Tag: Life Stories

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I Have a Dream, by Phillip Hoyle

I was asked to contact Colorado Public Radio for an interview—something related to the anniversary of Martin Luther King, Jr’s, “I Have a Dream” sermon. I heard that speech on television. I believe I watched it in Clay Center, Kansas. We moved there in 1962, the summer before I entered my sophomore year of high school. I loved the strongly rhetorical and emotional delivery of this handsome African American preacher. The move from an Army town with integrated schools to a small all-white county seat town made me race-conscious in a wholly new way. The presence of deep racial prejudice against coloreds in that rural setting seemed misplaced. These people seemed more prejudiced in their white society. They didn’t know the reality of working with, studying with, or playing with people of color. They didn’t have Negro friends or acquaintances. Dr. King’s call for an American vision of racial equality and justice rang true in my ears. I truly missed my African American class mates like Yolanda Dozier, Jay Self, Oscar Smith, Harlene Gilliam, and even Von Quinn. I missed packing groceries for the many African-American customers at the store. Like an ancient Hebrew prophet, King was calling the presumably Judeo-Christian America to repentance, to get right with God, to find justice by providing justice in every town from sea to shining sea. His voice rang true to biblical tradition. I was thrilled. A preacher was saying these things with great courage and creativity. He seemed a kind of hero for me.

I admired this man, agreed with his gospel, and had no perspective how this liberation movement would eventually spell freedom for me. Still, his voice alerted me to human potential and the need for social change in our country and towns. But the life of a teen, the day-to-day discoveries, the forging of a fledgling adult identity, the move towards jobs and careers intervened. I knew I had music, knew I had a religious motivation, but knew only one church that while it was not sectarian by intent, was often sectarian in practice. I dove deeply into its tides of education, ministry, work, and identity. Sadly like the county seat town, it too was mostly white, missed the richness of racial diversity and leadership. Still, king’s themes colored my reading, my concerns, my sense of myself, and kept me open to this larger and smaller vision of freedom. So now I am going to celebrate it on public radio. Is this a grand opportunity? It certainly presents a challenge for creativity, heart, ardor, and love not only for me but for America with its growing diversity and wilting idealism.

To the young I say listen to the creative, challenging, opening voice within. Never let go of its potential. Let it guide you down creative paths of participation in your personal and public life. Keep open to the way it can inform your decisions in the changing adult experiences related to age, relationships, and social change. Honor the voices of democracy, justice, and love. Recognize the responsibilities of freedom, the partial realization of advancement, the constant tendency not to share, and the ever-present fears. Build communities of loving support but not at the cost of forgetting the larger picture. Always the larger picture. You are in it. It is in you.

The interview brought together a young gay man and an old one (me). Hear it at www.cpr.org/news/audio/two-gay-men-two-different-generations

Denver, © 2013

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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Families, by Ray S

A very long time ago I was the youngest in my immediate family. Somehow I have survived all of these years in spite of knowing “I must have been adopted” (sound familiar?) or the result of a moment of reckless passion. As you can guess already I knew I was the “unwanted child.” They had produced the magical Golden Boy seven years before I slipped into the scene.

Fortunately, the family reread the book covering the arrival of a baby, now about the Stork’s tardy gift. It was a refresher course to bone up on what they might have forgotten from the advent of the Son and heir.

Everyone soldiered on as best they could. Daddy continued to work and support his progeny. Golden Boy succeeded in defending his territory and ignored the new arrival. Looking back I believe he didn’t quite know how to handle the situation. Besides, he was only seven-plus and probably wouldn’t be able to read “How to Cope with an Unexpected Baby Brother.”

Mommy, having put up with all of the necessities and inconvenience of child bearing depending on how you spell baring, decided that if she was going to deliver another bundle of joy, the child would be named “Doris.” Unfortunately for Mommy and Doris, baby arrived with the plumbing she did not order.

No matter Baby soon learned how to dress his “Patsy Ann” doll in a wardrobe lovingly stitched by his mother. When old enough scissors were allowed and a whole collection of paper dolls appeared.

The die was cast and pansy was in bloom. Daddy did see to it that his second son knew how to recognize male anatomy, no matter how modest, from that of the little girl next door, who was busying herself and Baby Boy with their own anatomy lessons.

