Lewis Thompson – Page 2 – Sage Telling Your Story

May 22, 2017February 26, 2019

Doors, by Lewis Thompson

There have likely been a few million types of doors throughout history and many purposes for which doors have been employed, privacy and security chief among them. The most important thing to know about any door, however, is not what it’s made of or how large or small or how old or intricate its design. No, the only thing that really counts when it comes to doors is whether they are open or closed.

You can tell a lot about a person from knowing how cautious they are about keeping their doors locked. One person on my floor locks her door even when she leaves her apartment to do her laundry at the other end of the hallway.

Some commercial enterprises advertise that their doors are always open. This past weekend was the occasion of the annual Doors Open Denver–a chance to see parts of the city that may not normally be accessible to the unwashed.

In the history of Western Civilization, the most famous door was probably the stone that covered the entrance to the tomb where Jesus’ body was placed following his crucifixion. Had it never (as legend has it) been mysteriously opened, one of the world’s great religions may well have never taken root.

When I was a boy, we had a small ranch house with a single-car, attached garage. The roll-up door was not powered. I used to catch grasshoppers, pull off their hind legs and put them in the track of the open garage door and then close it so that the roller would pass over them. Did you know that grasshopper guts look like long orange grains of rice?

It seems to me that some people are like closets full of treasures behind locked doors. It’s as if they believe that exposing themselves would tempt others to do them harm. Or perhaps they think that others would be disappointed in what was revealed. I used to be one of these people, shut up behind a closed door. I thought if others could see me in the light, they would think I was ugly. But, at long last, one person gently knocked on my door and invited me to come out. I found out that opening the door let the light in and the fear out. Now, I always try to leave the door unlocked with a welcome sign on it.

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.

May 3, 2017February 26, 2019

Away from Home, by Lewis Thompson

I have shared here before my story about my first summer camp experience when I was about eleven years old and, after about four days of utter misery and homesickness, wrote a letter to my parents saying, “If you love me, you’ll come and get me.” Well, that experiment didn’t work out as I had hoped so I adapted and learned that being away from home wasn’t as bad as it first appeared.

After high school and two years of community college, I was actually eager to go away to university and leave my parents to fend for themselves. I suspect that they were as relieved as I was…or, at least, that was likely true for my mother. I remember that it was at about this time that my dad first started giving me a hug at home-comings and -goings.

After graduation, with engineering degree in hand, I began applying for work. I had only two interviews in my home state–one with Kansas Power and Light and the other with General Electric in Kansas City. My other interviews were with corporations in Ohio or Michigan. When I told my parents that I was accepting a job at Ford, I was pretty certain that Dad would be proud, as he had always been a “Ford Man”. But I also knew that he would be sorry to see me move so far away. I was his only child. (My mother had a son and daughter from an earlier marriage who lived in nearby Pratt, Kansas.)

My parents were both pleased when I married and became a father in my own right. They both liked my wife, Jan, and she them. When Jan and I married and bought our first house, I approached my parents about a loan for the down-payment. My mother nixed the idea. It wasn’t a lot of money, only $1200, with a promise to pay it off within a year. (The year was 1972. The mortgage was only $24,000. In those days, you could buy a lot of house in Detroit for that money.) We ended up borrowing the money from Jan’s parents, interest-free. I never quite forgave my mother for that slight.

My parents and I exchanged visits back-and-forth as often as we could and even took vacations to Colorado together with Jan’s parents. My mother, always reserved, seemed to look down her nose a bit at my in-laws, neither of whom was college-educated. Mom did not have a diploma, either, mostly due to the inability to pay for it as her parents thought that sending a daughter to college was a waste of good money. Perhaps that fact sheds some light on why she was so reluctant to help Jan and me out financially. (This thought just occurs to me as I write this. See what writing one’s memoirs can do to shed light into long-darkened corners!)

