Tag: Life Stories

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Ghosts: Aaron Burr, Patrick Swayze, etc. by Louis Brown

Aaron Burr’s mother was Esther Edwards (my great, great XXXX Aunt)

Aaron Burr Jr. (February 6, 1756 – September 14, 1836) was an American politician. He was the third vice president of the United States (1801–1805), serving during President Thomas Jefferson’s first term. Burr served as a Continental Army officer in the Revolutionary War, after which he became a successful lawyer and politician. He was elected twice to the New York State Assembly (1784–1785, 1798–1799),[1] was appointed New York state attorney general (1789–1791), was chosen as a United States senator (1791–1797) from the state of New York, and reached the apex of his career as vice president.

Born Gore Vidal = Eugene Louis Vidal October 3, 1925 West Point, New York, U.S.
Died July 31, 2012 (aged 86) Hollywood Hills, California, U.S. Nationality American
Other names Eugene Luther Vidal, Jr.
Education Phillips Exeter Academy
Occupation Writer, novelist, essayist, playwright, screenwriter, actor
Known for The City and the Pillar (1948) Julian (1964) Myra Breckinridge (1968) Burr (1973) Lincoln (1984)
Political party Democratic

Movement Postmodernism Ghost is a 1990 American romantic fantasy thriller film starring Patrick Swayze, Demi Moore, Whoopi Goldberg, Tony Goldwyn, and Rick Aviles. It was written by Bruce Joel Rubin and directed by Jerry Zucker.[3] Of course, poor Patrick Swayze is dead.
Born Patrick Wayne Swayze August 18, 1952 Houston, Texas, U.S.
Died September 14, 2009 (aged 57) Los Angeles, California, U.S.
Cause of death Pancreatic cancer
Resting place Ashes scattered in New Mexico ranch
Nationality American
Alma mater Coastal Carolina University
Occupation * Actor * dancer * singer-songwriter
Years active 1979–2009
Spouse(s) Lisa Niemi (m. 1975; his death 2009)

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I, Louis L. Brown, qualify as being a ghost since, in a bicycle accident 3 years ago, after I was taken via ambulance to the ICU at Denver Health Center, technically I died, according to the woman doctor, Dr. Johnson, who described what happened to me since personally I do not recall any of the trauma I suffered. I was bicycling in Wheat Ridge, near 52nd Avenue and Chase Street, and to judge by the bending and denting of my bicycle chain guard, I must have been hit by a car or truck or some vehicle.

Dr. Johnson said she did not personally save me, it was a medical technician. While in the ICU, I did not have the energy to ask to meet and thank the medical technician. I was there 3 weeks then I was transferred to Presbyterian Medical

Center in Denver, and, from there, I was transferred to Briarwood Rehab Center for another three weeks. The second half of my stay at Briarwood was quite pleasant and the food was very good. During the first half of my stay there I was fed through a stomach tube. I did not really adjust to that, so I barfed a a lot. Boo!

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Another interesting “ghost” for me is my deceased brother Thomas D. Brown who, for 2 years while he was attending Queens College (in New York City), reacted to the War in Vietnam by applying for status as conscientious objector. At the end of the 2 years, the military denied his claim to be a conscientious objector but gave him a I-Y status (like I have). If necessary, I would have applied for status as a conscientious objector, but things did not go that way in my case. A lot of draft eligible men resettled in Canada. Eventually Thomas D. Brown died of lung cancer. He smoked too many cigarettes.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Another interesting ghost for me is my other younger brother, Charles F. Brown who worked as a manager in the 42nd Street Library in Manhattan. Like both of my parents, he was also against the War in Vietnam. He had an exceptionally beautiful Italian boyfriend, Pat Marra; they lived in the Bronx. Pat looked like a DaVinci painting. His hands were a work of art. Charlie died from drinking too many whiskey sours and Manhattans and Martini’s, etc. Pat Marra died from an overdose of cocaine.

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My parents, DeWitt Brown and Elinor Brown were also interesting characters who are no longer alive, but I will save them for another prompt in the future.

© 24 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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Merit Badges, by Gillian

In my misspent youth I used to think casts were Merit Badges. In my really early days, arms and legs in casts were usually associated with the wounded returning from World War Two – beyond doubt, heroes one and all. Later I connected them more with soccer and rugby injuries, the owners of which were, beyond doubt, heroes one and all. Much later in life, I came to the sad realization that many of the soccer/rugby damages were incurred not during the game but afterwards in a drunken pub brawl. So …. not heroes one and all; not all Merit Badges.

The three casts which I have had so far in my life, and I certainly hope to have no necessity for more, were most definitely not merit badges; nothing whatsoever to do with heroics.

The first, which I have written about before so will not fully detail, would at best qualify for an Inattention Badge. I earned it seven years ago, walking around a hilly campground in the flat light of dusk. I really needed to take more notice of the rocky path on which I walked, and the steep drop-off at it’s edge. But no! I peered through the early moonlight at swooping birds, and up at the scudding clouds which seemed to leap across the sky in that Wyoming wind. Crack! I heard the bone go at the same instant as I felt my foot doubling beneath me at a dangerous angle as I, helplessly, sat down firmly on it. No, not a Merit Badge, that ensuing cast.