Sometime later, the boy graduated to being in boy’s knickers and then the first pair of long pants. The family had succeeded in establishing their second son’s gender identity to their satisfaction, and everyone lived happily ever after!

Little did they know, or did they?

© 5 September 2016

About the Author

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The Solar System, by Pat Gourley

“If the Universe doesn’t care about us and if we’re an accident in a remote corner of the Universe, in some sense it makes us more precious. The meaning in our lives is provided by us; we provide our own meaning.” 

Lawrence M. Krauss

The last sentence of this quote, from the controversial physicist and atheist Lawrence Krauss, I think could be viewed as a synonymous description of the actualized queer person. We have had to, through our multitude of unique coming out paths, provide our own meaning. Many of us have started on our path of self-actualization feeling very isolated and alone wondering what is wrong with me. Most of us though eventually realize how precious we really are. We are the golden threads in the tapestry of humanity.

As modern astronomy has proven beyond a doubt our solar system is phenomenally insignificant in our own very insignificant galaxy. Best estimates from data provided by the Hubble Deep Space Telescope is that there are between 100 and 200 billion galaxies in the ever-expanding Universe. Our own galaxy the Milky Way is estimated to contain between 100 billion and 400 billion stars.

If there is a God, or sole initiator of this whole phenomenon, that entity surely must have a bit more on their mind than whom we, inhabiting the third rock from the sun in this miniscule solar system, are fucking. I mean really get a grip and begin to try and comprehend the mindboggling immensity of the Universe. It really implies an extremely exaggerated sense of our own importance to think the initiator of the Big Bang leading to the creation of 200 billion galaxies is preoccupied with our drama. If there were a hell this over the top human hubris alone should get us sent to hades for eternity.

I will admit that perhaps I have a very immature and un-evolved sense of the spiritual. I will concede there may exist an omnipotent source of direction running through the evolution of the Universe from the Big Bang to date, call it God if you want. Sorry but the comprehension of such an entity at this point in my life is way above my pay grade. It would require an amount of faith-based belief I find really unthinkable and quite frankly a lazy copout. Maybe I could be further along in actualizing the possible reality of this wonder and not having to rely on faith alone, if I spent more cushion-time but I don’t think that is going to happen either.

I actually am quite content thinking we really are the result of a bunch of lucky evolutionary “accidents” that have occurred since living things first appeared on the planet 3.8 billion years ago. When you look at all the countless evolutionary steps and cross roads traversed and we still made the cut it is really something. It is quite precious really.

I was at a very wonderful event recently when two dear male friends decided after 27 years of living together they should get married. Though the words marriage and God were spoken several times during the event it was actually billed on the program as a “Celebration of Love”. I think the institution of marriage was cooked up to control property and women and then their reproductive capacity. I do believe we queers are really bringing our own meaning to it all, to this age old and until recently heterosexual institution.

I was asked to participate by doing a reading or two lasting no more that a couple minutes. It did cross my mind that if there is anything to this God business my stepping into one of his churches might unleash a meteor strike ending the human race right then and there. That did not happen. I was able to read a poem by Walt Whitman and another by Rumi with no detectable dire consequences resulting.

So even if God doesn’t exist and the Universe doesn’t care a twit about us and we are just a happy evolutionary accident in an isolated solar system on the edge of an in significant galaxy it sure is still amazing. As gay people we also get to provide our own sense of meaning and that creative self-realization adds immensely to the human dance on this third rock from the sun.

© October 2016

 About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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Dreams, by LewisThompson

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 10 November 2014

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way. 
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YWCA, by Gillian

It was October 20th 1964 when I arrived at the door of the YWCA.

My friends and I were delivered there, so my diary tells me, by a very chatty driver of a huge orange and yellow taxi. We did not, my past self informs my present self, understand a single word he said the entire way from the pier where the Queen Elizabeth liner had docked that morning, to the ‘Y’ in mid-town Manhattan. I knew at that moment exactly what Sir Winston Churchill meant when he said that Britain and the U.S. were two countries divided by a common language.