I have attended every high school reunion for the Hutch High Class of 1964 since graduation. On one such occasion, after both of my parents had died, I parked my car across the street from the house I had lived in until I was of kindergarten age. As I sat in the car alone, I was overcome by a wave of grief that left me sobbing uncontrollably–no particular memories, simply gut-wrenching emotion. It was as if a part of me were still there, trapped in that house, and could only be redeemed by getting away from home and never going back.

[P.S. Nothing in this story is intended to be, can be construed to be, or has even the slightest relation to anything “experimental”.]

About the Author

April 7, 2017February 26, 2019

Ten Good Things about Being Gay, by Lewis Thompson

1. Not being straight (roads are always more fun when curved).

2. Not needing help to put an outfit together.

3. Being able to enjoy “chic flicks” even when not a chic.

4. Having friends of the other gender without all the bullshit that goes with romance.

5. Never having to shop for fishing gear.

6. Being able to mix with both genders at parties.

7. Never being chastised for not putting the toilet seat down.

8. Being able to trade clothes with my lover.

9. Feeling special without doing anything special.

10. Coming to Storytellers every Monday.

About the Author

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.

February 6, 2017February 26, 2019

Ice, by Lewis Thompson

I like Ike……….ooops. I meant to say, “I like ice”. Ike was one of those warm-hearted
Republicans, the kind that’s hard to find these days. Nothing ice-like about him.

I’m an ice lover. When I have a glass of pop, I first half-fill
the glass with ice—store-bought ice, the clear kind. That’s one reason I seldom drink coffee, beer
or wine. Whoever heard of putting ice in
those beverages (except for iced coffee, which seems contrary to the natural
order)?

I’m not very fond,
however, of icy surfaces, especially the kind people walk on. It seems kind of ironic that when someone
slips on ice and gets a bump on their head, the first order of treatment is to
put ice on it. Ice has got us coming and
going.

Then, there’s the
government agency, ICE. They’re the
folks that President-elect Donald Trump seems to believe don’t have enough to
do, so he wants to have then round up and deport millions of Mexicans who are
in the country illegally. I wonder what
he’ll do with the families in which a parent is here illegally, albeit employed
and paying taxes, but in which the children were born here and are American
citizens. The whole concept is enough to
give me a headache. Ice, anyone?

About
the Author

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.

January 6, 2017February 26, 2019

Dreams, by LewisThompson

Why is it that I only seem to remember the dreams that scared the ever-lovin’ shit of me? It seems that I’m constantly dreaming at night, yet, when I wake up I have only the vaguest notion what they were about.

At the age of ten, I underwent my third operation on my left eye to correct a condition known as “strabismus” or muscular asymmetry. The operation was to be performed in Kansas City, 200 miles from my home. I was too young to remember the first two procedures but, at the age of 10, it took all the gumption I could muster to “take it like a man”.

In those days, the anesthetic of choice for children was ether. Without conscious pre-planning, my last defense against this assault on my state of consciousness was to hold my breath. As I recall, the procedure involved sprinkling the liquid ether onto something held over my nose and mouth. Being highly volatile, the ether would quickly evaporate, meaning that the anesthesiologist would have to apply more of the liquid. Later, I learned that it took 2-3 times the normal dose of ether to put me under. The consequences were far more terrifying that I could ever imagine. The one image I have of that immediate experience is being on the top of a roller-coaster a mile high and just starting the plunge into the abyss, surrounded by a mustard yellow sky.

But the worst was yet to come. Once home again, I began to have the worst nightmares of my life. For four or five nights, I was terrified to go to sleep because the dreams were so horrible. At first, I was pursued by gargoyle-like monsters. I could escape them by flying and perching on high-tension wires, where I could look down on them. But later, I was confined to the ground and was chased by monstrosities through the basement of our church and, then, up a three-story staircase to a door behind which I knew I would meet a horrible demise.

After awhile, I came to the point where I was conscious of knowing that, if I could only force my eyes open, the nightmare would come to an end. And it worked.

Shortly thereafter, the horror stopped. Ether is no longer used as the principle means to put children to sleep. We should all sleep better knowing that is a fact.