Then three or four years ago, overzealous in a doubles ping-pong game, I propelled myself sideways at the fastest speed I could create. I was determined to make it to the far side of the room to hit that feisty little white ball right back to the far side of the table. But before I got there, my sideways-moving leading foot caught on the indoor-outdoor carpet on which we were playing and I crashed into the point where the floor meets the wall. I met both the floor and the wall. Crack! I heard that most unwelcome sound as I hit the floor and looked sadly at the rapidly-swelling wrist – the right one, of course.

‘Oh,’ I heard my voice saying, calmly, ‘I think I broke my wrist.’

No, not a Merit Badge for that cast either. I know you can’t drag your feet sideways at speed on a carpet, albeit of the indoor/outdoor variety. No merit; no heroics. More likely a Stupidity Award, or, being kind, a Poor Judgment Badge.

Now I find myself in my third and, I certainly hope, final, cast. No crack! this time. Just a lot of pain. I didn’t know I’d done it and tried to convince myself, and Betsy, that somehow, unknown to myself, I had sprained it. Anyway, as Storytime progressed last Monday, we dashed off to Kaiser where I was told, most definitely, that it was broken. Betsy reminded them that I had broken this same bone a few years back. They brought up the x-ray. Identical with today’s. A small fracture line runs across the base of the fibula and down towards the tip. How, I wonder, can a small break in a small bone create such pain and consequent disruption of my life? How, I wonder simultaneously, can it be so identical to the the break of seven years ago?

I am told that sometimes the bone appears to be completely healed but is in fact not. Then it can break again for little reason. The most frequent causes of this incomplete healing are diabetes and lifelong smoking, neither of which apply to me. I offer lifelong drinking as an alternative. He agrees that can cause many bad things but not this one. He falls back into default mode; sometimes it’s just the luck of the draw.

So my current cast is no Merit Badge; neither is it any kind of de-merit. Apparently, it’s the result of one of life’s situations at which you can do no more than shrug and say, oh well. It’s one of those things we learn to do over a lifetime; accept that there is not always going to be a reason, or none that we can accept. We’ve done everything right and still everything goes wrong. We shrug it off.

I am happy to be the proud owner of a Shrug Badge.

© August 1016

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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Games, by Betsy

1982 was an eventful year: the closet door opened for me completely that year. And I stepped out with my head held high. At the same time the world of athletic opportunity opened for members of the LGBT community world wide. 1982 was the year of the first and inaugural Gay Olympics. This event started out as and has continued to be the largest sporting and cultural event specifically for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people. The event is modeled after the Olympic Games. It was early on that the Olympic Games authorities pressured the Gay Olympics authorities to drop the name “Olympics” lest there be some perceived connection between the two events. Thus the title “Gay Games” came to be.

The following is the statement of concept and purpose of the Federation of Gay Games:

“The purpose of The Federation of Gay Games, Inc. (the “Federation”) shall be to foster and augment the self-respect of lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and all sexually-fluid or gender-variant individuals (LGBT+) throughout the world and to promote respect and understanding from others, primarily by organising and administering the international quadrennial sport and cultural event known as the “Gay Games.”[4]

The games held every four years are open to individuals and teams from all over the world. Entry into the games is not restricted to GLBT individuals. All people are welcomed into the competition which has become the largest sporting and cultural event in the world exceeding the number of athletes participating in the Olympics.

The 1982 and 1986 events were held in San Francisco. Since then athletes have gone all over the world to compete in such countries as Canada, the Netherlands, Australia, Germany. Paris is slated to host the 2018 games.

In the late 1980’s I was making friends and acquaintances in the LGBT community. Though I had never heard of the Gay Games, I knew a woman active in the lesbian community who played tennis and had been a high school tennis coach. I had actually been on the court with her a few times. She asked me if I would like to enter the women’s tennis competition as her doubles partner in the upcoming Gay Games. “What’s that?” I answered. All I needed was the smallest explanation and I was ready to pack my bags for Vancouver, the site of the 1990 Gay Games.

The competition was quite wonderful I did come away with a silver medal in tennis. Preparing for the event was equally satisfying. We actually had a Colorado tennis team made up of probably a dozen men and women—mostly men. I soon discovered that there existed a A Gay Games Team Colorado made up of maybe 200 athletes including swimmers (mostly), runners, cyclists, and many others. We had uniforms—really nice—black with pink trim warm up suits. We were given a send-off at none other than Boetcher concert hall. I remember standing on the stage with my 200 or so team mates with balloons dropping from above when the cheers went up from the full hall of supporters. I stepped on one of those balloons, fell down, and came very close to being trampled by my teammates.

Or was that the send off for the New York games of 1994? I’m really not sure I remember correctly. But I know I did have the privilege of attending two Gay Games events—1990 in Vancouver, and 1994 in New York City. Two of the proudest moments of my life were marching with my team into the stadiums in those two cities in their opening and closing ceremonies.

The New York event drew 12,500 participants from 40 countries.

That games experience was very special in that my lesbian daughter was participating as well— as a member of the Connecticut women’s soccer team. It was definitely a proud and memorable moment for me when I found myself marching with my daughter in a parade of 12,000 LGBT athletes through Yankee stadium to the cheers of tens of thousands of supporters and spectators. (aside:) the reason Lynne and I were able to march together was only because Colorado and Connecticut both start with C. Team Connecticut directly followed Team Colorado in the alphabet and in the parade of athletes. What luck!!

