Tag: Life Stories

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Life before Ice, by Phillip Hoyle

It’s no
wonder Mom was happy to live in town where almost everyone had electricity in
their homes. Not so on the farm where she grew up just ten miles south of
Junction City.
When Mom
moved into town to attend high school, she entered a new world of running water
in kitchen and bath, flush stools inside the house, electric lights in every
room, natural gas stoves and heating systems, and refrigerators that could even
make ice. No wonder to me that she never wanted to return to the farm except to
visit her folks. And when she was being courted by a young man who wrote for a
newspaper, was buying into his father’s grocery store (that wonderful citified
substitute for a farm garden and fields), played the piano like a dream
(classical, church, and jazz), and sang with expression and in tune, it looked
like her life could become one of relative ease, say contrasted with her
mother’s.
In town Mom
could have ice every day—winter and summer: iced coffee (which she abhorred),
iced tea (great with meals in summer), and iced cream (need one say more?). She
could quickly get ice onto a burn, bruise, or swelling should a child need it,
and make better whipped cream by beating it in a bowl surrounded with ice, on
and on. And should she see a need for a large quantity of ice for any reason,
she could simply call the local Ice House and the Ice Man would show up to
deliver the size and style of ice needed. It took me years to understand any of
this; in fact, I just figured it out this year, 2016, my 69th year,
when I started writing about my early childhood.
My great
grandparents on both sides of the family rarely had ice and certainly had no
electricity in their homes. My grandparents grew up without electricity but
fortunately got some when the Hoyle’s moved from Dwight to Junction City,
Kansas in the 1920s and when the Schmedemann’s greeted the national rural
electrification program to Clarks Creek in 1947—the year I was born. I’m sure
the same was true of my rural Colorado in-laws as well. To my amazement, my
mother-in-law used to eat crushed ice a lot, even had her own ice crusher to
make it. For her the habit may have been some kind of celebration of what she
had missed in childhood and probably kept alive the hope that she might someday
retire to life in town. Eventually she did so and kept enjoying her shredded
ice.
My family
was lucky to have a refrigerator with a freezer compartment. It was rather new,
probably purchased the same year I was born. I say this because the folks’ old
refrigerator, a small one with a very small ice maker near the top, went out to
my maternal grandparents’ farm. Their lives surely got easier. By the time I
could make sense of anything, we in town were living high with running water,
city sewage, electricity, natural gas heat, a gas range and oven, a swamp
cooler, and a refrigerator with a freezer unit. This was luxury in our town.
Ice was made in cubes at home using trays with movable grids. Pull up the
handle and out pops the ice cubes, but watch out; they might be all over the
floor. Or you might have trouble getting them out at all. That’s when we’d run
water over them to begin the melting.
I take it
all for granted and do so love my Monday bowl of Guinness Ice Cream with
chocolate chunks, but that could be for the enjoyment of the ale flavor and
that of my favorite candy.
© 5 Dec 2016  
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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Flowers, by Nicholas

