Tag: Life Stories

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Lonely Places, by Lewis

I don’t know where to
begin writing about the subject of “lonely places” without first
distinguishing them from “places of solitude”.  There’s a distinct difference.  People often deliberately seek out places of
solitude for purposes of restoration, deliberation, and soul-searching.  They are places of respite and
retrospection.  They are for clearing the
mind of clutter, connecting with feelings–sometimes painful–that cry out for
exploration.  They are like a shower for
the soul.
In contrast, “lonely
places” are more like a pity-party for the poor-in-spirit.  In the real world, there are places where
solitude-seekers can be alone.  They
offer peace and quiet and are a place to get one’s head together and sort
things out.  They are far from being
“lonely places” unless made to be so by the individual occupying them.  In this entire vast and endlessly varied
world, there is not a single space that is inherently “lonely”, for
“loneliness” is not a physical condition but a state of mind.  If I so desired, I could be lonely on a
crowded city bus or at a fair or concert. 
Sometimes, feeling lonely
can feel safer than reaching out to someone. 
Loneliness is a trust issue.  If I
trust that others can respond to pain with love, there is no need to be lonely.  I suspect that people sometimes get stuck in
loneliness because they are afraid of risking rejection should they attempt to
make some kind of human connection.  If
one is so needy that they scare people away for fear of saying or doing the
wrong thing, they might well feel that they have been rejected.  The solution to this dilemma is to break out
of the loneliness sooner rather than later. 
One way to do that is not to pout but to pucker, not to slump or slink
but to sidle up to someone.
When Laurin died in late
2012, I lost my constant companion and lover. 
The pain was almost unbearable.  I
could have withdrawn into self-pity and made myself lonely.  I am not an extrovert; I’m rather shy,
actually.  I do not particularly like
parties or being in large crowds.  But I
do crave human connection.  I like doing
things for other people.  It’s difficult
for me to allow others to do for me.  But
that’s exactly what I did.  I attended a
grief support group here at The Center and a wellness support group at my
church.  I made a concerted effort to
make new friends and freshen older friendships. 
I had plenty of time to be alone, especially at night.  But I found that simply by being open to the
love and caring of others I had no time or predilection for loneliness.
Social media of the
electronic variety has made connecting with others easier than ever.  I would attribute the nearly pervasive
persistence with which both young and old today text, tweet, and instant
message to a desperate need to circumvent loneliness.  I hope its working.  But when it comes to feeling truly part of
the human community, there’s nothing like a warm hug–perhaps even topped with
a big, wet kiss.
© 11 Aug 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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Cool, by Gillian

Back
in the hippie days, when it was cool to be cool, I was not cool. The cool years
found me married – not cool, too traditional: raising four step-children – not
particularly cool: working endless overtime hours – certainly not cool,
for a major international corporation – just about as uncool as you
could get.
No.
I completely missed out on cool. Or it missed me.
The
only time I remember anyone using the adjective about me was some incident when
I came upon my oldest step-son and some buddies in the throes of one of his
many transgressions, they were so numerous and varied that I don’t recall
exactly what he was into that particular time. But I do remember him shrugging
and saying to his companions, “It’s OK. Gill’s cool.”
By
which he meant, of course, that I was not going to go off into some
unfathomable (at least to him) rage over the smoking or drinking or sex or
whatever it was; most likely all three and then some. That was exactly what his
father would have done, whereas I would prefer to attempt a calm discussion. By
comparison I guess I was pretty cool. But that was a slightly different use of
the expression. I was never to be a cool dude or a cool cat.
These
days, the term seems to have made a comeback – rather too much of one as it
pops up incessantly. One particular example has rather amused me. I have been
asked a few times recently, what Betsy’s relationship is to me. (As I very
recently went on a bit of a rave about this very topic I won’t say much here,
but honestly! Of what significance is the exact nature of our relationship to a
window salesperson and a colonoscopy receptionist??) Where was I? Oh yeah.  When I reply that Betsy is my spouse the
response seems inevitably to be, ‘cool!’ which I find unobjectionable but
nevertheless a little odd. When I was with a man and had some cause to state
that he was my husband, no-one ever found that to be cool. But I mulled it over
and decided it was rather sweet. People feel the need to say something positive
in response. OK. Cool.
But
then, when this topic came up for today, I realized that actually I had very
little knowledge of what it is supposed to mean, these days. I turned to
urbandictionary.com which informed me that cool is, among other things,
and I quote, ‘… a word to say when you don’t know what else to say …..’
And
that, in my book, if you’re talking about my marriage, is pretty un-damn-cool!
© 16 May 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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Carl’s Eulogy, by Cecil Bethea