I say we were marching with 12,000 LGBT “athletes.” It is important to note that the event was never intended to be focused on athletic ability alone, however. In the words of Olympic track star Tom Waddell whose inspiration gave birth to the games in the 1980s, “The Gay Games are not separatist, they are not exclusive, they are not oriented to victory, and they are not for commercial gain. They are, however, intended to bring a global community together in friendship, to experience participation, to elevate consciousness and self-esteem and to achieve a form of cultural and intellectual synergy…..We are involved in the process of altering opinions whose foundations lie in ignorance. “

Some of this I wrote about a few years ago in a piece called “Game, Set, Match:” I love this one particular anecdote and want to take the opportunity to repeat it here:

“Four years {after the Vancouver Games} I would participate in Gay Games IV in New York. I was able to share this experience with my daughter Lynne who lived not far from NY City in New Haven, Connecticut. This is when my lesbian daughter came out to me. When I told her I was coming to New York to play tennis in the Gay Games she replied ‘Oh good!! We’ll go together. I’m going to participate in the games too, Mom. I’m playing on the Connecticut women’s soccer team.’ Yes, that was her coming out statement to me! We did enjoy that time together and watched each other in our respective competitions and cheered each other on.”

The events of that day did much indeed to define our very strong and positive future mother-daughter relationship.

These amazing games have continued every four years since their inception in 1982 and I have described my participation experience in just one of the competitions, tennis. There have been and continue to be literally hundreds of such competitive exhibitions from croquet to weight lifting to volleyball and basketball to diving and water polo—all events similar to those of the Olympic Games.

There is another aspect of the extravaganza which is worthy of mention ‘though I am not as personally familiar with its activities. The Gay Games includes cultural activities as well. Many, many LGBT choruses, musicians, and performers of all kinds gather to perform for all audiences, and to share their talent and craft.

I truly believe the Gay Games has more than fulfilled the dreams of Tom Wadell and those others who were its founders. There is no doubt the games continue to bring the LGBT community together in friendship and sharing, to “elevate consciousness and self-esteem,” and “to alter outside opinions whose foundations lie in ignorance.”

Those who work to ensure the event’s future are all heroes and heroines.

Neither my daughter nor I have been to any of the games since New York, but we will both remember our experiences for the rest of our days. I was indeed privileged and I am very proud to have been a part of both the Vancouver and the New York Gay Games.

© 10 January 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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Flowers, by Ricky

Seeds are in the soil. Some are purposely planted and some arrive at their location via the whims of Mother Nature. All of them only need sunshine and water to germinate. If the top soil is rich in nutrients, the germinated seeds grow into wonderful specimens of whatever plant the internal DNA guides them to become, whether tree, garden or wild flower, provender, forage, or weed. If the top soil is thin, parched, and poor in nutrients, the germinated seeds only grow into a shadow of what the rich top soil plants achieved.

The cut flower arrangements people buy and send to funeral services are beautiful, colorful, and represent love and

sympathy for the deceased and family members. But the flowers soon lose their glory and beauty as they rapidly fade and wither away, revealing their true identity as being like a whited sepulcher on the outside, but inside being filled with dead men’s’ bones.

So also, are the cut (and therefore – dead) flowers symbolic

of words of love and promises that all too often fade with the withering flowers, thrown out with the trash, and are remembered no more. Better to show love daily with words and deeds of love rather than giving one’s cherished companion dead things to throw away.

People are like flowers. When human seedlings begin to grow in a liquid environment and fed healthful nutrients, the child gets a good start in life. If the parents keep nurturing the child physically and mentally through to adulthood, society will have many mighty oak trees to keep society strong – many willow trees whose flexibility to bend will help society to weather tough and challenging times – many giant sequoias to provide awe, reflection, and respect for all things older than present society. Those children whose parents are not

able to richly nurture, will perchance, grow to be the lesser plants of society being sheltered and protected by the trees. Most of these lesser plants will be garden or wild flowers bringing to society much colorful beauty and variety – unfortunately, some will become weeds.

I am like a perennial flower, trying to blossom every year. Some years I am in rich soil and blossom bright and beautiful. Other years, I am in poor soil and present dull and wilted foliage.

I began life in what to me seemed like fertile, if not rich topsoil. I did not know of any toxicity in my environment. Dad and mom bought a nearby café for my mother to own, work in, and run. Once that was stabilized, I was sent to live in Minnesota with my grandparents – another fertile topsoil location.

I was never bullied in schools. Of course, the Minnesota kids teased me about my California accent, but also became friendly because of it. The accent disappeared during the two school years I was there. When I returned to California with my mom and step-dad, the California kids teased me due to my Minnesota accent, but also became friendly because of it.

As the years came and went, I continued to blossom strong or weak depending upon the soil I was in. When my wife passed away, I was in rich soil but could not or maybe would not partake of the nutrients available. I was an oak tree for my children, but inside I was a weeping willow. After 9-years I finally began to live again when I met 4-men who collectively filled the hole in my heart left by my departed spouse.

Then in 2014 Stephen was diagnosed with leukemia and given 6 to 18 months to live. In December of 2014, Stephen was hospitalized for about a week with 0-blood platelets but treatment for I.T.P. was “successful” so he could go home, but with weekly monitoring. During the next 2-years, Stephen’s blood platelets varied between 110K and 50K on any given weekly test – more or less stable.

Just like with my wife, I had put the possibility of death out of my conscious mind.