I find flowers amazing. They appear delicate but yet can be
strong and resilient. Their shapes and colors vary wildly from the palest
shades to the brightest hews. I have tulips in my yard that are pure white and
some that are so deep a purple as to appear black.
I trace the progress of the season through flowers, what’s in
bloom, what is preparing flowers stalks and buds, and what has finished. Already
I have spotted tiny leaves breaking through the ground in my yard. Within weeks
flowers will appear.
When I lived in San Francisco, I marked the beginning of
spring with appearance in late February of the plum tree blossoms in Golden
Gate Park. Any day now, their pale pink flowers will appear breaking the dreary
coastal winter with their delicate brightness.
Here in Colorado, at the lower elevations, it is the
brilliant yellow of the forsythia that dares to announce Spring. Even though we
have many more weeks of winter, maybe even the worst of winter, ahead, these
tiny flowers will soon appear. I have two forsythia bushes in my yard. The
early one will show blossoms by the first of March. The other one is later by
about a month.
Around St. Patrick’s Day, I will uncover the planter boxes on
the porch and plant pansies with their delightful array of purples, yellows,
oranges, burgundies and splashes of white to brighten those late winter days.
Pansies love the cold and are beautiful in the snow. It’s the summer heat that
will kill them off.
Then some early daffodils will appear, starting what I call
their annual “death march.” I don’t know why this variety shows up so early only
to face hard freezes and heavy snow. But they persist and eventually bloom in
time for a spring snow to crush them. The snow won’t kill them, just bury them.
Fortunately, I also have later varieties with the good sense to wait until the
weather is more favorable.
Tulips are beginning to show up but they seem more patient
and wait out the winter weather to bloom later. A little bit of snow heightens
the brilliance of the colors in bloom. But it doesn’t take much to push them
all to the ground.
When it is safe to come out in late spring, the cherry tree
will overnight burst into white blossoms. And then the iris will show up. When
I was a kid, we called them flags because they bloomed around Memorial Day.
Maybe because of climate change, my iris seem to be almost finished by the end
of May.
Soon the roses will appear and the first bloom is always the
best. My favorite is the bright red rose near the back door.
When the warmth of spring begins to turn into the heat of
summer, the hawthorn trees flower. The white flowers are pretty but they,
frankly, stink. For two weeks, my backyard will smell of rotten fruit. However,
the bees love these malodorous blooms and the yard will hum with the buzzing of
thousands of bees harvesting what must be rich nectar.
All summer, my garden will be full of bees attracted to the
flowers on the herbs I grow. I use the oregano, sage, chives and thyme from the
garden but I think the bees get more use of my herbs. The little yellow arugula
flowers seem to be especial favorites.
I think climate change has altered the flowering time for the
lilies. They used to be a late summer flower with their oranges and yellows.
But now, it seems that they bloom by early July and are finished before August.
Maybe it’s the dry heat of Colorado, but late summer sees a lull in flowers.
And then in September, some come back to life—like the hot pinks and reds of
the impatiens—and bloom again before the cold returns.
Fall brings its own colors as the plumbago produces its
cobalt blue flowers along the front walk. And I know what time of year it is by
the shade of the sedum. Early summer, its flowers are white. Gradually, the
color turns to a pale pink. And in the fall, they deepen to a dark red and then
rust. It’s amazing to watch this one flower change color over time.
So, that’s the year in flowers in my yard.
© 13 Jun 17 
About the Author 
Nicholas grew up in Cleveland,
then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from
work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga,
writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.
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Muleshoes, by Jude Gassaway

