How Did I Get Here by Phillip Hoyle

I never wanted to be a truck driver, but that’s how I got
to Denver. I rented the moving van in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where I was ending my
conventional life characterized by many years with work and family. I packed up
what was left of my belongings and set out on an adventure, one that continues
to this day.
Denver, the destination and site of my adventure, was the
large city of my childhood. Yearly trips usually brought our family to Loveland
and Estes Park, and sometimes Dad would take us through Denver where he almost
always got lost. The diagonal streets made navigating too tricky. (I sometimes
have the same problem when I’m downtown.) 
Here in Denver I saw my first dinosaur bones, my first skyscrapers, my
first art museum, and the then-new Cinerama movies. I was impressed. The town
seemed pretty clean, full of possibilities, and a place where unusual people
could gather and thrive. I had made quick visits to Kansas City, Missouri, and
Wichita, Kansas, but neither place made a lasting good impression or affected me
where it mattered: issues of art, archaeology, education, and scenery. I liked
Denver.
I had other visits to my favorite big city: an overnight
stay on my honeymoon, annual commutes from Kansas and Missouri to western
Colorado, and, in my forties, short sorties from Montrose into the city where I
stayed with a friend I had met in seminary. Then I often went to the Denver Art
Museum and the Denver Public Library. Both impressed me greatly. I even chose
my two favorite neighborhoods in which I might live should I ever move here.
I spent a short time in Tulsa. There my life really changed.
Things kind of caught up with me resulting in the ends of my marriage and of my
long career. I quit. I thought about where to go, what to do. I decided to move
to a western city and considered Denver, San Diego, and Seattle. My Denver
friend suggested I get out of Tulsa before I got in trouble; I could crash at
his place. His offer solved a few things for me, but mainly promised a place to
live while I found a job. Besides, I knew Denver had adequate public
transportation. So I packed up what things I had after my separation from my
wife and hit the road.
Now driving a truck was a new experience for me,
especially across four states. I knew I’d need a rather large van but didn’t
want one so large I’d be scared on the road. So I started giving away my
belongings—most of my library, music, records, cassette tapes, and even some
CDs. I culled my files and finally threw away almost all of them. I filled
several boxes with books for my kids and grandkids. I rented a big yellow truck,
packed it with what was left, and drove it to Missouri where I unpacked most of
the furniture at my daughter’s apartment.
Matthew, my six-year-old grandson, accompanied me on the
trip. We stopped near Booneville, Missouri, for gas and snacks. Before we
reached Kansas City my young companion was fast asleep. I gassed up at a 7-11
in Topeka, the city where my long-time friend-lover lived. Being so late, I
didn’t call him as I had promised I would always do in the letter I sent at the
end of our affair. I hated breaking this promise, but I had to keep going on
down the roads I’d begun traveling. We stopped at a rest area west of
Salina—the end of the Flint Hills where I was born and the beginning of the
high plains. It seemed a point of demarcation for me. There I realized I was
driving a little truck, so it then
seemed, parked alongside several huge rigs. The contrast helped me realize the
challenges I faced were not as large as I had been thinking. My grandson
awakened briefly. Then we slept several hours before cleaning up as well as one
can in such a place. The day dawned bright and beautiful. We drove west
stopping at high noon in Goodland where we picnicked at a city park. My
grandson ran through sprinklers of icy cold water on that hot summer afternoon
while I sat and then lay on a picnic table under a shelter. I watched his
cavorting, yelled out my encouragement, and enjoyed his display of enthusiasm. I
thought I’d need to be like that kid in Denver, in my new life, playful and in
the moment. At Burlington, Colorado, we stopped at the outdoors museum, a
reconstruction of old buildings. We went to the saloon and ordered root beers.
A young dancehall girl thought my grandson was so cute; he was embarrassed and
wouldn’t answer her questions or even look at her. I wondered what I could
learn from that, perhaps to be true to myself but not without confidence. We
drove a few miles beyond to another roadside park. I had to sleep so got a pad
out of the back of the van and rested on another picnic table. Finally we pulled
into Denver—worn out (I’d slept little in three days) but elated.
Someone questioned whether making so many changes so
radically and in so little time constituted a mental breakdown. I realize my
decisions happened a little late to be a classic mid-life crisis but as an
analytical tidbit, midlife works for me. The themes had been present my whole
life long: my homosexual proclivity, my being a rather parent-pleasing middle
child, my personal understanding of religious realities, my commitment to music
and other arts, my abilities and inabilities to communicate my feelings, and my
sense of individuality (some would call selfishness). Anyway, I had to change,
so I morphed into a person now true to some themes I had kept out of the center
of my life. How I actually got to Denver from Tulsa seemed a symbol of a much
greater change: my yearning for simplicity that resulted in throwing away many
things, those accoutrements of modern life—steady job, salary, husband/wife relationship,
and much more. These thoughts had swirled around my head while I drove west to
my new home.

I unloaded some things into my friend’s apartment. I
loaded the rest into and on top of my son’s van. I was left with clothes, art
supplies, six boxes of books (I’d ridded myself of fifty-four boxes), and one
piece of furniture. I had seriously lightened my load. Finally I returned the
truck to the rental company. And now I’m telling my story like a truck driver,
at times excitedly, milking its entertainment value, but still including its
essential truths. That’s how I got to Denver to begin a new chapter of my life.

© 25 November 2011  


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

How Did I Get Here? by Gillian

How did I get here, to Denver?