MOM’S TRIP TO SEE HER BABY BOY
Two to three months after I joined
the Air Force, Mom came to visit me at Lowry, in Denver.  Not only was this my first time away, it was
the first time her favorite son had left her. 
Gary was still Lend-Lease. 
I took her to breakfast at the
recreation center (a bowling alley).  As
we were proceeding through the line, choosing from the offerings, Mom saw a
dismaying sight, a kid, much like her own kid, had chosen glazed doughnuts and
was carrying them around the neck of real cold bottle of beer.
I told her, that I was to be in a
parade and where it was to be.  She went
to the parade grounds, seeing an empty seat in a small bleacher section, she
decided it had a nice view and sat down. 
Just before the parade started, the section started to fill, she started
to scoot over, but they insisted she remain.
So the seating order was squadron
commander, adjutant, base commander (a Major General), Mom, another squadron
commander and his aide.  When the troops
passed in review, they stood.  Mom did
too.

THE TRIP TO ELITCH’S
Soon after the first trip to Denver,
Mom and Dad took their first family vacation. 
They came to visit me at Lowry, in Denver.  Mom, Dad, Carol, Mary Jo, and Sandra stayed
in a motel.
CONSPICUOUS CONSUMPTION
I took them to Elitch Gardens a
Denver landmark (and amusement park). 
Admission was minimal, $.10 or such, but the rides tickets were $.05
each and a ride required 2 – 9 tickets.
There dozens of rides.  Carol, a jaded 14, didn’t think much of it.
Mary Jo and Sandra were prime targets for an amusement park 8 and 10-years
old. 
The 5 cent tickets were going fast,
and we were rationing them pretty severely. 
Each ride required reconnoitering as to its ticket worthiness.  Then we came to a loop-o-plane that had
riders in the upper cars but no one in line. 
The ride operator recognized me as a fellow instructor at Lowry and saw
my family – he beckoned us forth and installed everyone in the empty
seats.  It was the usual gruesome ride (I
don’t like amusement parks) but it was free.
A little while later Mary Jo came
running with a several foot long strip of tickets.  When asked, she said, “Carl’s friend gave them
to me!”  Mom, in an uncharacteristic
gesture said, “In a town this big, someone knows you?”  She hugged me and rest of the evening was
spent in spending free tickets.

OUR TRIP OVER THE PASS
Mom, Cecil, and I set out to see the
wonders of Butte in 1975.  We went to the
mining museum at the top of the hill (not the present museum).  There were some things of interest but not
enough justify a trip all the way to Butte. 
We walked through the parking lot to the east side and a took a gander
at Butte, laid out in all of its splendor beneath us, the head frames and
trucks were all going with great busyness. 
I looked about discovered Mom had found something much more interesting,
this was the site of the Butte landfill. 
The trash and treasures of Butte were totally occupying her attention.
When I pried her away from the trash,
I asked where else she would like to go. 
She said, “over Shakalo Pass,” (between Butte and the Bitterroot
Valley).  I asked, “If she hadn’t already
been there, done that?”  She replied that
this time she wanted to ride and see it. I asked what she had done on previous
visits.  She replied, ”Carried a rock”.
It seems that was a narrow, steep
road that the family was traveling to the Bitterroot to pick beans.  Mom’s and her sister Virginia’s job was to
walk behind the wagon and each carry a rock to place behind the wheel when the
horses needed a rest.
  
NOT “GOING TO THE SUN HIGHWAY”
Mom grew up in Montana but was not
well traveled there.  Cecil and I offered
to take her to and over the “Going to the Sun” highway.  She most strenuously declined, “That thing is
dangerous, there are always cars falling off and killing people.”  I told her, that if that were the case, it
would be full of cars by now and no great threat.  She was adamant and “would have no truck with
such.
We had no more than returned to
Denver than a letter arrived with the front page of the GREAT FALLS TRIBUNE
featuring a lurid aerial shot of the Going to the Sun and the path to
destruction of its latest two victims.
Mom never did see Glacier Park, but
she did see Yellowstone on her honeymoon. 
She, and her new husband, were accompanied by her mother – his new
mother-in-law.
© 6 Mar 2006 
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.
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Hysteria, by Will Stanton