Interesting
spell check fact:  the correct spellings
are horseshoe and mule shoe; I am talking about shoes for a mule, not pumps for
a drag queen.
MULESHOES
Knowing
the difference between horseshoes and muleshoes might be esoteric knowledge,
yet it might occasionally come in handy. 
A horse’s hoof is circular in shape and a mule’s hoof is a long
oval.  A blacksmith-forged, custom-made
iron shoe reflects the shape of each hoof.
In
June 1974, as a newly minted field geologist, I got a summer job in Death
Valley. The Tenneco Company had recently purchased borax mining and mineral
interests from the Kern County Land and Cattle Company. This included an
operating borate mine in Death Valley National Monument, a borate processing
plant in nearby Nevada, and numerous mining claims and prospects in the
region.  We were hired to relocate and
reassess the mineral properties, and to search for new mineral prospects.  Field geologists are always looking for
things, and some discoveries are real surprises.
The
dozen summer hires found lodging in the Amargosa Hotel, Death Valley Junction,
at a cooler elevation than the valley floor. The hotel was a formerly exclusive
establishment.
I
have never seen a bathroom with such elegant tile work.  We had full access to the unused hotel
kitchen, especially the refrigerators. 
Outdoors, the tiled swimming pool was filled to the brim with wind-blown
sand.
The
hotel’s phone number was Death Valley #3. 
Another unexpected find, this was the last twelve party telephone system
in the USA.  To use the phone, you held
the receiver to your ear and wound the crank. 
When the Operator answered, you told her the phone number you wished to
be connected to.  As you continued your
call, you’d occasionally turn the crank in order to keep the central battery
charged.  Also, you got used to hearing
clicks on the line as the other party-line members listened in.
There
was no radio or TV reception in the area, and the party-line was a way for
far-flung neighbors to keep in touch and to be entertained.  And we, the summer geologists, were the
newest game in town.  We learned to use
the more private dial-up phone at the Tenneco plant in Nevada, some nine miles
away.
Another
discovery was Stateline, the bar en route to the plant.  It was run by Sandy, formerly the head hooker
at Ash Meadows Brothel, now closed.  The
menu was cocktails, beer, coffee, top ramen, and hard-boiled eggs.  The naked lady painting behind the bar,
rescued from the whorehouse, had been painted by Marta Becket, the ballerina at
the Amargosa Opera House.  But that’s
another story.
Tenneco
sent me and another geologist on reconnaissance to the southern Mojave Desert
for July and August.  At 2000 feet,
Barstow was much cooler than Death Valley Junction.  At night, it cooled off to below 100
degrees.   I had to borrow a sleeping
bag!
In
the Calico Mountains, we followed Mule Canyon Road to the abandoned town of
Borate (1894-1907).  Mule Canyon is a
narrow canyon in soft shale, cut by iron-shod mules pulling iron-clad wheeled
freight wagons.  Borate’s open pit borax
mine yielded 900 thousand tons of ore. 
One principle use for borates then, as now, is for laundry and cleaning
products (Boraxo).
The
site of the town dump, now piles of rusty cans and wire, is called “Tin Can
Alley”.  All that was left of the town
were several dirt streets and a few pieces of concrete foundation. There were
many broken bottles and bits of iron, suggesting that bottle hunters had
already explored the site. I found many waist-high cone-shaped piles of loose
dirt with bits of broken glass scattered about the townsite.  The whole danged town had been sifted by the
bottle hunters.  Sifted!  Dang!
We
moved on to look for rock outcrops with promise of borax. That’s why we were
there.  A short incline led to a flat
railroad bed.  Rails and ties had been
removed many years ago.  The narrow bench
was all that was left of the Borate & Daggett Railroad.  Soon we found a pile of rusty artifacts: the
dump for the blacksmith’s shop.  Lying in
the twisted metal scrap were a dozen used muleshoes. Wow! TWENTY MULE TEAM
muleshoes.
Relics
that had been missed by the relic hunters. 
A bonanza!
© May 2017
About
the Author 
Retired USGS Field Geologist.
Founding member, Denver Womens Chorus 