In October 2016, three days after taking the Kaiser recommended flu immunization, Stephen’s immune system went berserk. His downward slide to the end began relatively slowly but increased in speed. Of all his friends that I am aware of, I was the only one who had the time and freedom to be with him during this period. On December 11th, Stephen entered the hospital for the last time.

One by one, the doctors tried many treatments, some overlapping. One by one the treatments failed to stop the internal bleeding. I chose to be an oak tree for Stephen while there was still hope but sometime before the 31st, I lost all hope but still remained outwardly an oak tree for Stephen. But my blossoms faded and began to wilt.

On the evening of the 31st, Stephen had given up hope. Myself and his niece Kathy, convenience him to not say anything to the doctors until the morning to see if the latest effort to stop the bleeding had worked. The morning came and with it the doctors. The latest effort did not work. Stephen told the doctors to stop all treatment and revoked his “do not resuscitate” instructions. He was told that in doing so, he would probably die before the next morning. At this point, I became outwardly a weeping willow and spent the majority of my time that day holding Stephen’s hand or arm and rubbing his thigh right up to the end at 10:34pm, 1 January 2017. It was the worst way to start a new year.

After a short while, a gentleman came in to discuss miscellaneous things that Kathy, the only relative present, needed to know and to answer her questions. I was sitting on the couch by the window facing the room door and the others were sitting in a semi-circle facing me. After losing interest in the discussion and spending most of my time looking at Stephen, I noticed that no one had done what they usually do in the movies I have seen. So, I said, “I’m tired of this.”, got up walked over to Stephen’s bed. I reached out and shut his eyes (Yes. You actually can do that.) and then pulled the sheet over his head.

About half an hour later, I was just finishing packing up my things when all the others left the room and started walking down the hall. I finished packing my bag, walked over to Stephen, lifted the sheet, kissed him on the forehead, said goodbye, re-covered his face, and walked out closing the door behind me. That was the last time I saw Stephen.

I have had holes punched in my heart four times in my life. There have been more family deaths, but only four deaths punched holes. I am tired of having holes in my heart. My blossoms are dull and wilting as a result.

It may take a village to raise a child, but it takes a forest to protect the flowers of society. We need more forests and flowers. I need more forests and flowers.

© 12 February 2017

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Dont!, by Phillip Hoyle

Surely back when I was a kid there was plenty of parental advice given, but I don’t remember much of it, certainly not many precautionary prohibitions starting with Don’t. Our parents trusted us kids—all five of us. We got freedom. A few years ago my youngest sister, Jewel, said of the folks, “They gave us too much freedom.” I was not sure what she meant but I did know that as a kid I had a life my parents knew little or nothing of. Then as a young teen that life was getting less illegal and more sinful. As an older teen it was more deplorable, but to describe my perspective more accurately, the deplorable self lived at peace with the non-deplorable self. I always liked the freedom, the lack of Don’ts, the trust merited or not.

My eldest sister, Lynn, advised, “If Dad gets angry, don’t argue, just listen.” He was mainly pleased with me, but one evening I had to follow her advice. My protracted goodbye at my girlfriend’s door went on too long. Perhaps Dad imagined I was kissing her too much while the truth was that I was trying to get up my courage to kiss her at all. I wanted to but couldn’t make myself do so. I followed Lynn’s advice when he scolded me in the car. He seemed angry that he had to wait on me. I listened and apologized without saying anything about what I was doing or unable to do, just for inconveniencing him.

My reluctance about kissing disappeared a couple of years later under the tutelage of a boyfriend. After going to his school which offered several classes and then his moving away, I finally kissed two different girls. One of them wondered what had got into me; the other expected that behavior from her boys. My second year in college I kissed Myrna much to her surprise. She got nervous and bit my ear. I thought she loved it and knew I was on my way to becoming a real man or something pathetic like that. I really enjoyed kissing her like my boyfriend had taught me and teaching her to enjoy it as well. Finally I understood what someone had written about French kissing: that it was the French answer to the need for birth control. We kissed passionately, and it did fill in for the Don’t factor for the two of us.

I prescribed a few don’ts for myself. Don’t try to answer all the teacher’s questions; doing so will only make other students despise you. Don’t forget to smile. Don’t forget to stand up for your own ideas in discussion. Don’t argue needlessly. Don’t overdress or underdress. But those are not terribly important.

Eventually I advised myself a Do. Do find a guy to do that really fun kissing with, and do it now.

© 22 May 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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Maps: Scotland and the Presbyterian Church by Louis Brown

Last week one of our fellow authors made a harmless remark about the Presbyterian Church. I know Telling Your Story does not actually have a religious purpose. Nevertheless, a few interesting things have been happening in the world of American Christian churchdom. To celebrate this month, Women’s History Month, March 2017, you might want to choose to read The Red Tent (1997) by Anita Diamant. It is the story of Dinah, daughter of Jacob, and the plot takes place in the pre-Decalogue days of ancient Jewish history. Women had to go to live in the Red Tent once a month during menstruation and to go there to have their babies with the assistance of the numerous midwives.

Dinah was a midwife. Dinah finally decides to marry Shalem, son of the king of Shechem, fortified city in Egypt. Shalem and a large number of the adult men in Schechem are murdered by Simon and Reuben, two of Jacob’s sons. These two also strip brother Joseph of his colorful coat and toss him into a well. Joseph has the power of interpreting dreams so is taken up by the king of Egypt and is made into a Vizier. The Pharaohs come later. The plot goes on and on with war, betrayal, murder and generally a picture of a really blood-stained history of primitive society. It is an extremely well-written book and celebrates women, all women.