I
delayed writing about this subject longer than I normally do about selected
topics because I was torn between writing about a painful truth regarding my
mother or resisting it and writing something fictional and entertaining, simply
as an antidote.  I finally decided to
stick to facts but to keep it as short as possible.
First,
you have to understand my mother’s background. 
Several terrible events combined to damage her emotionally.
First,
apparently, her own mother was very fond of her first-born daughter but did not
express much love or support for my mother. 
This only enhanced my mother’s deep attachment to her father, evidently
a very caring, loving man, who also was highly admired for his many skills and
successes.  He was a professor of physics
and chemistry, kept bees, took the family on long camping trips (which included
Colorado back when it had mostly dirt roads), collected Indian arrowheads, and
played classical violin.  Unfortunately,
he was exposed to radiation from his early lab experiments and died painfully
of cancer at age forty-eight.  My mother,
at the time, was at that critical age of fifteen and deeply suffered the loss
of her father.
Next,
her mother developed the strange notion that she needed to remarry but retain
the same surname.  Consequently, she
blindly married her late husband’s uncle, until then unmarried and a whole
generation older.  It turned out that
this man became the “stepfather from Hell.”
To
start with, he decided that the family must abandoned their beloved home (once
owned by Mary Todd Lincoln’s family) and move to his home-town.  My mother packed her few prized possessions
into a trunk in anticipation of the move. 
The stepfather, however, left the trunk behind, later stating that “there
wasn’t enough room to take it.”  My
mother was very hurt and never forgot the callous loss of her possessions.
Everything
went from bad to worse.  Very quickly, my
mother and grandmother discovered that this man had a violent temper and
frequently exploded into tirades of verbal and even physical abuse, hitting
them.  When the stepfather discovered
that my mother was saving a little money during summers working as a waitress
so she could go to college, he stole all her money to pay for ill-chosen stocks
that he had bought.  He lost all the
stocks and money in the Great Depression. 
This man chose not even to keep his disdain for the family private.  He frequently spoke ill of them to friends
and neighbors, telling terrible falsehoods about them.
It
wasn’t until many years later when I was in my forties did I hear hints from my
mother that this “stepfather from hell” had gone every morning into her
bedroom.  Apparently, my grandmother
never knew or was too afraid to do anything about it.  My comprehension of this trauma became
clarified by my father, who spoke to me shortly before his passing.  He stated that, for a while after he and my
mother were married, she would wake up every morning, screaming.  I was absolutely shocked.  In retrospect, I realized that this hysteria
had been expressed in many ways during my childhood.
Throughout
my childhood and adult life, I witnessed my mother’s deep-seated fear and
anxiety.  I realize that, no matter how
hard she struggled to do the right things with her life and her family, to take
on and excel in numerous activities, she continually was plagued by those fears
and anxieties.  She feared the world; she
feared people.  Many times, I heard her
bitterly declare, “I hate men; I just hate men.”  She feared anyone whom she did not
understand.  She feared blacks and
foreigners.  She feared and disliked
homosexuals.  Once, when I was watching a
documentary on Africa, she rushed over to the TV and turned it off, stating, “I
don’t want you to watch that.  All
white-hunters are homosexuals.”
As
another consequence, she tried to control all people and the world around
her.  Anyone or anything that she could
not control upset her.  Everything had to
be just the way she thought it should be, otherwise she would worry, sometimes
even panic, and become hysterical.
An
unfortunate, known psychological phenomenon is that one way traumatized people
attempt to cope is to adopt many of the same hurtful behaviors that had caused
them harm in the first place.  This was
true with her.  When I was young, she
once said that she hoped that she never would become like her stepfather – – –
but she did.  Very often, when she feared
that she was not in control, she shouted in rage.  I recall seeing her screaming at my oldest
brother and beating him.  She hit my
father so hard that she burst his eardrum.
When
I went to university in Europe, my parents drove me to the university
campus.  It was late evening and becoming
dark.  My father took one wrong turn
where there was very little street-light and no outlet.  He had to turn around.  Simple enough; however, my mother panicked
and began screaming hysterically.  At the
time, I did not understand.  Now I do.
My
brothers and I have realized for some time that, even though we were, what
psychologists call, a “looking good family,” word got around about my
mother.  New neighbors were warned to
avoid getting to know my mother.  We
brothers and my father suffered long-term damage from that environment.  My father, early on, withdrew as much as he could
into his own world, finding every reason to go to his office, take the car for
a wash, or do some other chore that would take him away from the house.  My oldest brother adopted the same
dictatorial and controlling behaviors with his family.  He also eventually disassociated himself from
our parents and never went back to see them, even at their funerals.  My middle brother became the rebel and stayed
away from the family as much as possible, even disappearing for some years
after his marriage.  My late friend Dr.
Bob observed in me, what he said was, a rare trait of reacting to my past
experiences by instinctively developing an unusual degree of sensitivity and
empathy for other people, something that apparently helped me to be affective
in my profession.  Apparently, I was good
at taking care of other people, but not myself.
Yet,
despite the damage done to our family, I cannot but help but feel great
sympathy for my poor mother.  She
suffered greatly in her childhood, and I am not sure how much true joy or love
that she felt in her life.  As for me, I
know that, as they say, “I’ve carried a lot of baggage throughout my
life.”  It took me some years to
understand why. 
And,
now that I have told you this story, I will put it on our blog for others to read
and to think about.  But, for myself, now
that I have read this unhappy tale to you, I will dispose of it and remove it
from my computer.  It is too painful for
me to keep or to read again.
© 14 June 2016 
About the Author 
I have had a life-long fascination with
people and their life stories.  I also
realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or
fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual
ones.  Since I joined this Story Time
group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
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Choices, by Ray S

