Tag: Life Stories

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Piece O’Cake, by Lewis Thompson

Pope Francis recently
announced that his tenure in office might just be more brief than the world had
expected.  Not because of a health
issue–at least, not his physical health. 
No, it seems that Pope Francis is growing tired of the pomp, ceremony,
and public attention that goes with his office. 
More than power, more than influence, the man longs for the simple,
everyday ability to slip out for a pizza without drawing a crowd.
I suspect that Pope
Francis, much as I do, realizes that what nurtures his soul is not so much
rules and rituals designed to bring us closer to the Divine, however we define
that concept.  In the end, as our days
get short, we realize that it is the simple things in life that reach our heart
the most; the walk in a park, an intimate conversation with a friend, listening
to a favorite bit of music, an inspirational speech, an act of kindness, an
expression of love, a perfect pizza with a beloved friend–that elicits a tear,
sparks a squeal of delight, or makes us feel warm and fuzzy inside.
For me, these are the
kinds of things that make me glad to be alive. 
They put the icing on the cake.  I
think I’ll have another piece.
© 16 Mar 2015 
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 had two children while working as an
engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26
happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I
should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t
getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just
happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both
fortuitous and smooth.

Soon after, I retired and we moved to
Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together
in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One
possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group
was there to light the way.
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Public Places, by Gillian

Over
the fifteen years that Betsy and I had Brunhilda, our VW camper van, we made
great use of so many public parks I couldn’t begin to count them.
That’s
how I started this piece, not really knowing where it was going from here. But
a thought struck me. Why couldn’t I begin, and eventually succeed in,
counting them? Betsy and I, ever anal, kept logbook-type diaries of every trip
we ever took with ol’ Brunie. 

So.,
I lugged armfuls of dusty old, and some not so old, notebooks, up from the
basement.

I
began to count, using that age-old tried-and-true method (though admittedly
very low-tech) of four short strokes with a line through them counting five. I was
surprised to find it actually only took me an hour or so, but admit to the
somewhat loose totals at which I arrived.
We
have camped for about 125 total days in over 50 National Parks. Several of
these were a few days together, as we explored the Park.  

We
have camped for over 150 days in State Parks in almost every one of the lower
48. In fact, I believe we have camped in every single state, neither Betsy nor
I can think of one we’ve missed, but I’d have to check through all those old
books again, not to mention all that illegible handwriting, to be 100% sure and
I really don’t care that much right now; in fact, I doubt I ever will! Many of
these stops were just one-nighters; a useful, but also frequently very
beautiful and interesting, place to stay on the way to and from somewhere else.
Town
and county parks, often only discovered by chatting to the locals, also often
tended to be one-night stands but nonetheless are frequently undiscovered gems.
Often, they are centered on some feature of local fame: an old historic cabin,
a little one-room local museum, a unique geologic formation, or the old water
mill. We have spent about 60 nights in such locations, and it’s here you tend
to meet interesting locals looking for someone new to talk to, and invariably wanting
to have a good look inside Brunhilda. Some places we have camped while Betsy
pedaled her ass around this State or that, have not in fact been campground at
all; merely the local school ball field or the town park – facilities are
always made available to a bicycle group wanting to stay the night and perhaps
leave behind a few bucks when they leave.
We
have camped 12 times in National Historic or Geologic Sites, frequently well
off the beaten path and little utilized, and so, very quiet. These are also
usually places of great interest, occasionally enough to keep us there for a
second night.  

Our
very favorites are probably the BLM or National Forest campgrounds. They are
inexpensive, quiet, and usually well away from any freeway. They are in deserts
and forests, on beaches and lakes, beside major rivers and tiny trickling
streams. Humans are the minority of their visitors. We share them with animals
and birds. We share them, sometimes not so gladly, with snakes and bugs. But,
despite the latter, we have returned several times to some of the 50 or so we
have used, often staying more than one night.
Our
public spaces are great gifts to us, some from the present but mostly from
previous generations. I am ever grateful to those with the foresight to create
these places, and to the avid campers of the early years of cross-country
motoring who engendered the need for established campground amid the beauty of
the wild, such as we enjoy today.
© 6 Jun 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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Pestilent Pustules, by Carlos