My tattered old diary pages tell me little of the ‘Y’ itself – I record the address at 610 Lexington Avenue, and dismiss it as ‘dark, dirty and dingy’. In the event, we stayed there for only five nights. Immediately we all had jobs, we rented a cramped furnished apartment at 161 Madison Avenue. I say little of this place in my diary; I imagine I was suppressing it. As I recall, it well surpassed the ‘Y’ for dark, dirty and dingy. From this apartment we began the daily grind of American everyday life. But the first four days I spent in this country, wandering out in ever expanding circles from the ‘Y’ to explore my new country, everything was as exotic and constantly astonishing to me as if I had landed on mars.

I had rarely experienced central heating constantly blasting into every nook and cranny. The buildings all seemed dreadfully overheated and stuffy, to me. The UK was then, and to a large extent still is, a country of open windows no matter the weather. I found so many permanently closed, and in fact physically un-openable, windows to be very claustrophobic. The next weekend, when we went looking for somewhere to rent, one of the few pre-requisites we all agreed on was – windows that can be opened. That one thing considerable narrowed our choices.

Food was a source of never-ending amazement. On the first night, wandering around Washington Square with four young men we had met on the ship, we stumbled upon a dark, airless, overheated little cafe where they served one item. Steak and baked potato for one dollar. With a Ballentine’s beer, $1.25. No variations, no additions. It was smoky and loud. The tables were sticky. Who cared?? Non of us, all from Britain, had eaten much steak; two of the men, and I, had never had it. The man at the counter asked, we gathered after his third attempt, if we wanted medium or rare. We hadn’t a clue what that meant. Honestly, talk about ‘right off a da boat’!

In our homes you got whatever it was as it came. On the rare occasions we had eaten out, fish of various kinds took up most of the menu. Mutton and pork was sometimes available, with no choice of how it was cooked, roast beef possibly, especially for the Grand Occasion of Sunday Lunch, but steak was available only to the rich. And here it was, before our very eyes and almost in our hungry mouths, for a dollar. We ate there every night until we all had jobs, and quite often after that.

Another huge surprise was coffee shops. By that time we had them in Britain; for some reason they were mostly Italian and they all served what these days we would probably call lattes, with little consideration for anyone who might prefer their coffee black. If you wanted your cup refilled, you paid the same again. Small sidewalk coffee shops abounded in Manhattan. For a nickel you got a cup of black coffee; indeed a bottomless cup, as some almost disembodied hand kept re-filling it. It came with a little glass milk-bottle-shaped container of cream, languishing in the saucer. Cups, even those which were vaguely more mug-shaped, still came with saucers in those days.

So, we discovered, we could satisfy our hunger for $1.30 a day: endless cups of coffee in the morning, skip lunch, steak and potato and a beer for dinner.

But, when we ranged a little further afield on our third day, we found the most incredible gastronomic emporium yet – the Horn and Hardart Automat. None of us had conceived of such an establishment in our wildest dreams. We watched, silently, as by then we had learned to do, to avoid the fools rushing in mode of operation. Perhaps some of you remember these places, the last one of which closed down in 1991, Wikipedia informs me. This one was one big room with small tables with chairs, and a long counter with stools. The walls seemed to be made of many many little glass panels. Behind each pane was displayed an item of pecuniary delight: slices of pie, sandwiches, cookies, cold cuts, salads, cheese, cooked meats and vegetables. Cafeterias I was very familiar with, but not of this style. First you exchanged your cash for Horn and Hardart tokens, small brass objects with H & H stamped on them, to insert in the required slots. Many doors opened at the drop of a nickel or dime, some more luxurious items required a quarter. We loved it! The surroundings were insalubrious, to say the least, but there were many choices available and you could eat well, if plainly, for less than a buck. And we were broke. We alternated the Automat and the $1.25 steak and potato for a week or two – at least until our first paychecks.

Out of curiosity, while writing this, I googled my first two addresses on American soil. I couldn’t find out much about that particular YWCA, but it is still at the same address. In the only street-view photo I could find, it still looks dark, dirty, and dingy! The old Warrington Hotel, however, at 161 Madison Avenue, appears to be significantly gentrified. It now appears to be a mix of small businesses and medical offices. The only one I could find for sale is 1200 square feet and described as a ‘medical business condo’ for lease Monday – Friday at $8000/month.