The Queen Elisabeth ocean liner and the Greyhound bus.
Why? Because I was madly if secretly in love with a woman who was madly if secretly in love with a young Englishman finishing his Ph. D. at Ann Arbor in Michigan.

I would have followed her anywhere.

We left the port of Southampton on the South coast of England on a pouring wet day, surprise surprise, in October 1964. There were wild storms gathering in the North Atlantic but we were intrepid adventurers caring nothing for weather forecasts. Now at that time the Queen Elizabeth was the largest most luxurious ship afloat and the U.S.A not exactly uncharted territory so we were not quite jumping off into the wilderness, but we were in the spirit of the thing for sure.
This was indeed a magnificent ship and I was truly saddened when, in 1972, it sank ignominiously under mysterious circumstances in Hong Kong Harbor.

But I digress.

The crossing took six days and we had one relatively calm day at each end. The other four days made for one wild ride.
In 1955 “Lizzie,” as she was always affectionately known to the Brits, had been fitted with stabilizers. These cut down the amount of roll by over 50% but, because they head the ship directly into the waves, they increase the vertical displacement. The result, in the bow at least, is the feeling of constantly rising and falling hundreds of feet in an express elevator.

The bow was, of course, where the Third Claass bars and restaurants and ballrooms were located. We were referred to as Steerage passengers, however, because our cabins resided in the stern, within the endless roar of the huge propellers. (Though by that time, the official term had been changed to the more appealing Tourist Class)

1964 Cunard brochure picture

It never occurred to me to resent the luxury and relatively smooth ride of First Class. They could not possibly be having this much fun!

This endless elevator ride got to most passengers sooner or later but a handful of us, the intrepid adventurers, slid happily off our barstools, clambered bravely back on, and watched mesmerized as the huge windows pointed to the sky then sank seemingly forever beneath the water.

Each wave crest was accompanied by rather terrifying shudders and groans from the tortured body of the ship as it rested, horizontal for one moment, before crashing down into the trough.

The several sets of stairs were among our many activities. Going up or down them as they morphed from almost horizontal to vertical was certainly challenging, especially after an hour or two in the bar. Those with deck access were also pouring with water, adding to the overall fun.

I never got sick but my head felt as if it would explode after the first twenty-four hours in that express elevator. Each time we reached the wave’s crest it seemed as if the top of my head was lifted from the rest of my skull, then as we crashed it was pushed down behind my eyes and nose, my neck straining to hold it up.

In the narrow bunk at night invisible springs pushed up in the middle of my back, then a huge weight pressed down on my stomach. It was not conducive to sleep but the previous hours in the pitching bar took care of that.

After two days, the Captain decided we were ready for some variations in entertainment. Apparently, though none of us would have sworn to it, the storm had somewhat abated. We had lost time and, with a schedule to keep, would travel the rest of our way without the stabilizers, enabling us to regain some of that lost time.

I didn’t mention to anyone that my head was grateful for that turn of events, but little did I understand what lay in store.
The elevator rides certainly became less lengthy and a little less speedy, but were now accompanied by drastic sideways rolls seemingly every bit as pronounced as the vertical movements had been.

Serious sea-sickness prevailed.

Meals, for those intrepid explorers still with appetites, were nothing short of a circus. Wooden slats perhaps three inches high had been raised along the table edges to prevent dishes crashing to the pitching, rolling floor.
The Americans among us did reasonably well, grasping their plates in the left hand, their forks in the right, and shoveling in the food with all possible speed.

The Brits were a sad, hungry, helpless lot. We found it genetically impossible to eat without a fork in the let hand and a knife in the right. That left no hand available to retain the plate, which slid forward and back, left and right, at alarming speeds and gave little opportunity to capture your prospective meal. If you were really lucky some gallant American, having wolfed down his repast with comparative ease, would hold your plate for you. Otherwise you simply chased it around the table, knife and fork poised at the ready, as it careened like a pinball around the table.
With the stabilizers retracted and the storm abated, oh ha ha, activities resumed full pace. Can you even imagine playing ping-pong or pool under these conditions? Steerage, sadly, had no swimming pool but I had wonderful visions of swimmers being beached ignominiously on one pool side while the water sloshed back to the other.

The ballroom opened up and the live band played determinedly if rather staggeringly through all the favorite dance tunes. Now this was the age of touchy feely dancing when you actually had a partner whom you touched and, yes, there were proscribed dance steps.

The waltz and the foxtrot, remember them?
Slow, slow, quick quick, slow.

In that ballroom it was more like slow, slow, quick quick quick quick quick as the floor lurched, then wham wham wham against the starboard wall.

Followed by another sequence of slow, slow, quick quick quick quick quick and wham wham wham against the portside wall.

For the intrepid explorers, a laugh a minute!

No, we didn’t end up on Ellis Island but in a cold tin roof shed on Pier 41 with officials giving a perfunctory glance at suitcases and passports. Long before the age of terrorism.
Various jobs in various cities followed, until someone said, as I lamented the hot marshes of Houston, why not go to Denver?

So I did, and found God’s country.

I worked as a waitress at the White Spot café on Colfax, I sold clothes at the brand new May D&F store downtown, I slaved at the PizzaPlenty near DU.

I saved money for my return trip to a gray, still war-torn England.

“IBM’s hiring,” someone said, deftly twirling a pizza crust.
“Up in Boulder. Paying a fortune.”

And a fortune it was. $82 a week I started out at, four times what I had ever made since arriving in this land of opportunity.

I had found a home with beautiful scenery, near perfect climate, and I had a great job.

I never left.

The 1969 postcard I sent my parents upon my arrival in the USA

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.