  
Never had
to make a choice or decision because my mother always did that for me. That’s
what mothers do.
The US
government decided I was draftable like all the other boys my age in 1943.
Faced with making a choice as to what branch of the service would want me, it
resulted in a trip to the US Army Air Corps office and enlisting in their air
cadet program. It seemed the best choice of all evils and besides I didn’t think
I’d fit nicely into a tight white sailor suit.
Footnote
here: Can you imagine me flying an airplane? I couldn’t even drive a car then.
The Air Corps was making all of our choices now having replaced Mama. As good fortune
would have it, the cadet program was oversubscribed, so the powers that be (or
were) scattered all of this wet behind the ears pubescent material to the
winds. The talented ones went to aircraft mechanics school.  The rest of the class members, having
finished basic training in the wilds of Gulfport, were shipped off to a
military police contingent where they were assigned to 11 pm to 7 am guard
duty. Here we could reflect on our recently basic training that had taught all
of the little boys how to be good little soldiers, drink beer, smoke
cigarettes, strip down and reassemble a carbine, report on parade grounds at 6
am dressed only in your issue raincoat for “short arm” VD inspection (and he
wouldn’t show us his), learn the intricacies of KP duty, and checking the
scenery in the barracks shower.
Eventually
through discovery, familiarity, or unknowing choices, the appearance of latent
libidos or the right time and the right place, this boy found out what people meant
by the pejoratives “queer” and “fairy.” However there was a conscious effort
called ‘in denial’ to not own those words openly for some thirty to forty years
hence.
Dating and
girls:
It was a
blind date that never ended until she delivered an ultimatum. The morning of
the wedding the butterflies kept saying, “Do you really want this?” But, the
die was cast, no choice, just make the best of it — for fifty-five years. And there
were many good times and some not so good.
Is chance a
choice or is choice a chance? A sunny day in June, crowds gathered at Civic
Center Plaza, and I chose to hang out on the perimeter of all the action
observing what PRIDE was all about.
Another
CHOICE, after all of this time it was becoming easier—attending a SAGE of the
Rockies conference. Meeting and learning to know there was a place for me in
this beautiful tribe; and I belonged. Knowing I could reach out and love freely
and openly. Finding I finally could come out of a closet I had lived in all of
these years. I realize now that I might be the only person that didn’t know or
suspect I was and am queer—in the most positive sense. My closet like many
others suffered from structural transparency.
Now I am
faced with another CHOICE. Trying to determine is this ‘indiscriminate love’ or
‘unconditional love’ that I feel for all of you; and is there really that much
of a difference?
© 11 July 2016 
About the Author 
Posted on