I’m assuming it becomes an ‘airbnb’ or something similar on weekends. I did not record the size of our apartment there, but I wrote that it had a kitchen, dining room and two bedrooms. We paid $178/month. For the extra $7,822, without weekends, I hope it’s a whole lot less dark, dirty, and dingy now!

© June 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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Denver, by Cecil Bethea

February 23rd. 2009

Dear Sirs,

You all should know that Mary’s Bar actually did exist here in Denver, but years ago it was urban renewed into a parking lot. About five years past the parking lot became the site of the building housing the offices of the two news papers. An actual take-over of the bar took place during World War II, but I know none of the details. The result is that my account is fiction in all details except for the name of the establishment.

Having had nothing published, I have been told to include something about my life. A biography would be slight. I’m from Alabama but have lived in Denver for over fifty years. My life was certainly not exciting and no doubt of little interest to almost any one.

Then on August 25th of last year during the Democratic Convention [2008], everything changed. While coming home after doing some research on the Battle of Lepanto at the public library, I became enmeshed in a demonstration by the anarchists that bloomed into a full-fledged conflict with the police. Because the eldest of the protestors could not have been thirty, my white hair made me stand out like the Statue of Liberty. The police in their contorted wisdom decided to take me into custody. During their manhandling of me, a photographer for the Rocky Mountain NEWS took a splendid photograph of me being wrestled by two 225 pound policemen.

After the publication of the photograph and an explanatory article in the NEWS, fame came suddenly and fleetingly. However I do understand that my name is embedded somewhere on the Internet.

Since then I have testified in seven trials of the protestors. Also the A.C.L.U. is working toward a lawsuit for me. Not the sort of suit that stirs up visions of orgies in Las Vegas with the payoff. The lawyer has warned me not to splurge at MacDonald’s.

The best!

[Editor’s note. This letter was written as a cover letter when Mr. Bethea was asked for local gay history. As always, Cecil’s humor makes it memorable. For more of his stories, go to Pages in the right-hand column of this blog and click. Then click on Cecil Bethea to find more of his stories.]
© Denver 2009

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 18the, 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 memoir 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.

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Scars, by Betsy

I can hear it now. “She will be scarred for life if she tries to live a lesbian life-style.” Had my mother not died as a young woman, had she been present when I came out, I believe this is what she might have said. Her mother, my grandmother well may have said this too. The two women had a great deal of influence on me as I was growing up. Neither knew I was homosexual as they both died well before I came out.

They may have been right in making that imaginary statement, however. We all have scars—physical and emotional or psychological. Growing up gay in a homophobic society will inevitably produce wounds. Even after wounds heal scars can be left as evidence of the damage.

I have some scars on my physical body as well as my psyche. Most people do. One I acquired early in life represents a wound caused when I lost control of my bicycle going about 20 MPH down a hill hitting a curb head on, and landing completely unconscious by a street lamp. I was rescued by my dentist who happened to be looking out his window when the accident happened. I had a bad cut on my face which had to be sown up by a surgeon. The scar is still visible, but barely.

I suppose analogous to that might be that I was born into a world which had no understanding, certainly no acceptance, of gays or lesbians—most certainly not of their lifestyles. One might say the accident was that I was born homosexual, but I don’t see that as an accident—just the way it is. There are most definitely scars left from being born into and living in this non-accepting environment. As I have written before I have a passion for the truth and a great respect for living honestly and with integrity. Yet I lived half my life in a life-style that was a lie.

It was not an unhappy time of life, but it was basically flawed. That flaw of the fraudulent lifestyle is the wound. The wound is now healed, but a scar reveals that there had been a wound—a wound caused by an accident?

While I’m making analogies, allow me one more. Another scar is in the middle of my lower back, about a 10 inch line right down my spine. The reason I have this scar is because I had pain brought on by spondylolisthesis. Because I had pain a surgeon cut into my back and treated the source of the pain. The corresponding scar in my psyche might be represented as the result of treating a deep emotional hurt. The pain in this case I see as the years of self denial and the fear of rejection brought about by my unwillingness to express my true self that resulted.