I stand in front of the mirror,
taking a good hard look at myself and feel compelled to ponder on that which is
reflected back. I think I see a man in the prime of life, a successful
professor, a husband, a gay man, a painter of ideas, and a tiller of the earth.
In spite of the private shapes I forge, I grapple with those tenuous childhood
terrors that have haunted me throughout the decades as I submit to what I am in
the eyes of others. Of course, I recognize that what others see is not reality
and that the private me is just that, private, inked on paper indecipherable to
anyone but me. Unfortunately, all-too-often the world insists on categorizing
what is unfathomable to anyone but me. I am weary of appraisals that turn human
beings, ideas, me, into potential evil monsters. Most of my life I have lived
with the gun in the back of my head, recognizing, denying, fearing those moments
when I hear the click of the hammer, and today as so many other days of my
life, I await the silence.
A few weekends ago my husband Ron and
I drove up to Boulder, a day trip meant to celebrate having survived another
week of toiling to color within the lines. As we walked through the farmer’s
market an all-encompassing, gentile life swarmed around us like honey bees
intoxicated on the ethers of bright red poppies. We smiled at the precision of a
silver-painted street performer who mimicked life, appearing at one moment to
be a pewter statue, only to startle audiences as he awoke to movement, to life.
Around us gravitated goat cheese, gelato and herb vendors in a Turkish-like
bazaar. Bicyclists strolled lazily down the streets, while families gathered
around the banks of Boulder Creek, its rushing icy water inviting people to sit
on the grassy shores and by lulled by the cascading water’s sloshing toward the
sea. I told Ron it was like being transported back to a simpler, less hectic
time when people found pleasure under the spreading maples and kinder ways of
Pollyanna’s Harrington.
Our time travel scenario was abruptly
interrupted when we noted a crowd in front of city hall on the Pearl Street
Mall. A group of politically right-wing men and women were cordoned off by a
line of police officers like rats in a cage and separated from humanity. Having
crawled out from under their rocks and holding court, they used megaphones, and
bolstered by the freedom of speech and right to assemble, they delivered biting
tirades about building walls and closing our borders. Their intent was
obviously to incite the crowd. I thought it was ironic that while I had shed my
blood for my country and for our citizens to enjoy our Constitutional rights,
these pustules in need of laceration had draped themselves in the American flag
for which I had fought, claiming that they were true patriots defending the
homeland. The audience for the most part appeared bewildered that evil had come
to nest within their idyllic sanctuary. Many, however, found their voices and
fired back exchanges in an attempt to diffuse the vitriolic words crafted by
poisoned little minds. As I stood in front of the barricades, the speaker eyed
me with special interest. Of course, I could only surmise that since I was an
anomaly in the essentially white audience, I became an emblem of every
Trump-fabricated Mexican rapist and murder, best contained behind his
xenophobic wall. At the moment that he eye-balled and pointed at me, mouthing
something I could not understand, I felt a need to stand with the drag queens
of Stonewall and the lettuce pickers of California. When he pursed his lips and
blew me a kiss in derision, I instinctively turned to Ron and kissed him in an
effort to demonstrate that being gay and Latino was my badge of honor.
Nonetheless, although I had vindicated myself, I left feeling violated.
Being a man of color in America