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Choices, by Gillian

Choices
are what we all make, constantly, throughout our lives. Most of the obviously
huge ones we all recognize as such: marriage, divorce, babies, changing jobs or
homes, coming out, retirement, suicide. Meanwhile the innumerable tiny choices
we make go almost unnoticed; tea or coffee? Should I watch ‘Gone with the Wind’
yet again or the Bronco game? Or is now a good time for a nap?
Sometimes
we will say, ‘I had no choice’, ‘I’ve run out of options’, which of course is
never true. Except for a few who are tragically unable to make choices, or
incapable of following up on them, we always have options. What we really mean
is, there are no good options to choose from. Our transgendered friend
Margaret, who came to this group for a while, says she reached a point in her
life when she had to change this ‘wrong body’ she inhabited or kill herself.
Period. No other options were available. But still, she had a choice; just not
a good one. I guess that’s how it is with all suicides; heartbreakingly, it’s
their last best choice.
When
I talk of my own coming-out process I sometimes say it never felt like I chose
to come out. It was something that happened to me. I was swept up on this
runaway train, going wherever it cared to take me. But I know that’s not
strictly true. I had a choice. I could have thrown myself, at great risk of
serious psychological injury, off that train. I simply chose not to.
But
choices are not always what they seem. Apparently small ones can turn out to be
huge; literally a matter of life and death.
A
month ago, over three hundred people chose the same course of action.
Hey, lets go to Pulse
tonight. It’s Latin Night y’know?
Yeah, we’re planning on
it.
It was great last
year. 
I know Tony and Luis are
going.
Non
of them knew they were choosing a night of terror. Fifty of them did not know
they were choosing to die.
I
am invaded by sadness for the terrible losses of that Orlando night. I am sad,
of course, for all who died, and for the many who were seriously injured. I am
sad for those who loved them. I am sad for all who survived, though physically
unscathed, to live with what must be terrible psychological traumas. I am sad
for the entire LGBT and Latino communities, whose tribes have been attacked. I
am sad for the crazed shooter, so lost and astray that he felt compelled do
such a terrible thing. It was a choice, of course. He could have chosen one of
oh so many other ways to go. But most of all, I think, I am sad for the parents
who found out, in one nightmare moment, 
that their son was dead and that he was gay. (I say ‘son’ because the
majority of those killed were men, though lesbians died also.) I can imagine
little worse. I learn in the same instant that my son is dead and that I never
really knew him. And now I never will. What choices of word and deed did I
make, that my son was a stranger to me and I didn’t even know it?
But,
whatever right or wrong choices we might make, our ability to chose is of great
importance to us. Our free will gives us at least some slight feeling of power;
of control over our lives. And for others, power is found in the act of taking
away our ability to chose. The classic example of that battle would be the
abortion issue, which seems as if it will go on forever.
At
this very moment, combining thoughts of choices with my sadness engendered by
the Orlando tragedy, I finally get the connection. My very sadness is a choice.
A terrible thing happened. I can close my mind to it: forget it, shove it down
deep and not think about it. Not good. I can be very very angry. But I’m doing
my best to give up anger. But sadness is OK; not fun, but it seems like a
reasonable reaction. So I chose it. But it came over me in too dark a cloud;
with too much weight. I have felt overwhelmed by it. And now, just knowing it
was a choice has mitigated it’s hold on me. Even as I type, I feel it lifting,
becoming a much lighter, less overpowering, form of itself.
Once
again, writing things out has helped me deal with, lessen, change, and
understand, emotions. But it’s not just the writing. So again I thank you all
for this wonderful group – for your caring and sharing and support. That’s
where the real magic lies.
© Jul 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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Bicycle Memories, by Betsy