All in all I think it is safe to say some scars, probably most scars, are good. Why? Because they are the result of healing. They are what is left of a wound or an adverse condition which causes pain. A scar implies that a fix has been made. The wound cannot fester and the pain is just a memory.

It is said that one cannot remember pain. I translate that to: one cannot reproduce a former pain, however one can remember that a particular wound or experience was painful. In this case HOLD THAT THOUGHT. Living freely the life style of one’s choosing is a precious thing.

It can also be a precarious thing. Never to be taken for granted.

© 22 June 2015

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Military and Law Enforcement, by Ricky

          I once served as a Deputy Sheriff in Pima County (Tucson)
Arizona for just short of 4-years.  At
one time Pima County extended all the way south to the Mexican border during
the time that Wyatt Earp was a lawman in that part of the county.  So, he and I were both deputies in Pima
County.  I resigned returning to college
and pursuing a BS degree in Law Enforcement but the school, BYU, changed the
focus of the course so I graduated with a BS in Justice Administration.  During my time in Tucson, I was stationed 24
miles north in the Marana Substation and also served about 9-months in the
vehicle maintenance section coordinating vehicle repairs and routine
maintenance.
          In those years I went to 3 fatal traffic accidents;
apprehended two armed robbers—recovering $10,000 in stolen money from a drug
rip-off; convinced a local “runaway” to return home voluntarily; recovered one
stolen car driven by 5 escapees from a Texas Sheriff’s youth farm/ranch—the
oldest being only 12; detained for ICE numerous undocumented aliens; eliminated
one very potential neighborhood “feud” between a 12 yr old boy and an out of
patience new neighbor; arrested four California men who came to Tucson to buy
bricks of marijuana and who had an illegal sawed off shotgun; tracked burglars
through the dessert; became a scoutmaster for the church troop; wrote over 200
traffic tickets; arrested 30 drunk drivers—one of which was a priest (I later
learned the local “retreat” was one where the church sent its pedophile priests
for rehab);  did not arrest one drunk
driver because he was only 20 feet from his driveway; got propositioned by a
waitress; got propositioned by the CIA; recovered a stolen purse at a high
school football game—referring one 6th grade repentant boy to his father
and one unrepentant boy to the system via a “paper referral” and released him
to his father; was the only lawman in 500 square miles during midnight shifts;
in an act of revenge, I collected enough “dirt” on one of my supervisors that
he was transferred back to Tucson and decided to resign instead—2-years short
of retirement; and saving the best for last, I got married.  Working in Marana was exactly like being a
Wild West deputy except I drove a car instead of riding a horse.  I loved the work.
          When I resigned to return to college, I was in the process
of collecting signatures to run for the local Justice of the Peace.  Although I had more than enough signatures,
when BYU called and said there was an opening in married student housing,
Deborah and I decided to return so I could finish my degree.  She had to quit her medical technologist
position so we could go.  Shortly after
arriving and starting classes, I remembered why I really didn’t like
school.  I also joined Air Force ROTC so
ended up on active duty once again when I graduated.
          My first assignment as an officer was to the security
police squadron at Malmstrom AFB, Montana as a Shift Commander for the on-base
law enforcement and base security flights. 
The base security flight primarily guarded the nuclear weapons storage
area.  I spent two-years in that position
and then was assigned as a Flight Security Officer for the flights providing
security response in the off-base missile field.  My flight and I would be away from the base
for 3 ½ days at a time.  I participated
in a few incidents but the one experience I really want to tell you all about
occurred after I arrived at my next base in Jacksonville, Arkansas circa 1984.
          Little Rock AFB was home to a missile wing supporting the
liquid fueled Titan II ICBM.  In
September 1980 prior to my arrival (1983), one nuclear tipped missile exploded
in its silo.  This is the story of what
happened before, during, and after the incident.  This information is not classified so I won’t
have to kill any of you after you’re done reading it.
          Whenever a nuclear warhead is present, Air Force
regulations require that at least two people must be present in such proximity
to each other that each can monitor the actions of the other—absolutely no
exceptions or violations are tolerated. 
The Titan II is a two-stage rocket. 
To save weight, parts of the very thin outer skin of the rocket are
actually part of the fuel tanks.  The
fuel is of two types—an oxidizer and the fuel. 
Both are hypergolic, meaning that when the two chemicals touch, they
instantly ignite.  The fuel and oxidizer
tanks are so thin that the rocket will collapse in upon itself if the liquid
fuels are removed improperly as the fuel keeps the tanks from being able to
collapse.  The skin is so thin that
hand-held maintenance tools to be used on the missile or its components have
lanyards permanently attached to prevent the tool (sockets, wrenches, etc.)
from falling between the rocket and the maintenance platforms surrounding it
and puncturing the skin.
          So, one day all the counts, accounts, no accounts, and
recounts (oh wait that’s different story). 
One fateful day, two maintenance technicians were in the silo performing
maintenance on a component internal to the missile.  One of the men needed a tool that he forgot
to bring down with him.  He knew that a
tool box (with tools to be used elsewhere in the underground launch complex
outside of the silo) was located in the tunnel towards the launch control
capsule.  These tools did not have
lanyards attached.  Being stupid,
careless, or just plain lazy, he left his partner alone with the missile (major
violation #1 and also stupid decision #1) and went to get the unauthorized tool
rather than having them both go topside and return with the authorized tool