requires courage to survive. Some people love to brand others by the outer
trappings of our personas. I so desperately long to be accepted as me; however,
I live in a society that often demands to know what I am, Hispanic, Latino,
Chicano, Mexican-American, homosexual, queer, faggot. Because I was raised
embracing the best of all worlds, loving the rich tapestry of diversity billowing
around us, I have always thwarted society’s attempts to cubbyhole me. It is not
easy. Though I am an American by birth and culture, so much of my life I’ve
been labeled as a dubious American, viewed by many in mainstream American society
as perhaps alien and exotic, perhaps inferior, definitely different; viewed by
just as many Mexicans with mistrust. Their eyes say, “Aunque tienes el apellido, y hablas nuestro
idioma, no eres más que un pocho; realmente no eres como nosotros.” “Although you have the Spanish
surname and speak our language, you are but an American who has lost his
culture; in truth you are not like us.” Thus, I slide back and forth between
the fringes of two worlds by smiling, my masking the discomfort of being
prejudged in a multi-layered world.
Of course, being a man of color in
America is also a wondrous adventure. Last week, I was in Kansas City at the
Nelson-Adkins Museum of Art with a friend I’ve known for decades. I surprised
my friend when I approached a museum docent and asked her in Spanish where to
find the bookstore, feigning to speak no English.  I can only hope my friend forgives me for my
whimsical, wicked ways; however, I love demonstrating to the world around us
that although we are one people and one America, there are many rooms in the
house of humanity. We are a wondrous banquet of peoples from all walks of life
celebrating our individual as well as our collective journeys, but only when we
stop being afraid.
Intellectually, I have often
questioned whether evil truly exists, yet my soul’s instincts leave no doubt
but to its existence.  Of course, I understand
the psychology that can goad a mind into a maelstrom of malignancy. I comprehend
Lucifer’s battle with sibling rivalry after having been the favorite only to be
compelled to kneel before man. I have even pondered whether he, Lucifer, aligns
himself with banished humanity rather than continuing to claim allegiance to a
capricious being, who surrounds itself with sycophants who feed their emotional
void. On the other hand, I suspect that Lucifer is the tool by which humanity
approaches Spirit, not as child-like innocents, but as full-fledge adults, well
aware that faith is possible only when we act on our free will. Yet, no amount
of intellectual rationalizing can justify humanity’s perpetual forays into the systematic
carnage and conflagrations that litter our history whether in Syria, South
Sudan, Washington, D.C., or Boulder. This being the case, I confess, that when I
am confronted by evil deeds and evil people, I have never been one to turn the
other cheek of forbearance. It may be spiritually preferable to change an enemy
by hating the sin while loving the sinner, but the reality is that sometimes
the enemy is transformed only when tension is applied. After all, evil
neighbors, tyrants, and bullies rarely pull back their claws until the blood
spilling upon the earth is their own. I believe that if people of conscience do
not stand up to evil doers and refuse to prostrate ourselves before their
blood-soaked sandals, humanity never ascends above our bestial, primordial
state. Although it may feel at times as though we are but one standing up
against a mighty force, I believe that opposition to evil does not require much
more than following the path that leads to ultimate manifestation of fair play
and open doors for all, as demonstrated by those rare evolved souls throughout
history who serve as bastions against the darkness.
© 22 Jun
2017 
About the Author  