I now know I had a trike. I have a photo of it.  But I don’t recall it. The first bicycle I
can remember that was mine was a blue probably Schwinn with big old fat
tires.  When I grew to be old enough to
ride out of my neighborhood, I went everywhere on that vehicle: to school, to
the store, on “bike hikes” on the weekends with my friends.  One day I was riding down a small hill on
Morris Avenue.  I got going very fast—too
fast really— the handlebar began to shake back and forth Before I knew it I was
out of control.  At the bottom of the
hill was a roundabout—right in front of my dentist’s office. I hit the curb of
the roundabout and flew into the shrubbery in the middle. Next thing I knew I
was in my mother’s car on the way to the surgeon’s office. My dentist, Dr.
Bienville, had seen the accident from his window and went running to save me.
He carried me into his office and called my mother who took me to the doctor. I
suppose he checked my teeth first. I only suffered a nasty cut on my face which
the surgeon did a great job of stitching up. I still have a scar which is
barely discernible now 70 years later.  I
sure loved that blue bike, but it was never again ridable.
When my children were 2,4, and 6, we went to the Netherlands
to live for 2 1/2 years. As  is the case
for the Dutch people, bicycles were our main mode of transportation in the
crowded streets of that country. In the 1960’s I had never seen child carriers
for bicycles in the United States. But they were as prevalent as tulips in
Holland. All kinds. Between the two of us my husband and I could easily carry
our 3 children about on bikes with no problem. 
Safety was not so much of a consideration back then. No one wore a
helmet, not even did we put them on our children’s heads. I suppose some heads
had to be sacrificed before anyone thought of using helmets. One of our
favorite weekend activities was riding our bicycles on the ever present paved
paths through the Dutch sand dunes, one of the few undeveloped natural places
in the Netherlands.
Back in the U.S. in the 70’s and in Denver, I didn’t own a
bicycle. But we were able to remain a one car family for many years because
Bill, my husband, used his bicycle to commute the two or so miles to work every
day rain or shine. 
It was not until the late 1980’s that I started cycling
again—riding to work and around town on errands.
In 1986, I took my first long distance bicycle trip with my
daughter and her boyfriend both in college at the time. Still no helmets to be
seen. There were bicycle shops but they only housed bicycles and parts—no
paraphernalia of any kind—no spandex cycling shorts with padded crotch, no
handlebar mounted computers to tell you how fast you were going, how far you
had gone, all meteorological info you could possibly need, what day and time it
was, and your location coordinates—none of the accessories we see in the shops
today.
But that cycling trip around western New York state, and the
Allegheny Mountains in Pennsylvania was a wonderful and memorable adventure for
me.  I think that’s when I became hooked
on cycling.
In the 1990’s now an out and proud lesbian, I bought a blue
Fuji and rode the MS 150, a 150-mile ride from Denver to Pueblo and back to
raise funds for the MS Foundation.  This
ride is not a race, but many riders joined teams for the purpose of training,
socializing, and supporting each other on the ride. Early on I found myself
joining the “Motley Spokes team.”  The
competition was about raising money, not riding fast. 
During these years I pedaled several charitable rides in
various parts of the country and met many wonderful people. I have been very
lucky as well as I have many times been able to bring my own personal sag
support with me.  Gill has always been
willing— actually she has mostly wanted to come along (not on a bicycle) to
satisfy her wanderlust.  Unfortunately,
sometimes she becomes engrossed in her own bird watching, wildlife viewing,
picture taking activities and is distracted from her duties as a sag support.
She tends to turn her phone off so as not to disturb the wildlife—not helpful
to a stranded cyclist. Once riding in North Dakota in a vast open area with no
one in sight, the sky turned black and looked ominous.  “I wonder where Gill is, I said to myself.
”This looks like tornado weather.”  Two
hours later I arrived at the town that was our destination for the day, but I
was a bit scared, I must admit. And there she was. No bad weather where she had
been. Just tons of birds.
My best cycling experience and most memorable was across the
southern tier of the United States from Pacific to Atlantic. This was a two
month, 3800 mile fully supported tour with a company called Womantours. That
was in 2005. This trip has provided me with endless material for story
time.  Most of you have heard some of my
ramblings about this particular adventure. And I suppose I will continue to
refer to it as long as I am telling stories.
I have loved my bicycling experiences and the memories they
have provided.  I guess that’s why I love
a bicycle trip. It’s always an adventure. And I love adventure. 
© 30 May 2016 
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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Leaving, by Ricky

 Last week as I was
leaving my bathroom after leaving a small deposit, I thought it would be a good
idea to begin writing my story for the topic “Leaving”.  So, leaving the upstairs behind me and then
leaving the main floor, I headed to my computer in the basement.