(stupid decision #2).
          The tool needed was a socket for a socket wrench.  While using the socket, it slipped off the
wrench and because it did not have a lanyard, the socket fell between the
missile and the maintenance platform around the missile (Murphy’s Law in
action).  Can you guess what happened
right after the “Oh shit” expletive?  You
guessed it.  The socket fell three or
more levels gaining momentum before hitting the edge of a platform below and
bouncing into the side of the missile puncturing a fuel tank.  Instantly, red fuming nitric oxide began to
leak setting off the chemical vapor sensors which triggered the alarm.  The launch crew ordered the silo evacuated
and notified the base of the problem (good decision #1).
          The deputy wing commander responded with the emergency
response teams.  Upon arrival, two
environmentally suited fuel personnel went down to the silo to inspect the
damage.  Upon their report the base contacted
the Martin-Murrieta company (the builder of the Titan II) to get their
input.  After a short period of time,
Martin-Murrieta replied: 1st you can’t do anything to stop the leak;
and 2nd the missile will explode in approximately 8 ½ hours your
local time today.  Periodically, the two
fuel personnel were sent down to check on the progress of the leak (dangerous
or even stupid decision #3).  (No
civilian or even some military members routinely accuse local commanders of
using their brains.  Yes, I am biased.)  At one time, they even ordered the 740-ton
silo cover door be opened so that the explosion would not be contained within
the silo.  Instantly the highly toxic red
vapor left the silo and a large red “cloud” began to drift towards highly
populated centers, so the cover was closed (good decision #2).
          An order was given to send one man back down to check on
the missile (the launch capsule had been evacuated by this time) (major
violation #2 & stupid decision #3).
As
the 8 ½ hour time limit approached, two environmentally suited personnel were
ordered down to check on the missile (stupid decision #4 and also fatal).  As the expected explosion time arrived, the
two suited personnel were on their way back. 
The first one had cleared the stairwell coming up completely above
ground.  The second one was still half
underground when the missile exploded. 
The first man was blown across the complex into the chain link fence
where the fence fabric cushioned his impact. 
The second man was “cut in half” at the waist by the force of the
blast.  The debris from the incident was
stored in an above ground maintenance shed at one of the remaining missile
complex sites.  I had the pass-key and I
actually saw the remaining parts of the destroyed missile and the bloody
environmental suit of the airman who died.
Here
is the sequence of events at the time of the explosion.  The fuel finally leaked out enough that the
missile began to collapse.  As it
collapsed the other 1st stage fuel tank ruptured, the two chemicals
touched and instantly exploded; the pressure lifted the 740-ton silo cover door
off its foundation rails; the blast spread out circular injuring the two
airman; that blast caused the 2nd stage fuel tanks to rupture and
they also added to the explosion which accomplished five things; 1st
the 740-ton door was lifted quite high; 2nd the nuclear warhead was
blasted like a bullet into the bottom of the 740-ton door breaking it into two
pieces one being 1/3rd the size of the original; 3rd the
larger piece flew about 30 yards and then flattened the Air Force pickup truck
that the deputy wing or base commander had been sitting in just 30-seconds
earlier; 4th the smaller piece landed about 100 yards away; and 5th
the warhead was nowhere to be found (major violation #3—a lost and unguarded
nuclear bomb—heads will roll).
The
rest of the night, military radio traffic was filled with the euphemisms “has
it been found” and “where is it”.  The
bomb was found the following morning during daylight hours.  One of the perimeter security guards was
actually sitting on it all night.  He
never reported finding it because he didn’t know what it was.
EPILOG
1.    
All security police personnel were shown a
dummy warhead during their initial orientation upon arrival at the base (it
looks like a large milk can of the type used on family dairy farms);
2.    
The two environmentally suited airmen were
given medals (one posthumously);
3.    
The surviving suited airman was given a
Letter of Reprimand because he was the one who went down alone to check on the
missile even though he was following orders—he was supposed to refuse to obey
as it was an illegal order; and
4.    
Nuclear bombs are designed to be
“three-point safe”.  This means that they
will not yield a nuclear explosion if burned, receive a high impact, or hit by
a stray electrical charge.  The design
could never be thoroughly tested.  Anecdote:  When the person who created the three-point
safe design was told that the bomb was found with a large dent (from impacting
the 740-ton door) having survived the explosion, he was heard to say, “I TOLD
them it would work!”
5.    
In 1984, I became the project officer for
the installation, planning the procedures for use, and personnel training for a
DES confidential real-time usage encrypted radio system.
          I know this is the true story because I read parts of the
official investigation report and reviewed the numerous photographs.  One photograph sticks in my mind.  It is an overhead shot of the silo taken via
helicopter.  The silo opening is dead
center and surrounding it are compression circles.  It strongly reminds me of a dart board or
even a target.
          Do any of you remember hearing or reading about this event?
 I was in the Air Force as a Missile Security
Officer in 1980 stationed in Montana; I never heard of it.
For other versions of the explosion go
to:
http://encyclopediaofarkansas.net/encyclopedia/entry-detail.aspx?entryID=2543
http://www.techbastard.com/missile/titan2/littlerockaccident2.php
http://www.techbastard.com/missile/titan2/littlerockaccident.php
The public versions are different than
the official investigative report I read. (Nothing new about that is there?)
What did a Titan Launch Complex look
like?  Go to:
http://www.themilitarystandard.com/missile/titan2/silo.php
© 31 Mar 2012 
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
Posted on