Cervantes
wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.”  In spite of my constant quest to live up to
this proposition, I often falter.  I am a
man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have
also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic.  Something I know to be true. I am a survivor,
a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite
charming.  Nevertheless, I often ask
Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth.  My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to
Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the
Tuscan Sun.  I am a pragmatic romantic
and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time.  My beloved husband and our three rambunctious
cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of
my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under
coconut palms on tropical sands.  I
believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s
mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty.  I am always on the look-out for friends,
people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread
together and finding humor in the world around us.

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Moving, by Betsy

Fernwood
Place, Mt. Lakes, N. J. to Charles St, Hammond, La. to Wells College, Aurora,
N.Y. to St. Rochester, N.Y., to University Apt., Rochester, N.Y. to Scottsville
Apt to Quaker Rd, Scottsville, N.Y. to 3 different places in Leyden, The
Netherlands, to Glick Place, Ft. Detrick, Frederick, Md. to 2025 Ash St.,
Denver, CO, to Glencoe St. to Dahlia St. to Lakewood Green, Lakewood, CO.  Over my lifetime of 80 years I have moved 14
times. That means I have moved on the average every 5.7 years of my life.  That would not be too bad for a nomadic
tribe, but I am not a nomad—at least, I didn’t think I was. This seems like too
many moves to me.
The
longest stay in one place, 15 years, was the Fernwood Place home in New
Jersey.  This is where we lived when I was
born. We left this home for Louisiana when I was 15.
So
there followed many moves. After that it would be only two or three years of
being established in one place.  Funny. I
never realized that my home had been disrupted so often until I started writing
this piece about moving.  It doesn’t feel
like I moved a lot but it turns out I did.
There
are some benefits to our moving a lot. One is that my birth family at the time
became very close. When I was young and we moved to the deep south we all had a
huge adjustment to make.  Being with my
siblings and/or my parents made me feel secure. For my brother and sister and
me during that period of adjustment, there were no life-long friends present to
distract us from the familiarity of each other and the rest of the family.  While everything was new, I appreciated more
that which was familiar to me; namely, my siblings and my parents.
The
same situation existed when I was a mother. My children were quite young when
we moved to a very unfamiliar place with an unfamiliar language.  At first, they had to stick with each other
and with us their parents just to get through the day.  They appreciated the familiarity of each
other.
There
is another up-side to all the moving. When you move you tend to throw things
out that you don’t need. You can move them, but that can be expensive and if
you haven’t used something in the past five years, why keep it?
Books
are an item neither Gill nor I have ever thrown out over the years and so
between us we accumulated lots and lots of books. The last time we moved, the
moving guys remarked that they had never seen so many books. ‘Though we have
been in our current home for over 5 years and plan to stay here, we have gotten
rid of about 1/2 of our books just in the last year.  It wasn’t that hard, really.
I
have talked with people who have lived in the same house all their lives. They
seem very calm and settled which is understandable. However, universally they
say they dread ever having to clean it out. 
They don’t even know what they have. Well maybe they won’t have to clean
it out, but someone will.
Gill
and I have been in our Lakewood home now for 5 years. If I am still upright 10
years from now, I will have been here 15 years. Hey! I lived in my birth home
for 15 years. I will have gone full circle. Is that an omen for the future?
After 15 years in the same place, if I am still alive will I have to go to
assisted living?  Maybe my time will come
and I will leave in a box. Good thing I’m not superstitious. Any of those things
could happen, but I do not believe it is pre-destined. It does give me a goal.
Be in one home for more than 15 years.
© 3 Nov 2015 
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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Anxious Moments, by Phillip Hoyle

When I heard the sound of the rattle I froze. Here alone with no one knowing I had even gone anywhere. My day off. No one at home. No cell phones. Late March afternoon on the West Mesa across the river from Albuquerque. I’d come here alone to look at the petroglyphs so I could look and look without anyone becoming bored or impatient. I’d started up a trail I’d never walked following its diagonal slope across the steep south exposure when I realized I really wanted to be off the path searching out there where no one was likely to have looked. And now I heard this surprising sound. It was too cold to worry over snakes, yet the distinctive, bone-chilling sound was from a rattlesnake. Where was it? I searched the large rock I was standing on. I studied the sage brush, rubber rabbit bushes, snake weed, and yuccas in every direction. I saw nothing, but recalled all too clearly my Scout training that had taught me these places make snakes hard to see. I wondered just how close the snake might be hoping it had moved away. I moved slightly. No sound. I waved my arms. The rattle resumed, and then stopped when I stopped. I moved my arms periodically hoping to discover just where the rattler had coiled. No such luck. I supposed my shadow had tipped off the snake in the first place. Recalling what I’d learned about snakes I realized it probably didn’t know where I was, just aware that I’d caused a shadow. Even though I couldn’t see a snake I knew not to step forward.

I’d go back the way I had come, but since I had been climbing slightly upward I’d have to go down, not a good thing in this rugged terrain. I knew a man who once stepped over a rock right onto a rattler. He got bit. Not me. I figured if I walked up hill to rejoin the well-travelled trail, (you know zag after my zig) I could then continue. I would walk uphill toward my shadow hoping not to see a snake, yet hoping to see one before it saw me. Did I want to be that close? No. Gingerly—no word for an outdoors adventurer but acutely accurate for this city slicker’s picking his way through the wilderness—I made my way ridiculously waving my arms like a windmill. Within a few yards I was startled to see the tail of a snake disappear into what I surmised was its den in the hillside. The snake had apparently been sunning on his front porch before being rudely interrupted by this quaking interloper. I was then super alert to my surroundings, and on my way up to the safety of the trail, I spotted two more disappearing snake tails. I must have been in a suburban Rattlesnake village.