Of course, the first
episode of leaving to which I was a party, was my birth.  I was seen leaving the birth canal by total
strangers.  It wasn’t like I wanted to be
leaving that warm and cozy small space, but my mother kept pressuring me to
leave—as in “Damn it! Get out of there and be quick about it.”  At least, that is what the screaming sounded
like to me.
Then there was the time
when I was about 4 or 5-years old, when my parents and I were to be leaving to
go somewhere.  Mom had finished leaving clean
clothes for me on my bed and told me to get changed.  Leaving the living room for my bedroom, I
arrived and began leaving the clothes I was wearing on the floor until I was
naked.  I then went to my bed to get
dressed and noticed that my dick was hard and demanded attention.  My mom saw me not getting dressed and not
leaving my dick alone so she told my dad. 
Dad spanked me for not leaving my dick alone.  Now
really!  He’s a man who at one time
was a boy.  He should have remembered his
discovery of his dick and known
better than to spank me for not leaving my dick alone.  Once a boy discovers the pleasures of not
leaving his dick alone, he will never be leaving it alone for very long for the
rest of his life.  After all, I doubt that Dad was leaving his
alone—my being alive is proof of that.
I’ll be leaving this
story for now because it is 3:00 AM and I am sleepy.  I may write more someday about all those
other leavings in my life.  (i.e.:
Leaving home for that first day of school. 
Leaving home for my first overnight campout. Leaving home for
college.  Leaving home for the
military.  Leaving the military for
home.  Leaving for the church to get
married.  Leaving the apartment for the
delivery room—4 times.)  Perhaps, I’ll
just be leaving this story unfinished.
© 7 Nov 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

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Fond Memories, by Ray S

Memories
are the past,
A
path up to a musty attic,
That’s
life stacked up there.
Piles
of shoe boxes filled,
Yellowed
envelops,
A
tower of ancient vinyl,
Weathered
albums, ancient year books.
1964
baby girl arrives joining
A
two-year-old brother;
The
new beginning, four lives into fifty plus years.
Faint
shadows cross a darkening window.
New
lives carry on;
Old
ones and memories slip away.
It’s
time to finish stories and chapters
The
book gets heavier and heavier to hold
Heavier
to open and close
Hard
to discern a fond memory
From
the dross of a long life lived.
It
is time to go down those stairs.
© 10 October 2016 
About the Author 

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All that Jazz, by Phillip Hoyle

Jazz goes
way back in my family. Dad played piano in a dance band in the 1930s and 40s. He
played a lot of jazz and he sang. Sitting at the piano in those pre-microphone
days he’d keep the rhythm going in his left hand and sing to the dancers
through a megaphone he held in his right hand. I’m sure he never lost a beat, missed
a note, or mis-sang a word.
He played
at church where the Sunday morning service was rather formal featuring hymns
like “Holy, Holy, Holy” or “Faith of Our Fathers” or even “Faith of Our
Mothers” (yes, a special version probably for Mothers Day), but the evening
service was much less staid. Preludes then featured improvised versions of simpler
gospel hymns played by Dad and my eldest sister Lynn. They would decide who
would play organ and who piano. Each hymn was played twice, first with one
person being in charge of the melody while the other was free to improvise. On
the repeat they’d change it around. Dad always played the key changes so they
had a seamless delivery. They’d begin at, say, Number 252 and keep going until
the preacher showed up to pray and preach. They’d continue their duet
accompaniments during the congregational singing. Jazz rhythms mixed with
holiness. Mom said that sometimes in those evening gatherings the back of
Brother Lown’s neck would grow red when Dad jazzed up some particularly
vivacious song. When Dad played the church’s Hammond organ, he didn’t use the
vibrato and jazz-sounding combinations, but his improvisations were as much
influenced by Jelly Roll Morton or Fats Waller as by J. S. Bach or Franz
Schubert.
There was a
lot more jazz. There were jazz 78 rpm records ones my father had collected. We
played them over and over. Then there were LPs. As a junior high kid my
favorite album among my oldest sister’s Columbia Record Club selections was
“Ella in Berlin.” My favorite moment in the recording was when scat singing a
rather fast song Ella laughingly sang, “Oh, I almost bit my tongue that time.”
And there was more performance. My sister Lynn played piano in the school jazz
band. Eventually, when churches let in more styles, she would occasionally do
jazz stylizations on hymns and gospel songs—even Christmas hymns—and yes, in
the morning service.
My next
older sister Holly and I both sang some jazz standards. Dad taught some of them
to us. One Saturday evening we got to go with him to a dinner club to hear a
live performance. Afterwards Dad made sure we understood that although he liked
our interest in jazz we should never try to make a living in jazz. “It will
never be enough for your life,” he explained. He knew too many musicians who
had music only (well that and booze and drugs and sex), and said that wasn’t
enough.
Dad and I
would sometimes stop by the Donovan Sundries Store on a Sunday afternoon. Paul
Donovan had an organ there and occasionally played jazz for us. Being
self-taught, Paul played mostly black notes; that would be like in the key of C
Sharp or F Sharp. They fit his hand Dad explained. Sometimes Dad would play a
piece or two while Mr. Donovan filled his order for a box of condoms. (It’s
interesting what a junior high boy knows about his parents. They already had
five kids; didn’t need any more!)
In high school,
I got to sing a medley of Cole Porter songs with the school jazz band and later
with the city band. That’s how I came to know “It’s All Right with Me,” and
“You Do Something to Me.” The director liked that I sang loudly. But it was
many years later when those songs really meant something romantic for me. That
occurred when I fell in love with another man.
My son
Michael from early on had a good jazz ear and played his renditions on the
guitar. His son Evan followed suit by playing his own kind of jazz on the
piano. Then his son Kalo got the jazz fever and today plays the bass in jazz
bands, folk bands, rock bands and symphony orchestras. He is also a composer
of, among other music, jazz songs. I suppose at least one of my great grandkids
will also start jazzing it up someday. Frankly I’m looking forward to it.