Another religious book worth noting is The Shack (2007) by William Paul Young. A 50 year old religious man, Mackenzie Phillips (“Mack”) whose wife Nan refers to God as Papa, goes on an outing with his three children in an Oregon woods near Multnomah Falls, and a murderer abducts his 6 year old daughter Melissa and murders her. Local Police and even the FBI go on a search for the girl and find her blood-stained dress in a Shack. Mack looks at the red dress and is horrified. Mack gets very angry with God for permitting such a crime to have taken place. Why wasn’t God there to protect his daughter? A few months later Mack received a short note from “Papa” (from God?) asking him to come to the Shack, the scene of the last sign of Missy (Melissa) was found.

Mack doubted the note actually came from God but accepted the invitation, and went with a gun in case the note was a ruse, a note sent by the murderer of Melissa or other malefactor. Once Mack gets to the Shack, he falls asleep and has a dream in which he visits with God, a black woman, the Holy Spirit, an Asian woman and with Jesus. He quarrels with God, but assists Sarayu, the Holy Spirit, with arrangements for his daughter’s burial. He finds the location of his daughter’s cadaver by following red signs on rocks and trees that the murderer had previously placed there. The new male God assists Jake with this discovery.

Mack wakes up from his dream, goes with the local police and discovers Missy’s body lying in a cave. I saw the movie of this book and everybody wept when Missy gets buried in a graveyard that was heavily decorated with flowers bay Sarayu. The Shack was an unusually well-written story. It discusses Christianity honestly.

If you recall, the other religious work that impressed me was the poetry of Rumi. Last night on MSNBC I saw a documentary about a Scottish doctor who got a job with his wife Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. The Scottish doctor was gay. When he got to Riyadh, he was forced to live in a dirty apartment, and, when he tried to make contact with any of a large number of willing same-sex partners, the religious police caught on to him, they spied on him, then threatened to send him to jail. Arabian homophobia does not come from the Koran, in my opinion, it comes from the Arabian government trying to brown-nose Queen Victoria, our true larger enemy.

Speaking of Scotland, the Church of Scotland is the Presbyterian Church. Donald Trump is a Scottish Presbyterian whereas my family were English Presbyterians. The Presbyterian Church is said to be the boring church. I am spiritually a Presbyterian, although, since I do not own property or have a million dollars in the bank, I actually do not qualify to become a “real” member of the Presbyterian Church which is ever so slightly snobby. But I am still knocking on their doors.

I descend from the Reverend Robert Brown who obtained his MDiv (Master of Divinity) from the University of Glasgow in 1725 and also from the right reverend James Bishop Wilcox who established the Presbyterian seminary in Middlebury, Vermont around 1830. Reverend Robert Brown became an itinerant minister in Northern Ireland. James Bishop Wilcox married a certain Prudence Aldrich and had many children, however, many of these children were still-born. In the daguerreotype from around 1835 I used to have of Prudence Aldrich, she looked very bitter in a Puritanical sort of way. My grandmother told me that was because of the many miscarriages she suffered.

© 20 March 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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My Gay Husband, by Jude Gassaway

Just because I am rather Butch, do not assume that I don’t have a man husband.

In the Spring of 1987, I went to the Desert & Mountain States Lesbian & Gay Conference in Albuquerque, where I met Hal and his partner, Gene, hosts for the event. Even though Hal could not direct me to a place in town where I might ‘parknik’ and spend the night for free in my truck, he was prescient in his advice to a strange Lesbian: that the entertainment for Saturday night, although a pair of men, was actually geared to both men’s and women’s senses of humor; and was not a man-only event. Romanofsky and Phillips was a good show.

I spent the night in the high school auditorium’s parking lot, for free.

The next year, the D&MS L&G conference was held in Denver. I arrived early and immediately ran into Hal. He demanded that we exchange last names, phone numbers, and addresses, right there, and he issued a standing invitation: Whenever doing any geology or travel in New Mexico, to be sure to stop by for a shower, laundry, fresh water, and I could sleep in his driveway, for free. Plus, the person who lived in the host city was responsible for finding a superb Thai restaurant, for a soon to be traditional Saturday night dinner, which I was able to do (Thai Heip).

The first Seminar that I attended was led by BJ Peck, a local therapist. Titled: Alcohol and 12-step programs. There were a dozen chairs arranged in a circle. I sat at 8 o’clock, and watched the others arrive. The attendees were all women I knew from Denver, some therapists, and others from the Denver Women’s Chorus, from the Women’s Coming Out Group at the Center, and from local AA groups. There was an empty chair to my left. Just as BJ got up to close the door and start the meeting, Hal walked by, caught my eye, and he came in and occupied the last seat, next to me. Hal was not known to the others in the room.

BJ started the introductions which included our reasons for being there, and we went clockwise around the room. Just like an AA Meeting: “Hi, my name is Jude and I am an alcoholic. I attend the Gay AA groups, and my interest in this group is to see what other recovery groups there are in Denver, and….” turning to the man on my left, I continued, “This is my husband, Hal.”

Hal, being both adult and sober, was able to introduce himself and proceed as if he hadn’t just gotten married to a Lesbian. We have been married ever since.

We communicate by frequent e-mails (calling each other Husby and Wiffi). Sometimes, Hal calls me his “Sweet Petunia Blossom”. This year is our 29th Anniversary.