Back on the trodden path I continued to the top of the mesa still alert to everything I could see to be afraid of. At the top there was mostly shade on the ground, no rattlesnake chaise lounges that I could see. I continued to a wide gully on the north side and reasoned I could safely descend where there had been no sunshine for quite a long time and probably no front porches at all. With relief but still quite a bit of anxiety running through my body, I picked a place to descend and had walked about two thirds of the way to the bottom when a loud crackling sent me almost into a panic. I saw with relief that I had frightened a rabbit. Still, several lower-body organs seemed caught in my throat. I laughed at myself the rest of the way down the hill where I was pleased to view some petroglyphs along the base of the escarpment even ones that had been viewed by thousands of other people. I really just needed to look at them, not discover new ones. Several were beautiful, and I was pleased none of them pictured rattlesnakes.

© 12 June 2017

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Where I Was when Kennedy Was Shot, by Louis Brown

Wikipedia: On November 22, 1963, John F. Kennedy, the 35th President of the United States, was fatally shot in Dallas, Texas while riding in a motorcade in Dallas’ Dealey Plaza, at 12:30 p.m. Central Standard Time.[1]

On that date I was a sophomore at Queens College, located in Flushing, Queens, NY. I was on my way to a swimming class in a gym building that looked like and still looks like an airplane hangar. As I was approaching the front door of the building another student told me what happened and we both walked over to a car parked in the parking lot in front of the gym-swimming pool building, and the owner of the car put his car radio on leaving the front door open; and we all listened. It was horrifying and frightening, of course.

Politically, I would say that, in the USA, it has been downhill ever since. And with the exception of Jimmy Carter, we really have not had any president with as much potential and enlightened attitude, as shown by John Kennedy, since. At least Jimmy Carter had morals. Barack Obama was good for the first 6 years then he conked out when he got enthused about TPP.

The whole nation was dazzled when John F. Kennedy was elected. One reason for Kennedy’s power was his granting a seat to the AFL-CIO at the table of power-making decisions. And the AFL-CIO delivered in those days. Working people had protections, status and reason to believe in a better future. About two years ago I called the AFL-CIO of Colorado, and they said they are not on speaking terms with the Democratic Party. To state the obvious, when the Democratic Party decided to stop advocating for working people, they got massacred by the wealthier, very nasty Republican Party. If the Democratic Party does return to advocating for working people and really listens to the AFL-CIO, they will become the majority party again. Otherwise they will shrink even further.

John Kennedy valued working people, granted appropriate power to the AFL-CIO, he valued college graduates. He believed our educational system should be well-financed and respected. Back in the early 1960’s the American educational system was number one in the world. Today it is about number 38 and declining.

Mrs. John F. Kennedy, Jacqueline née Bouvier (later Onassis) was not only beautiful but knew how to decorate mansion interiors and so decorated the White House with a French accent. The Kennedy’s were fabulously popular in Europe and Latin America. Americans were proud of their political leaders, of course, now we are ashamed and embarrassed, really ashamed.

Although I am a Bernie Sanders/Jill Stein fan, I think we should continue along the path of enlightened capitalism, as advocated by John F. Kennedy. Although I don’t have a phobia of socialism that the establishment constantly promotes, John F. Kennedy’s economic philosophy actually worked for the vast majority of Americans.

+++++++++++++++++=

3-17-13 Thinking of the Kennedy’s on St. Patrick’s Day

It must have been in the late 1990’s, when I was working as a caseworker for the NYC Human Resources Administration, I was sent to Headquarters at 330 Church Street in way downtown New York, that is to say Manhattan. Back then I could easily see the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. I had a Citibank checking account, and there was an ATM about 2 blocks around the corner from where I would go about 3 times a week to get lunch money. One afternoon I went, and I noticed an extremely handsome Irish-looking fellow. It took a few seconds, but I realized that the other young man was John F. Kennedy, Jr. Like any “peasant”, JFK Jr. went to the ATM and did his routine to withdraw what I presume was a small sum of money to get through his day.