A Stroll at the Denver Art Museum, by Phillip Hoyle

Artists sometimes open our eyes to realities and injustices
the society tolerates. Friday at the art museum my granddaughters Rose and
Ulzii took off on their own. I walked with my daughter-in-law Heather, one of
the most intelligent and creative persons I have ever known, also one of the
most open personalities I have ever spent time with. She and I have been good
friends ever since the day my son Michael brought her and her three-year-old
son to our house. She’s highly educated, teaches writing at college and
secondary levels, and with my son has reared a quartet of unusually bright and
talented youngsters: two boys, two girls.
Heather and I sat in chairs in the ‘Matisse and Friends’
gallery on the first floor of the Hamilton Building of the museum while the
girls went their own way. They had become tired of Mom and Grandpa talking so
intensely over the previous two days! Sitting there Heather and I discussed the
art and our two days of visits and interviews at culinary schools, of bus and
light rail trips around metro Denver, of meals and walks, and of her children,
the boys as well as the girls whom we had accompanied the past two days.
Then I suggested we take my favorite stroll through the
museum accessed by riding the elevator to the fourth floor. There we saw mostly
empty walls since most of the area was being re-hung. We walked down the huge
staircase beneath the impressive Calder mobile. At the foot of the stairs we
turned to the installation with grey foxes cavorting in a red café. Heather was
especially thrilled with this work. We walked on through the narrow north
hallway and entered a gallery that usually offers some kind of audio-video
experience. Although I had seen the current installation several times, Heather
had not. She caught the title “Lot’s Wife” and with her deep curiosity took in
the tall mannequin with white skin, white clothing, and long white hair, a
figure that from her meadow-like setting gazed at a projected lakeshore.
Heather read it as a depiction of Lot’s wife after she had glanced back toward
Sodom, the hometown she and Lot were leaving, a glance against Yahweh’s
command. In the ancient story from Genesis due to her disobedience, the wife
turned into a pillar of salt, thus the white the artist selected. Then Heather
noted the thick, muscular neck of the figure, then the very male profile of the
face. The artist wants to push us! Oh my God! Was Lot’s wife a man? Was Lot
homosexual? Was his wife transgendered or a cross-dresser? The questions piled
up. The rationalizations multiplied. The objections flourished. And finally the
truth of it settled on both of us. Gay folk cannot turn away from who they are
even in the face of nearly universal opposition!
I know from a careful study of the ancient text and its
ensuing interpretation that the story’s meaning is not anti-homosexual. It’s a
story about lacking hospitality, but of course these days that sounds too
wimpy. The Hebrew God demanded hospitality to strangers not rejection. That
demand is at the heart of biblical story after biblical story in the Hebrew and
Greek bibles. But our artist, Canadian Kent Monkman, wasn’t worried about
historical interpretations. He, a Cree Indian, is concerned about the deeply
embedded prejudice inherent in our culture and society that fears anything
Native and homosexual, anything queer, or as Wikipedia defines it in its
article on homophobia, anything LGBT! Whoa! LGB and T. Yes.
Heather ‘got it’ as my artist friend Sue would say.
Gods can often seem unfair, especially ancient Gods evaluated
by post modern humans. It just doesn’t seem right that when Apollo couldn’t
resist looking back at Eurydice that she then disappeared and couldn’t
make the trip from Hades to be reunited with her husband. It doesn’t seem right
that when Lot’s wife (of course they left out her name—which in this
interpretative context seems like double trouble!) glanced backward at her
hometown she was leaving to avoid its destruction that she was destroyed
anyway.
The artist now seems to be telling LGBs and Ts to watch out.
Don’t look back at your fears; don’t doubt the truth of your own reality; don’t
get scared at what you are becoming—or you may become a pillar of salt or melt
into nothing. DON’T BE AFRAID.
So my little stroll through the museum challenged me to leave
my own homo fears and embrace this new life, one of possibility, challenge, and
hope.
Watching Heather process the installation gave me hope for
our family of young adults establishing themselves in creative work, of the ability
of the supporting generations to help them, of myself to keep getting over the
deeply hidden fears generated by being so truly queer.
* * * * *
Here’s my testimony!
In addition to being deeply loved by a number of men I have
never been so assisted in this fearless task so much as I have by coming week
after week to this SAGE storytelling group—telling my stories and hearing
yours.
The process of community, sharing, paying attention, working
to express exactly what I have experienced and mean conspire to keep away the
fearsome temptations and to clarify just what I need to pay attention to as I
continue to grow as a truly Queer, truly LGBT person.
Thanks to you.
Thanks to artists like Kent Monkman.
Thanks to a changing social scene that supports even more
changes in the lives of LGBTs as Qs, and more.
© Denver,
Dec 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
Posted on