© May 2017

About the Author

Retired USGS Field Geologist.
Founding member, Denver Womens Chorus 


Posted on

Eavesdropping, by Gillian

I say the days of
eavesdropping are over. Like so many other things, it is obsolete; extinct.
Voices yell intimacies into smartphones, while people’s every thought, word,
and deed, flood from Facebook and Twitter. We have entered an era more of anti-eavesdropping;
of trying not to hear the intimate details of everyone’s life; their
every opinion. Not long after the last Superbowl a friend and I met for lunch.
The business- men at the next table were so raucous in their analysis of the
game that we had to move to another table. Next to that one, two women talked
incessantly, almost as loud as those men, not to each other but into their
phones. Eavesdropping, if you can even use the term, has become obligatory.
As a kid, especially
being an only child, I loved to eavesdrop. I recall clearly one conversation on
a bus. The young couple in the seat in front of me had a very emotional, if
whispered, argument over whose fault it was that the girl was pregnant. I got
quite an education. The last time I rode a bus, which actually was to get to
Cheesman Park for the start of this year’s Pride Parade, a young guy yelled
abuse into his iPhone the entire trip. Apparently, his girlfriend was pregnant,
and, very apparently, he was displeased. He repeatedly called her a ‘fucking
stupid bitch’, occasionally switching to ‘stupid fucking bitch’, which seemed
to exhaust his vocabulary. I really didn’t want to hear it. I hurriedly shoved
in my earbuds and turned on my iPod. Definitely we are in the
anti-eavesdropping era.
I was first taught to
eavesdrop by my parents. They listened constantly to Mother Nature, who never
stops talking. Through them, I learned to relish birdsong, which of course is
eavesdropping. They aren’t singing to me – they sing to each other, or perhaps to
themselves simply for the glory of the welcome light of morning. Mum and Dad
taught me to listen to the whispers of the wind in the trees, or the howling of
it against the window panes, and to know what it meant for tomorrow’s weather.
From my aunt, and later from a wonderful teacher in high school, I learned to
listen to the whispers of the rocks. They also never stop talking, but oh so
quietly. If you can manage to hear them, they tell the amazing history of our
planet, and they tattle-tale on Mother Nature herself. They give away her age.
As far as our planet is concerned, at least, she is middle-aged; half way
between birth and her life-expectancy of nine billion years. The rocks tell us
that dinosaurs once roamed right here, where we sit this Monday afternoon. (Not
exactly here, on the second floor, but you get my drift!)
But there’s something up
with old Ma Nature. She’s not as quiet as she used to be. Her whispers became
louder. Over the more recent decades she has begun not only to talk out loud but
even to shout. She knows something. She wants us to know. But we don’t listen.
We are well into the
anti-eavesdropping era.
We really don’t want to
hear it.
We put on our headphones
and turn up the music.
Mother Nature is
desperate. We must hear her. She will be OK, as will the planet, at
least for another five billion or so years, but we must save ourselves.
She tosses tumultuous tornado swarms at us to wake us up, and hurls humongous
hurricanes to get our attention. We ignore her. In 2003 as many as 70,000
deaths in Europe were attributed to record heat. In June last year London hit
it’s highest temperature on record, at 103. TV shots showed train tracks
buckling in the heat. But this July as I tried to watch the tennis at
Wimbledon, (I say ‘tried’ because it was rained out day after day) London was
treated to the wettest month on record. Last year’s heat waves in India,
Pakistan, and parts of South America broke all records. Australia has had to
add new colors to weather maps to accommodate temperatures never experienced
before. Climate craziness.
2015 also brought heat
records to Alaska and parts of the American southwest. Meanwhile we recently
had record rainfall in China, and across this country from Texas to Washington
D.C.
And still we hear nothing.
Mother Nature might as
well be silent for all the attention we pay.
Flames roar from the
forests on every continent. Even as I write this, sitting on the patio, I smell
in the air the smoke from the Boulder County fire. Another fire blazes on
Hayden Pass, Colorado, which they do not expect to contain before October.
Mother nature absolutely
screams.
Still we do nothing.
A few years ago,
residents of several Polynesian nations banded together in a desperate attempt
to get the world to care about their islands, which were, and of course still
are, disappearing into the Pacific. In their traditional hand-hewn wooden
boats, they temporarily were able to block the mouth of the Australian harbor
from which a huge coal-ship was ready to leave. The coal was destined for the
huge hungry mouths of the Chinese coal-fired energy plants, whose energy goes
to fill the huge hungry mouths of the endless factories producing goods for the
endless huge hungry mouths  of the world’s
insatiable consumer appetites. Don’t blame Australia. Don’t blame China.
There’s plenty of guilt to go round. We are all guilty. I still drive my car,
and occasionally I fly on a plane which is exponentially worse for the
environment. Those south-sea islanders get it. It’s in your face down there;
quite literally. When that beautiful blue ocean which once lapped at your feet,
starts to slap you in the face, you get it.
Hopeful-sounding treaties
are signed every now and then, after endless wrangling, but always making
agreements for future goals, not demanding big decisive action now. It
all smacks, to me, of the alcoholic who intends to quit drinking once he’s
finished this last bottle of whisky. No! He has to quit now. Poor out
the rest. We are all addicts, hooked on our lifestyles and standards of living.
We need to quit now, not when we’ve smoked that last carton of
cigarettes. If we don’t start hearing Mother Nature’s cries right now,
it will be too late.
What if that man on the
bus was not shouting abuse at his girlfriend, but yelling to me; to all the
passengers? ‘Fire! Fire! The bus is on fire. Get out now. Fire! Fire!’
I ignore him. I do
nothing. All the people on the bus do nothing.
I don my noise-canceling
headphones, turn up the music and go into anti-eavesdropping mode, breathing in
the billowing smoke.
We would all say, that is
just insane, suicidal, behavior.
Wouldn’t we?
© July 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.
Posted on