I feel
lucky to live in jazzy Denver. The house sits just three blocks from live jazz
performances six nights a week. And Jim and I try never to miss hearing Larry
Wegner and CJ Nicolai when they perform at the club. I bought their CD and sent
it to my sister for her birthday. It features “I Can’t Get Started,” “Stars
Fell on Alabama,” “The Falling Leaves” (CJ sings that in French), “No Moon at
All,” “Smile,” and “The Nearness of You.” Lynn wrote back: “Dear Phillip, Thank
you for the jazz CD. The first time I played it, I was cleaning the hard[wood]
floors. After one or two songs, I was crying to the music. My Style of music! …
Now we play one song at night, to get relaxed. I think I’ll never get tired of
it.” 
© 2 January 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 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.

Posted on

He Was Bored, by Ricky

This is a story filled with physical violence, sadism, masochism, extreme pain, and a bit of courage. So naturally, it will be boring.

Once upon a time, or in other words, this ain’t no shit, there was a small, thin, appropriately proportioned 8-year old boy who lived at the time of this story in Minnesota. In order to save having to write boring descriptions of this kid, just imagine that he looked like an 8-year old me since what he looked like is not important to the story.

As I said previously, once upon a time, there was this boy who was terribly afraid of needles used to give shots. One day he was taken to this office to see a man, he was told was going to help him.

Upon entering the man’s office, he discovered that the man was supposed to be a doctor but not a doctor he had ever heard of before. This doctor was a tooth doctor or a dentist, if you will. The boy was not nervous or afraid of this doctor.

Once seated in a chair which resembled a barber’s chair which the boy was familiar with and so still was not afraid of anything, the world the boy was comfortable living in suddenly began to change.

The once nice and pleasant doctor dentist examined the boy’s teeth and said that he needed to fix one of the teeth today and another two teeth another day. He then produced a syringe with (what appeared to the boy) a mile long needle. Fear fueled by adrenaline filled the boy and he refused to open his mouth to admit the needle. After wasting several minutes pleading in vain with the boy to let him give the boy a shot in his mouth to prevent pain, the sadistic dentist began to use a drill to bore into the sick tooth.

The first time the drill hit the tooth’s nerve a scream of pain filled the room and probably the street outside too. It was a horrible scene to witness, a poor little child being brutalized by a dentist. Nonetheless, the boy persevered and the nasty dentist eventually finished the task and the boy left.

On the next visit, and for the rest of his life, the boy wisely accepted the brief pain of the shot and avoided the trauma of tooth pain, but he still dislikes being in the dentist chair.

© 28 April 2014

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