights. But, as it happens, one gets hungry and has to
repeatedly do something about it. Peanut butter sandwiches as a diet are not
that appealing. So, despite being shamed by a turkey, the lowest form of
conscious life on this planet, I did go back into that kitchen with the intention
of turning food into meals.
          I am happy to report that success followed my persistence.
Hunger is a good teacher and I have come since to associate the kitchen with
many satisfactions and pleasures.
          I love to indulge myself and what higher form of indulgence
is there than food. And food grows ever more satisfying with age. Taste grows
more complex and nuanced with age and taste buds, unlike other body parts,
actually work better as you grow older. Kids can be finicky eaters, it has been
said, because their underdeveloped taste buds aren’t working to their full
capacity with just sweet and bitter dominating their little palates.
          I like food. I like everything to do with food—shopping for
it, growing it, picking it in the garden, preparing it, cooking it, eating and
sharing it with others. I like reading about food and cooking; I like planning
big meals. My favorite store in the whole world is the Savory Spice Shop down
on Platte Street.
Walking in their door is entering a different world full of wonderful aromas
that hint of countless flavors from the dozens of herbs, spices and exotic
salts on the shelves. The variations and sensations are near endless in my
imagination.
          Cooking is now part of my identity. I love to cook. Well, I
just love food. Cooking is now a creative endeavor as I tend to use recipes not
as instructions but for inspiration and as suggestions as to what goes well
together and in what measure. Many times I simply dispense with recipes and
make it up on the basis of what’s in the frig and hunches. The hunches—like
adding paprika and dry mustard to a stew—usually pay off, i.e., are edible, but
sometimes they do not turn out so well. Those I won’t go into.
          Food has its rituals that can be likened to religious
liturgies culminating with the sharing of sacrament. Food is work and joy, is
nourishment and pleasure and connotes special relationships to those you share
it with and to the earth it comes from.
          So, let me officially launch this great season of holiday feasting—my
favorite time of the year—with the words: Ladies and gentlemen, start your
ovens. Let the eating begin!

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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Hallowe’en by Ricky

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The symbol of “Candy Day”

My earliest memories of Hallowe’en involve two years of costumes and large shopping bags of goodies. I only remember one of my costumes, Superman. (I even had a cape.) Mother made it for me. During both years, I remember  mother and father walked with me and several neighborhood parents with kids around to a lot of houses.

This is NOT me.
In those days homemade and store bought goodies were about equally distributed. My favorite was the chocolate candies as one might expect. Somehow the overstuffed very large shopping bags (we went out again when the first bag was full) I lugged about were mysteriously emptied long before I could have eaten even a tenth of my haul. Don’t you just love parents who “wisely” protect you from all that candy? Of course, these were the days before apples with inserted razor blades created a Hallowe’en panic among parents.

While living with my grandparents on their farm, there was no Hallowe’en trick or treating. The neighbors were too far away. So, I had to be content with the in school Hallowe’en “parties”. In replacement, we did celebrate “May Day” in the farming communities on May first each year. Basically, we would deliver a basket of goodies to a neighbor’s farm house, knock on the door and yell “May Day”, then run and hide in a large scale game of Hide-and-Seek.

Grandparent’s farm house in Minnesota.

Once back with my mother, I went by myself trick or treating until my little brother and sister were old enough to go, and then I took them. One year (the last I ever went) my friend, Jimmy and I did pull a couple of “tricks” on two houses. We used ski wax to write four letter words on two-car’s windows. Ski wax is hard to get off.

On the path to delinquency.

I was not always a nice kid.

It is said that, “A mind is a terrible thing to waste.” (referring to not educating a mind), and that is certainly true. However, when a person has a good, sound, healthy, and well educated mind, but doesn’t use the knowledge stored therein, I submit it is a greater tragedy and even a bigger waste. Unfortunately, I once fell into this category (at least I hope it was only once). 

Back-in-the-day, whatever day that was, I was married and living in Marana, AZ. It was in late October when I arrived home for lunch and discovered that my wife had just finished “cooking down” a pumpkin in preparation to making pumpkin pie. I rushed over to taste it and she warned me that it was hot. So, not being stupid (or so I thought then), I obtained a spoon from the silverware drawer and dipped it into the golden elixir, started to blow upon it to cool it down to enjoyable tasting temperature, then she also warned me that there was no “spice” in it yet. So, not being stupid (or so I thought then), I replied, “So what? It’s pumpkin!”. I then proceeded to put the spoon in my mouth to enjoy the near ambrosia delicacy. I removed the spoon, swirled the contents about my mouth, and promptly spit it out into the sink. This wasn’t pumpkin, it was squash!! I have hated squash ever since I was 4.

I did learn several things from this event:  

1. Pumpkins are squashes; 

2. I hate the flavor of squash not the texture; 


3. What good is knowledge if you don’t use it?; 


4. When someone warns you about something, if there is time, ask “What are you warning me about?”; 

5. Unpleasant things can be made pleasurable, if disguised properly; 

6. I’m not stupid, but I don’t know everything; 

7. I should have put more trust in my wife, because she remembered that I didn’t like squash and warned me; and 

8. My wife made an outstanding pumpkin pie.

This one is MINE! Go get your own.

About the Author



Emerald Bay – Lake Tahoe

Ricky was born in June of 1948 in downtown Los Angeles, California. He lived first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA.  Just prior to turning 8 years old, he went to live with his grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years while (unknown to him) his parents obtained a divorce.

When united with his mother and new stepfather, he lived at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After two tours of duty with the Air Force, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife of 27 years and their four children.  His wife passed away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.

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

Ricky’s story blog is TheTahoeBoy.blogspot.com.