A Caveat Should Not Precede an Essay, by Cecil Bethea

A caveat should not precede an essay,
but I should like the gentle reader to know my memory is not only fragile but
also forgetful.  Too these events too
between fifty and sixty years ago. 
During that length of time a man could easily be conceived, born, reach
adulthood, marry, become a father and even a grandfather.  Also you are dealing a fairly normal and
average human being not the third law of thermodynamics which always acts as
expected.
My first adventure unfolded when I
was not even a practicing much less an adept homosexual.  I had gotten out of the Air Force and went
down to the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa to see my long time friend Van
who was working on his Master’s in history.
At that time Tuscaloosa had not been wet very long.  True the city had never been dry more like
very damp what with the Northport Fruit Stand being open to all hours and quite
willing to supply a list of potables. 
Nothing too fancy.  I didn’t know
anybody who drank Scotch, never heard of tequila, couldn’t afford Piper Heidsieck.  My needs had also been
supplied by rum runs to Birmingham. 
There were few bars in Tuscaloosa,
but Van knew one out on the outskirts.  I
remember little about the place because it had little to remember.  We sat a table, drank beer, reminisced, told
unshared experiences.  The clientele was
college students being college students. 
Talking sincerely the problems of the world.  Proving that all their profs were
dullards.  Showing off their knowledge of
German, French, or Spanish/ No Russian or Chinese in those distant days.  Of course every one who disagreed with them
was an idiot.  I know this because I’ve
heard college students talk since then. 
The tables were small about 18 inches across with just enough room to
hold an ashtray and several beer bottles. 
The circumstances meant that you could easily hear or partake in your
neighbors’ conversation.
Having not seen each other for two
years, Van and I had much to discuss, so we ignored our neighbors.  Somehow or another two unknown men younger
than we started talking with us.  One
look at the two told me that they were probably from the football team.  Why they wanted to talk with us was beyond me
because we had such dissimilar interests. 
In fact, I wondered why ever did he want to talk to me. 
He didn’t.  Van saw some people he knew and went over to
their table leaving me alone with the two football players.  This was to be my one and only conversation
with football players.  Somewhere in that
night, I learned their sport and that one was the quarterback.  Hereinafter, he’ll be known as the QB.  Also, he was a mediocre QB at least by
Alabama’s standards.  They were much
weightier than I, who was about the same size then as now which meant that I
was heavily outmatched by one much less two. 
Of course, I can chatter away like crazy to anybody; whether they can
understand me is another matter. 
Finally, the QB said he wanted to
have sex with me.  I did not answer with
shouts of “What kind of man do you think I am?” 
It wasn’t necessary; I knew exactly what sort of man he thought I was.  Of course, I demurred to no avail.  Without my acquiesce, he said he’d knock me
to the floor and tell everybody that I’d propositioned him.  Had the case gone to court, the QB could have
pled rage induced by a homosexual.  Fifty
years ago, it probably would have stood up in court especially when used by the
quarter back of the Crimson Tide. 
Pleadings did no good; possibly he enjoyed them. 
He said to go to the men’s room and
followed me across the floor outside.  I
cannot remember why, but you had to go outside to reach the comfort station.  The QB had locked the door but had yet to unzip.
 Before anything could happen, Van came
running out.  He yelled through the door
that he had to leave immediately.  The
quarterback said to tell him to go away, I did, Van said he couldn’t leave me
out there in the middle of nowhere and started beating on the door and
yelling.  I was freed.  Van and I ran to the car, sped off with
squealing tires, and returned to his place by a tortuous route.
My next experience took place years
[later] in Denver out at Vivian’s Den out at 17th and Federal.  Although it fronted onto Federal, nobody
entered that way, we all came through the back door from the parking lot.  Just inside the door was a level about twenty-five
feet long with a jagged bar to the right. 
Beyond that was a step down to the area that contained a pool
table.  Next was a step up which led to
the front door with the two rest rooms on either side.
One night, probably a Tuesday because
only four or five of us were sitting at the bar with Leo as bartender.  He was the best gay bartender I’ve ever known:
very outgoing, always talking with the customers, knew when your drink needed
replenishing, never ignoring the paying customers while chatting up a possible
trick.  We were sitting strung out along
the bar talking about all sorts of things about the way we do at the Tuesday
concave.  Four young men entered the bar,
bought drinks, and went to playing pool. 
Never have seen the quartet before, I ignored them.  Besides I was enjoying the conversation.
Eventually I had to go.  I went to the pool area where I waited for
the shooter to shoot and for his ball to stop rolling as good manners
dictated.  Then with no acknowledgment of
the players, I went to the restroom and without locking the door, probably
didn’t even close it.  There I stood with
the seat down and me unzipped and doing my business before the commode.  Suddenly somebody came into the room.  Without stopping I turned to see one of the
pool players.  He immediately said either
“You God damned queer!” or “You fucking Queer!” but he certainly used the noun
queer.  All this time he was pounding on
my face with his fists.  Meanwhile I got
through the door unzipped, wetting myself, bleeding from what was a split lip
and what would be a blackened eye, pass the other three pool players to the
safety of my own kind.  Leo made motions
of calling the police but didn’t.
The young people today might wonder
why we like Socrates stoically accepted our fate.  That was another time, another clime.  That was the way life was for Gays.  Knowing this, we made adjustments to our
lives knowing that we never called the police, knowing that if our names were
in a newspaper article our jobs were forfeit, knowing that we could be kicked
out of the military in a full-dress parade. 
Our leases could be abrogated for our felonious conduct.  Picking up a man could result in jail
time.  But being young was very heaven
and salved our souls.
© 31 Oct
2010 
About the Author  
 Although
I have done other things, my fame now rests upon the durability of my
partnership with Carl Shepherd; we have been together for forty-two years and
nine months as of today, August 18th, 2012.
Although
I was born in Macon, Georgia in 1928, I was raised in Birmingham during the
Great Depression.  No doubt I still carry
invisible scars caused by that era.  No
matter we survived.  I am talking about
my sister, brother, and I.  There are two
things that set me apart from people. 
From about the third-grade I was a voracious reader of books on almost
any subject.  Had I concentrated, I would
have been an authority by now; but I didn’t with no regrets.
After
the University of Alabama and the Air Force, I came to Denver.  Here I met Carl, who picked me up in Mary’s
Bar.  Through our early life, we traveled
extensively in the mountain West.  Carl
is from Helena, Montana, and is a Blackfoot Indian.  Our being from nearly opposite ends of the
country made “going to see the folks” a broadening experience.  We went so many times that we finally had
“must see” places on each route like the Quilt Museum in Paducah, Kentucky and
the polo games in Sheridan, Wyoming.  Now
those happy travels are only memories.
I was
amongst the first members of the memory writing class.  While it doesn’t offer criticism, it does
offer feedback.  Also, just trying to
improve your writing helps no end.
Carl
is now in a nursing home; I don’t drive any more.  We totter on.
Posted on