Occasionally, he was accompanied by a tall pretty woman who dressed like a hippy. Back then all I had to do was watch the news and I learned that she was Carolyn née Bessette Kennedy. As the months passed, I saw both of them frequently. I learned why they were using that particular ATM. It was located in SoHo which at that time was undergoing gentrification, and John and Carolyn had purchased an expensive condo in one of the tall apartment buildings nearby. The two of them were actually my “neighbors” for the duration of my assignment downtown. I never got up the nerve to say “hello” or “hi there”, but occasionally I would roll my eyes at another person waiting to use the ATM to indicate there was someone famous in front of us.

Eventually, my assignment ended, and I no longer got to ogle the handsome Kennedy couple. Then about a year later I heard he and Carolyn had died in an airplane crash, actually, July 16, 1999, Atlantic Ocean, off the coast of Martha’s Vineyard. The news of this accident really saddened me.

Some speak of the “curse of the Kennedy’s”. It could be a curse, I guess, or is something going on behind the scenes that the public is not aware of?

© 2 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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Back Seat of the Car, by Gillian

Back in the days when I was young and foolish enough to indulge in gropings in the back seats of cars, I was still young and foolish enough to be doing it with boys. By the time I was old and wise enough to figure out who I really wanted to be groping, I was old and wise enough to have a lovely bedroom available for such purposes, as did most of the gropees, so the back seat of the car held no appeal.

I can only think of one car back seat that I remember with any affection. Betsy and I were in our early days together, so it must have been in 1987 or ’88. Two younger women friends, temporarily a couple, decided to go to Santa Fe for a romantic weekend and invited us to go along. They had a lot of money, or at least spent as if they did, and at the time had a brand new Mercedes. Friday night after work they picked us up at Betsy’s house and installed us in the back of the car. It smelled deliciously of brand new upholstery; leather, of course. Who has ever caught a wonderful whiff of vinyl? The back set creaked and sighed elegantly as we settled ourselves. Surround sound speakers spilled gentle music. Ah, luxury! Speeding south on I25 heading out of Denver, a subtly disguised side panel slide open, to display an expansive cooler; electronically cooled, of course, in which nestled bottles of expensive champagne and two perfectly cooled glasses.

‘Help yourselves,’ called Jan, the driver.

‘Will either of us be driving at all?’ Betsy asked, cautiously.

‘Nope!’ came the chorus from the front.

‘We’re doing the driving. You two just have fun.’

No need to tell us twice. We sipped and snacked. The cooler also contained a selection of very expensive cheeses, and crackers. A softly-sighing little spring door opened to offered entertainment in the form of playing cards and puzzle books, this being before the days of those dreadful little overhead car TV’s, but we declined, simply sitting back to watch the night lights go by and sing along with the music. Try a night like that now, and we’d both be rolling around on that spacious back seat fast asleep. But that night we stayed well awake the entire six hours. Of course we did not realize just how drunk we were until we attempted to get out of the car upon arrival at a very swanky adobe dwelling where we crashed for a sadly short time before that blazing New Mexico sun came streaming in the window to wake us up.

Now, our old VW camper, Brunhilda, was not exactly the lap of luxury – except when compared to sleeping on the cold hard ground. The transformation of the back seat tot combine with the cargo floor into a double bed often required much tussling with stubborn metal catches that refused to release and hinges that declined to bend until the necessary level of grunting had been reached or the magic bad words yelled. But after a little blood and sweat – we were never quite driven to tears – we always succeeded, to snuggle down together for the night at least partly on the back seat. So in a sense I guess we could say we spent literally hundreds of nights on the back seat of the car; and loved every single one of them!

© March 2017

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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Where I Was when Kennedy Was Shot, by Betsy

November 22, 1963—I had to look up the exact date—I don’t remember where I was, but I can go backwards and figure it out. We came to Denver in 1970. Before that we lived in Leiden, The Netherlands. We went to the Netherlands in 1966 from Scottsville, New York. My youngest child was born in 1964. My second child was born in 1962, so the time we are trying to pinpoint was between the births of my 2nd and 3rd child. In fact I would have been pregnant with my 3rd child at the time. I can visualize our home in Scottsville. I must have been at home. Yes! I would have been at home; I had two babies to take care of.