Good Hunting, Nicholas

For the last few years I have been compiling memories in the
form of memoir essays. It’s fun and interesting to recollect what I have done
with my life over the years. I do not see myself writing an autobiography, however,
but rather being selective on episodes to delve into. I do not begin at my true
beginning with my childhood which, to me, seems as uninteresting now as it was
then. A pretty ordinary stretch of life filled with good memories but little
drama, a time that I don’t see as worth writing about.
So, it’s not really my life story that I am filling pages
with but reflections on where life has taken me. It has taken me many
fascinating places. And I enjoy remembering where I have gone. Memory is, to
paraphrase a common saying, like drinking sea water—the more you drink, the
thirstier you get. Writing a memoir is like a quest. You might say, I am
hunting my past.
I was remembering an episode in my past last week and the
more I thought about it and wrote out the story, the more that came to me. The story
was about the day a kind, older man tempted me out of my closet. He didn’t
succeed. I was foolish enough to pass up the opportunity he offered. I thought
I had written out the story. But then, wait, something else happened back then.
He said something to me. What was it? I plied my memory until it started coming
back to me. He said something like, “You don’t have to be alone, you know.” I’d
forgotten that last part.
The tools I use in this hunt include not only my memory of
events—fond or not so fond—but also documents, old journals, and, lots of
published clips from my days as a journalist in San Francisco. I sometimes even
do some research and fact checking.
I have all the documents, for example, of the struggle with
my draft board from 1968 to 1972 that culminated in my refusing induction into
the U.S. Army. Having long had a fondness for writing, I wrote for some
underground papers in California back then and actually found copies in the San
Francisco Public Library. Some of those pieces I’m proud of and some I dismiss
as just getting carried away with the rhetoric of that era. Did I really call
the President of the United States a pig? Well, he probably deserved it.
The only time in my life that I kept a personal journal was
when I began coming out. I wrote in it faithfully almost every day for a few
years and found it a great way to see who I was and how I was changing. Some
memories are flattering and some are not. At times, I am roaring with happiness
from new found friends and experiences. Other times, I am wishing it would all
go away and I could just be normal, whatever that might mean. It helps to see
the bad with the good.
My hunt has produced results, maybe I should call them
trophies. I am seeing patterns that I like. It seems to me that my life has
been blessed with two Spring times and maybe even a third. Twice I have felt
desperate and besieged by forces beyond my control and twice I have responded
to those challenges by entering a time of creativity and change. The first time
was when I decided to drop out of college and take on the military draft. That
led to a multitude of incredible experiences. The second spring came of course
when I embraced being gay and found friendship and love, challenge and
strength, community and history.
And the third spring? Well, it seems to be right now. As I’m
growing older, I find myself again in a period of challenge and change and
great creativity at the same time. I like remembering my past, chasing it down,
writing it down. This hunt has its satisfactions in knowing the ground on which
I now stand. Where I’m headed is growing out of where I’ve been. I like being a
hunter and the hunt goes on.
© 19 Sep 2016 
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.

Posted on

Slippery Sexuality, by Gillian

Sex itself is of course
physically slippery, as designed by nature. Metaphysically, metaphorically,
sexuality can be every bit as slippery.
It took me about forty
years to get a good grip on mine.
In my early years, I
would catch tantalizing glimpses of it, slithering sneakily about, just under
the surface, but before I could even reach for it, it plunged back down into
the murky deep; out of sight but never quite out of mind. Certainly, never
completely absent from other body parts. I felt its presence but could not, or
would not, identify it.
In my thirties, it began
making itself more visible; more identifiable. Like a dolphin beside a boat it
now skimmed alongside me, only occasionally disappearing beneath the surface waves,
and more often leaping into the air in full view. It taunted me, it beckoned
me, this beautiful slippery temptation. It called to me, come on, come on,
come out and play! Sometimes it led, sometimes it followed, but it never fell
behind. Occasionally it forged ahead, leading the way with its blissful
athletic leaps. This way, this way! For the most part it stayed by my
side. Sometimes the joyous frolicking threatened to capsize my boat.
Only with great effort did I keep it afloat.
It was a mirage, I knew.
This was no reality. Not my reality. No reality I wanted any part of. I blinked
and shook my head, and sure enough it was gone. The glorious creature
disappeared, no longer leaping before my hesitant self to show me the way. I
was left adrift on a sunless sea, once more becalmed and rudderless. It would
return to beckon me again and again, each time looming a little larger, but
although I occasionally reached a tentative hand in its direction, more rarely
even touched it, still it slithered away. I could never quite grasp it. The
leviathan returned to the deep.
Approaching forty – a
little early for a mid-life crisis, surely? – that seductive dolphin somehow
grew, matured, became huge, became that whale, that very leviathan which I had
somehow always sensed it to be. And I became that legendary mermaid. Despite my
slithery tail, I was suddenly on its back, hanging on to the slippery creature
with all my strength as we crashed together into the waves. Then we were no
longer two entities but one. I had embraced it fearlessly, wholeheartedly, and
become one with it. I was a part of it and it was a part of me. I swam against
the tide: against the waves, against the currents. They were powerless to stop
me, powerless to redirect my journey. I knew exactly where I was going and I
had the strength to get there.
Now I lie in the sun on a
beautiful beach. I snuggle into the caress of the warm white sand, just as I
cuddle into the warm caress of the wonderful woman I love; my partner of almost
thirty years, my spouse, my wife, the love of my life.
I am home.
© 16 Apr 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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Where Do We Go from Here?, by Betsy