A Defining Word, by Ricky

People use words to communicate.  In spite of a few of my acquaintances whom
never refer to me as a person, person of interest or disinterest, I use words
to communicate.  It behooves all people
to communicate accurately by using words whose meaning everyone
understands.  Those of us who have (or
still have at our senior age) a large vocabulary and can actually remember the
words when we need them, hold a big advantage over those persons with a limited
vocabulary – this category does not include young children whose minds are
trans sponge and cis blackholes.  Any
parent can testify to the reality of that fact. 
Perhaps you can remember a time when you were small or when your young
child accurately used or asked for the meaning of a “colorful” word while your mother was standing nearby – words
like: shit, cock, fuck, bitch, son-of-a-bitch, gay, lesbian, homo, or
pervert.  A child’s vocabulary expands
very rapidly indeed.  Especially when
following a child’s inquiry, the adult blurts out “Where the hell did you hear that word?”  The answer is nearly always, “From you
Daddy.”  At this point, you get a very
very stern look from your mother who
is still standing nearby.  (Add “hell” to
the previous word list.)  By the way,
does anyone know why little children seem to delight in saying those words at
the most embarrassing time, place, and circumstance?
While growing up from age 10 forward, I spent many hours of
my summer vacation from school reading for recreation to pass the time I consumed
babysitting my twin brother and sister.  I
had many opportunities to interrogate a dictionary to obtain the meaning of a
word, if I could not deduce its meaning from the context of the usage.
If I didn’t know how to spell a word in elementary school, my
teachers would always tell me to look it up in the dictionary.  I always retorted, “How can I look it up if I
don’t know how to spell it?”  I finally
quit asking and just tried to figure out a way to write my assignment without
using that particular word.
At one time I was a good speller.  I never won the class spelling bee but I was
often 2nd.  When I graduated
high school, my ability to spell began to fade away.  Now I depend on my computer’s ability to know
what I am trying to communicate and to spell all the words correctly and place
them into proper grammatical position. 
I’ve discovered that usually the computer and I are both week in the
grammar area.
Communicating by pronouncing words correctly (making allowances
for regional dialects and not writing a homonym for the correct word) is
equally important for presenting a positive image to others along with having
your message correctly understood. 
Perhaps you can remember President George W. Bush’s mangling of English
(some may call it misspeaking or misquoting). 
“Dubya” attended some prestigious schools:  Harvard Business School, Yale University, The
Kinkaid School, Phillips Academy, and Yale College.  Yet his mangling (there I said it again) of
the language does not reflect well on those institutions or upon the Texas
education system, which already has major problems of its own.  It goes without saying (but I’ll say it
anyway) it does not reflect well upon him either.
Words are used to label things and people.  However, labels do not define a thing.  Poorly paraphrasing Shakespeare, labeling a
rose a skunk, does not accurately call to mind its sweet smell.  Placing a label on a person does not
accurately define who or what that person is like and the danger of mislabeling
someone is all too great.  People are too
complex to be categorized by a label. 
Humans are more than just words.
I am tired of writing on this topic so here is the defining
word of the day, “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious”.  If you don’t know what it means, look it up
in a dictionary or just watch Disney’s “Mary Poppins”.
© 22 Feb 2016 
About the Author 
I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale
and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I was sent to live with my grandparents on their
farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents
divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
My story blog is: TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com