I do remember now watching the news on TV as the tragic event was unfolding. At the time I tuned in Kennedy was in the hospital still alive. I do remember the announcement shortly after, that he had expired, that doctors could do nothing to save him.

Then there was the swearing in of Lyndon Johnson on Air Force One.

What is more memorable to me is watching the heartbreaking funeral procession down Pennsylvania Avenue— the riderless horse, the casket, Jackie Kennedy and John Jr. and the famous salute the young child gave to honor his father. These are all images that have been etched into the memories of most Americans—and there were very few who were not paying attention at the time.

Trying to remember that day I find to be an interesting exercise. I am asking why do I not remember how I felt about our president being assassinated. Thinking back, my emotions seemed flat when viewed from the perspective of 2017. Not only can I not remember feeling what would seem to be the appropriate emotion, but also I cannot come up with the physical place where I was at the time of the incident without calculating where I must have been.

In retrospect that disconnect with my past seems odd to me. I have not often thought about being unable to be in closer touch with the Betsy of November 22, 1963 until considering the topic for today.

In recent years I have come to the realization that in my day-to-day life before I came to terms with my sexuality I was not fully “present.” I was partially “shut down.” Not depressed, not withdrawn, not unhappy—just not fully present. As if some of my nerve endings were absent or deadened. I did not drink too much, I did not do drugs. Yet looking back from today’s vantage point it feels as if at that earlier time I was not an integrated person. I was, in fact, some other person especially in one very important basic aspect.

So it has been very useful for me to write on today’s topic. It has given me some added insight into that part of my life—a time before I understood my true nature. And writing even these few words helps bring a measure of clarity.

Another less personal thought generated by the topic for today comes to mind. That is this: After the Kennedy assassination many assumed that presidents no longer would expose themselves to any possibility that a lone gunman could snuff out his/her life by simply squeezing a trigger from a distant, unsuspected, isolated location .

Anyone who is president has enemies. And enemies who are dedicated to ridding the world of the hated powerful person. It only takes one to pull that trigger. Literally millions of dollars are spent to protect the president and his family. More in the current administration that ever. So I suppose it would be more difficult today than in 1963 to pull off an assassination.

The gun issue at this point rears its ugly head. I haven’t heard it suggested by the NRA that the president himself be armed at all times, as is suggested for the rest of us—the school teachers, shop keepers, mothers, fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers, people living alone, people living with others, single people, married people, sick people, healthy people, virtually everyone should carry a gun, says the NRA.

In spite of his support of the NRA, I doubt our current president carries a gun. And since Kennedy’s assassination, presidents have not been hiding from public exposure. Since then our presidents have chosen to walk or ride out in the open, wave to the crowds, and make themselves visible. And I don’t blame them one bit for doing so. I understand the feeling. They want to be totally visible just as I myself was driven to be.

I have often made the statement to family and friends, “I refuse to live in fear.” Applying common sense is a good thing, but living in an emotional state of fear, unable to live life to the fullest because of what COULD happen or because of what happened to someone else is handing victory over to the enemy and capitulating to an unknown entity which wants to exercise its power at your expense.

Kind of reminds me of the same pep talk I gave myself at different stages of coming out. But then it’s not my life that was at steak, just my quality of life or perhaps a temporary emotional set-back. But the principle is the same. Living in fear is no way to live.

© 3 April 2017

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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Figures, by Phillip Hoyle

Following a fifth grade public humiliation in art class, I decided I could not draw figures. I was slightly interested but never liked what I drew after that. In seventh grade I signed up for wood shop to be in class with my best friend Keith. The only thing I actually liked in that class, besides cleaning varnish brushes (I liked the way twirling bristles full of soap felt on the palms of my hands), was drawing and wood burning a design onto the bookends I made. I should have signed up for art but I just knew I wasn’t an artist.

Due to my responsibilities in religious education I organized art programs for children. One teacher taught figure drawing. She made sure it included things like crosses and globes so the parents would understand why. Mostly I was interested that children grow artistically (music, drama, and visual arts) seeing them as religious expression, skills they would never forget from their childhood years in church.