Blue Skies, by Ray S

Good
afternoon, Class. Our subject word for today is innuendo. I trust you’ve done
your homework, thus you’re cognizant of how to employ this word. Just tickle
your prurient mind department and chuckle away.
First
off, “Blue Skies” is the title of an old song which prompts a visit to Tin Pan
Alley. You recall the next line—“Smiling at me, nothing but Blue Skies do I
see.”
Now,
see what these titles can do with a little alteration, interpretation, and
innuendo, a la GLBTQ.
Pack up your troubles in your old kit
bag and smile, smile, smile
It’s a long way to Tipperary
Over there, over there
Blow, Gabriel, Blow
Over the rainbow
I’m always chasing rainbows
The boy next door or the girl next
door
I’d like to hate myself in the
morning
This can’t be love
Me and my shadow
Brother, can you spare a dime?
Someone to watch over me
The man I love (or woman)
How long has this been going on?
Sweet and low down
Who cares?
I’ve got a crush on you
Bess, you are my woman, now
I got it bad and that ain’t good
I loves you Porgy
My blue heaven (you fill in the name
of your choice)
Happy days are here again
I’m young and healthy
Over there
The varsity drag
Ain’t we got fun
Little girl
Change partners
What’ll I do?
How deep is the ocean?
Let’s have another cup of coffee
Say it isn’t so
Don’t lie under the apple tree
I hate men
He needs me
After I say I’m sorry
Somebody loves me
Hard hearted Hannah
I never knew
Frankie and Johnnie
I can’t give you anything but love
How come you do me like you do, do,
do?
I wish I could shimmy like my sister
Kate
After you’ve gone
Minnie the moocher
Willow weep for me
There’s a small hotel
The lady is a tramp
I enjoy being a girl
This can’t be love
I’ve got you under my skin
Why can’t you behave?
They say it’s wonderful
The girl (boy) that I marry
You go to my head
That old feeling
When I’m not near the girl (boy) I
love,
          I’m in love with the girl (boy) I’m
near
Don’t worry about me
All of me
You make me feel so young
Anything goes
Oh, look at me now.
         Sing along now and “Get Happy.”
© 27 June 2016 