If you take this to mean where do we go when we die—I don’t
have much to say about that. People have many different beliefs about an afterlife, beliefs which require a leap of faith. 
Although some of the beliefs I have heard of have a certain comforting
appeal to them, I do not actually believe in any of them. I don’t deny that
anything is possible, but I always seem to end up going with what I know to be
a fact. The only thing I know about where we go after death is that I don’t
know.  That I know to be the only truth
that I am currently capable of understanding or of knowing.
Where we go from here, in my view, is a question better
applied to our life here and now as mortal humans.  I like to know where I am going. For example,
after story time today I will get in my car and go to my daughter’s house after
doing a bit of shopping at Sprouts on the way. After that I will go no where
until tomorrow morning when I will go to my closet, put on some tennis clothes
and drive to the Denver Tennis Club and I will have no trouble finding my
court. After tennis I will do certain things most of which I had planned ahead
of time so, let us say, I know where I am going in my own world in so far as I
am in control of it. Now if the weather does not permit, then I will not do
what I just described. So I guess where we go from here often is conditional.
I like to at least have a sense of where my group is going as
well. I believe it is important for citizens and their leaders to know in what
direction their community, state, and country are headed. A good thing to know,
but not always palpable.
There are other factors that make our futures uncertain and
therefore make us feel a bit uneasy. This is an uncomfortable time for our
country, I believe. It must be because so much campaigning is going on we are
all very much aware that our leadership will be changing soon. I must admit, I
am more than uncomfortable about where we would be  going if Mr. Trump is elected, or any of the
Republican radical extremists who are running for president.  Then the question becomes “Where do I go from
here?”  Europe? Canada?  I don’t think so.  Bad leadership is a good reason to stick
around  and fight for what I believe in
and to be sure to vote in upcoming elections, including the local ones. 
I like some structure in my life and so I am a tad
uncomfortable not having a plan for my day—even if that plan is to sit around
and read a book all day long.  I like to
know where I am going both in the short term and the long term. I’ve noticed
that when I don’t know where I’m going—one of those brief lulls in the day when
I have finished something and don’t know what I am doing next—I often find
myself going to the refrigerator and not because I’m hungry.  Now what good does that do?
 I play tennis year
round outdoors. I have to admit I am not comfortable in the winter and bad
weather not knowing from week to week whether we will  be playing or not.  So much for short term planning. I’m not
averse to spontaneity, but generally I like to know where I am going.
I haven’t always known where I was going. There was a period
of time looking back when I was not too sure how to put one foot in front of
the other. Growing up gay certainly added tremendously to the confusion. Our
adult role models help guide us as to where we are headed, but growing up gay
in the 40’s and 50’s there were no lesbian role models—at least not in my life.
Of course there were lesbian women out there, but they could not allow
themselves to be known publicly as Lesbians. 
Once I accepted, and acknowledged to myself that I was a lesbian I had a
lot to learn suddenly about where to go from there. I didn’t even know any
lesbians. Once I started looking, however, I did find some friends who helped
“show me the ropes” so to speak. Soon I had many friends, but also I was part
of a movement. Nothing like being part of a movement to help you find your
identity and your place in society. Mostly ‘though where I went after
acknowledging my sexuality was in the direction of the coming out process. This
in itself has proven to be a journey, 
quite a long one—at times both rough and arduous as well as smooth and
easy along the way.
As I said in the beginning, I know where I am going from here
today and maybe tomorrow I know where I’m going or supposed to go. But thinking
about it I realize that except on a day to day basis, I haven’t known where I
was going.  Especially going into
different phases of life.
When I married my husband, I didn’t have any particular plans
for the future. Only for the short term. 
I don’t remember even planning to be a mother—not until I became
pregnant.    As for a job, I sought a job
in the field of work I wanted, but mostly I took what was available at the
time.
When I retired, I did not know in the long run where I was
going except to say that I would now engage in the things I like to do and
pursue my interests only now in retirement, full time rather than only when I
had a chance.  I didn’t really plan where
I was going. I was going to live life as best I could.  I honestly think most people conduct their
lives this way.
 When and if one does
make the choice as to where to go from here the question arises: “Do I ever
arrive?”  I don’t think we ever know our
destination—just the direction to take, the road to take. And that choice is
determined by our basic character—our morals, the strength of our convictions,
our sense of justice,  our values.
Some have said the
journey is more important than the destination.
The way I see it life is a journey with no ultimate
destination. It’s more of a journey with pit stops where one perhaps chooses a
new direction or a different road from time to time.
In my old age I would like to take the road that keeps me
healthy and happy. But roads often have their barriers and their potholes.  So again for the long term I
don’t know where I go from here. But I do know the direction I want to go.
Beyond that I don’t know what happens after this life, but whatever it is I’m
quite sure it’s good.
© 4 Jan 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.

Posted on

Bravest Things, by Ricky

Bravery can come in large or small packages. Some involve great deeds while other deeds involve only moderate or even insignificant events; any of which could be public or private.

The very first brave thing I can remember doing was also the first dumb thing I remember doing. Of course I didn’t know I was being brave or dumb; I was only 10; in the 5th grade and on my way home from school. In case you all have forgotten, I have a powerful attraction to ice cream. So strong it is that back then, if anyone had wanted to get into (and me out of ) my pants all they would have had to do was invite me to their place for ice cream, but no one knew that. You might have even seen me transform into an “ice cream-zombie”.