Eventually I knew I needed to draw, so I bought a book on how to draw in a natural way, a large drawing tablet, and a set of art pencils. I worked at it and learned much more that I could incorporate into art projects I planned for others. Still I wasn’t a strong drawer. When I later signed up for a drawing workshop the thing didn’t get enough enrollees. I kept at my own figure drawing, even used my slight skills in my work.

Figures of speech were much more familiar to me. I had learned speech and some rhetoric in college and graduate school, wrote many papers to satisfy my professors, used the assigned topics in my own way in order to do research related to what intrigued me in the classes, preached a bit and eventually wrote professionally (probably a figure of speech itself although I did get paid for my work). I wasn’t a strong speaker, but I did enjoy turning ideas into written pieces.

Important figures in my life, you know those special people known or read about, include: my parents and grandparents, Lakota leader Sitting Bull, local minister W. F. Lown, a family friend who took me to powwows, The Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., Professor James Van Buren, several other profs, two music performance teachers, late-in-life art teachers, Myrna Hoyle my long-time wife and mother of our children, a few other partners in my gay life, many authors, some editors, the late Winston Weathers, and now some creative writing teachers.

I figure it has taken a village of thinkers, writers, musicians, and artists to make me into what I have become these days. I celebrate them and the many, many people who have put up with me in the home, work, friendships, general community, and of course, in the SAGE Telling Your Story group at the GLBT Center of Colorado. And I add; these last tributes are not just figures of speech, but rather, real live influences and personal realities that I appreciate and revere.

© 5 June 2017

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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The Recliner, by Pat Gourley

Sometime round 1993 my partner who was then suffering significant side effects from advanced HIV disease and near incapacitating peripheral neuropathy purchased two blue recliners. We had them located in our basement right in front of the TV. They brought great comfort and the ability for a modicum of relaxation to him in his final years.

I therefore highly recommend recliners for the terminally ill. If, however, you are not looking imminent death in the face I absolutely do not recommend recliners. If you occasionally feel the need to recline there are sofas, beds or in a pinch even the floor for that and for god-sakes don’t add a nearby TV or computer screen to the mix.

One of my greatest personal fears with advancing age is the possibility of debilitating dementia. Being the vain, drama queen I am a loss of cognitive function leads my hit parade of bad things that could go wrong. Living alone and with that reality unlikely to change, the thought of winding up in a near vegetative state in a nursing home really lacks appeal. The reality of course is that HIV will probably do me in first. Or perhaps some nasty side-effect from the meds I take to keep “full-blown” AIDS at bay will be my cause of death long before I have the chance to develop dementia. HIV meds are a strong driver for metabolic syndrome and its possible ramifications like diabetes, heart disease or stroke. Living to a ripe old age does present us with an ever-increasing menu of options for returning to the stardust we all are.

But the at times all consuming drive to postpone the inevitable tends to occupy an inordinate number of my waking hours. I was therefore very interested in a recently published study out of Canada dealing with exercise as a viable intervention for postponing or possibly preventing the development of vascular dementia, Parkinson’s disease or Alzheimer’s disease. Lets face it in this era of Trump all things Canadian have particular appeal.

There is a known genetic mutation that increases the chances of getting dementia. This gene is called the apolipoprotein E (APOE). What this study strongly implied was that even if you didn’t have this APOE that might pre-dispose you to dementia by not exercising you blew the benefit of not having the bad gene. It is an important caveat though to know this study showed association only and not causation. In other words the study did not prove that lack of exercise causes dementia.

People with this APOE gene are believed to have three to four times the risk of developing dementia. However people without the gene who did not exercise had the same risk for dementia as those with it. The amount of exercise needed to decrease risk was modest – brisk walking three times a week.

Remember regular aerobic exercise seems to lower the risk of dementia, Parkinsons and Alzheimers – gene or no gene. The bottom line here is get your ass out of the recliner.

I have included a link to a review article for this study: http://www.cbsnews.com/news/lack-of-exercise-might-invite-dementia/

© February 2017

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 have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.