About the Author





Posted on

When Things Don’t Work, by Phillip Hoyle

My marriage to Myrna Kay Vance Hoyle worked very well for
many years. I am sure Myrna was trying to have the world’s best marriage, to
live the dream of being the princess with her prince charming to fulfill the
purpose of her mother’s rather unrelenting discipline that focused on making
her a housewife so she could rear and educate children and care for her
husband. So Myrna approached her life as a wife with enthusiasm and talent and
a wonderful attitude.
I was living into the cultural fantasy of the straight life
even though from an early age I was far from straight. I wanted a family not as
the fulfillment of a dream but as a matter of course. How else could anyone
live? I wanted the pleasures and security of family life and so worked in my
way with good humor, consideration, kindness, and reliability to make it
possible. I liked family life with its endless variety—Myrna’s and my family life
spiced up with children, foster children, unusual friendships, and great
tolerance.
Myrna was interested in home economy and observed I had
little interest in keeping up with domestic bookkeeping. “Would it help you if
I kept the books?” she asked. “Sure,” I replied. I wasn’t into some stereotype.
Perhaps she was since her mother kept the books for the family farm where she was
reared.
My focus was outside the home although I loved my wife and
our children and the other denizens of our house on Volutsia Street or our
apartment on Las Vegas Boulevard or our rental on Bald Hill Road or the
apartment on Ellis Boulevard or our townhouse on Morris Street or the apartment
at Sixth and Lead or our residence in the basement of her parent’s farm home or
the apartment on Boulder Blvd. I came home every night, twice a month happily
turned over my paycheck, occasionally helped solve domestic conflicts, all this
with joy, calm, commitment, and laughter.
My wife and I respected and loved each other. Although we
both worked to lessen or avoid conflict, we certainly could talk through, even
argue our different perspectives and come to a mutually agreeable solution.
Neither of us was selfish although I had a much greater capacity for being so
than she. And I had this longtime nurtured gay self that I appreciated and
loved. I didn’t repress my homosexuality but realized that in order to live my life
as a minister in a church I had to sublimate any number of my urges. Still I
found ways to respect this part of myself, and even satisfy some of it without
hurting other people or myself. I was skilled in my duplicity. I was also
always aware that what was gay about me was certainly not hidden. I knew myself
and I knew that others—at least some others—surely perceived this other part of
me.
Myrna and I had a great marriage, and we reared two most
interesting kids and nurtured many friends and inspired other couples to do
likewise. So why the separation? Why the eventually divorce?
When the children left home and Myrna and I were back at the
one-on-one life all the distractions and responsibilities of rearing children
lessened. Oh we still had others living with us from time to time, but I finally
could satisfy other needs, and without the children present, I did so. I did
worse than break one clause in our marriage vows: “and keep yourself only for
her.” I broke that vow with other men whom I liked intensely. Feeling the
emotional change in me, Myrna finally let herself see what she’d long known.
Finally we talked, but rushing the matter we were unable to resolve the problem.
Emotion can cause such failure, but the real failure was the institution of
marriage itself.
When we divorced some years later, a longtime friend said, “I
wish you wouldn’t. Yours was the only marriage I ever thought was worth all
problems.” I thought about her kind words and finally realized the problem was
that no one had ever developed marriage for bisexual folk. Drat.
Still, Myrna’s and my friendship survived the conflict and
pain, as did our commitment to our children, grandchildren, and many
friendships from our married days. Marriage as a reified institution with a
long history of mythology and law to bolster it eventually didn’t work for us. No
matter how hard we both tried. Still what brought us together in the first
place—friendship and love—continues to flourish between us.
© 8 December,
2014 
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