So, one particular week previous to my act of bravery, I had been stopping by the local grocery store where my parents shopped. I had left over lunch money and my purpose for stopping there was to buy an ice cream sandwich at a cost of 10-cents; eating it on my way home. More accurately, eating it within 20 feet of the door after exiting the store; sooner, if I could get it unwrapped while still walking to the exit.

The week following I had no left over lunch money but the attraction to ice cream was still as powerful as ever and I stopped by the store. I searched everywhere in my pockets and book binder while walking up and down the aisles but try as I might, I just could not find the money that was not there. So I became brave and dumb; I turned into a stupid kid. Carefully scanning for potential witnesses and hoping no one could hear my pounding heart, I quickly opened the ice cream cooler, removed one ice cream sandwich, placed it into my book binder and left the store.

I waited until I crossed the highway before I removed the thing, unwrapped, and ate it. On the bright side, I did throw the wrapper into a trash bin I was walking by; after all I’m no despicable litter-bug. The next four days found me doing the same thing before guilt overcame attraction. It is said by some that males think with two brains; or rather only one of the two actually thinks and the other just acts. But I learned from these experiences that males (especially boys) can hear the “siren call” of inanimate objects quite clearly, objects such as ice cream sandwiches, or firearms, or fast cars, or any baseball/football games in their vicinity or on a TV, or the call of a video game console.

This story does have an ending but not until 1969 after I joined a church while in the Air Force. I had carried my shoplifting guilt with me for all those years but it was not causing any problems until then. My homosexual acts didn’t bother me much but the shoplifting did as I joined the church. So, I wrote a letter outlining my theft, put it in an envelope along with $10.00 to cover interest on 40-cents over 10-years, and mailed it to the grocery store. I never heard back from the store, but I felt clean before God. Mailing that letter was the bravest thing I ever did out of two events to that point in my life.

The 2nd place bravest thing I had done up to 1969 occurred while I was working as a 16-year old staff member at Camp Winton, a boy scout summer camp. Our rival camp was Camp Harvey West located at the top of Echo Summit just 10 miles from my home at South Lake Tahoe. On one of my weekends off, I dressed in black and as dusk approached I set out alone to raid their camp.

I had made a white flag with the words, “Camp Winton is Best” and emblazoned it with our camp’s logo, back-to-back “W”s surrounded by a circle. It looked like two “X”s side by side but was really “W”s for the two Winton brothers; the logo of the Winton Lumber Company. The trail to the camp passed on the west side of Flagpole Peak. I climbed up to the peak where there was the stump of an old flagpole. On the west side the climb was very easy. At the end of the trail, I had to side step along a narrow ledge with both hands on the peak’s ridge to my front and a modest 50 to 100 foot cliff to my rear. As I closed in on the actual top where the flagpole was my hands had to be raised higher and higher.

I finally reached the top. At this point my arms were stretched out to their maximum length over my head. I couldn’t place my flag from this position, so I did another brave thing and another dumb thing. I grabbed the bottom of the flagpole and pulled myself up so I was straddling the peak with the pole between my legs. I was facing north. To my right was a shear 200-300 foot cliff, but it looked like a mile drop. To my left was that modest 50 to 100 foot drop which suddenly looked much farther than 100 feet.

I tied my flag to the pole, enjoyed the view for a minute or two and then decided that I’d spent enough time up here and since the sun was beginning to disappear, it was time to leave. I looked to my left to make sure I knew where to put my feet on the narrow ledge I’d arrived on but ….. the ledge was gone! Panic set in; it was getting dark and I had no way to get down; “½ a mile” drop on one side and a “two-mile” drop on the other. I sort of enjoyed the view for a couple more minutes before my brain calmed down and started thinking sense to me.

The ledge WAS really there, I just couldn’t see it because the peak was a little wider just above the ledge and narrowed to the top of the ridge I was dangling my legs on either side of. The traitorous sun kept setting and light was fading fast. I finally decided to trust my memory and swung my right leg over the ridge and ended up dangling over the left side of the ridge still hanging tightly to the pole. I still could not see or feel the ledge; a bit more panic followed until I remembered that my arms had to be fully extended before I could get up to the ridge in the first place, so I must be fully extended to get down. I relaxed my biceps and sure enough the ledge was there and I was able to return safely to the trail and complete my raid.

Lowering myself to the fullest extent of my arms is the 2nd place bravest thing I had done up to 1969. I have done other dumb things and brave things since 1969 but if I hadn’t found the courage to write that letter about the shoplifting, I doubt I would have ever found the courage to do the other brave things.

© 4 Mar 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