Tag: Life Stories

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Alas, Poor…, by Phillip Hoyle

“Alas,” poor Myrna may have said after twenty-nine years of marriage with me. “Alas, my husband is a gay man.”

Surely she said something like that at some point. Before we separated she lived for over two years knowing of my infidelity. Of course that infidelity had been going on many years more. Her first hint of it must have occurred when I was thirty years old and only flirting. The unmistakable certainty came many years later. I know this because around the time we separated she told our daughter, “Your dad is gay, and I’ve known it for twenty years.” I don’t know just what she knew about homosexuality when we were 30 years old, but I assume that she realized that I had experienced a change in feelings and showed a new kind of interest in someone else. Perhaps she assumed I had lost my love for her or I wanted out of our marriage; she feared separation and divorce. My continuing interest in our own sexual relationship during those following twenty years may have led her revise her cry to, “Alas, I have married a bisexual.” When we talked, she said of homosexuality that she had no problem with it. She added, “But it’s not supposed to be your husband!” (I‘m sure the explanation point I’ve used was there in her voice.) Alas.

My own “Alas, poor…” relates to the same matter but from an institutional perspective. I say, “Alas, poor churches…” given the unreality of a common American, rather liberal church stand on issues gay. These churches seem to be saying, “It’s not supposed to be your Sunday school teacher, spouse, scout master, board chairperson, or minister.” Even more curious than that, a number of churches seem to be wringing their hands over their positions on homosexuality by retreating into an assertion of sin as action, relegating homosexuality to be somehow a problem of original sin or something similar if you don’t believe in original sin? You may be homosexual, which in itself they say is not a sin, but you cannot do it, meaning have sex with a person of the same sex. I first read the idea in a United Presbyterian Church statement back in 1978. Since then the statement has appeared in United Methodist papers, sometimes used by Disciples of Christ and others, then surprisingly to me lately adopted by the rather conservative Roman Catholic Church, and even more surprising to me recently touted by the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints. Alas, just what are they thinking? It’s difficult for me to fathom, but perhaps it’s a complaint on their parts. Something like, “Alas, those pesky homosexuals are everywhere.” I haven’t even spent time imagining their comments related to bisexual and transgendered persons. Still I say, “Alas, those poor theologians, scholars, clergy, and committees assigned the task of writing something that can be accepted across the storm waters of their denominations’ theological diversities.” Even the rather theologically liberal National Council of Churches couldn’t figure out how to be nice to the queer Metropolitan Community Church denomination when it requested membership.

Alas, will it ever get better? Can councils respond only to majority votes? You know, It’s not supposed to be your husband; not you wife, certainly not your minister.

I say “Alas, those poor folk who cling so closely to traditions that stifle the change that’s going to happen anyway.” And, of course, that includes me. I am in no way perfect. My challenge has been to provide as much continuity as possible in all the change and do so in ways that embrace both the change and the best potentials from the past. Alas, woe is me in trying to explain such a convoluted philosophy. But let’s just decide to play together anyway and keep seeking joy in one another.

© 2014


Denver, 2015

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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Stories of GLBT Organizations, by Lewis

My thirty-year career at Ford Motor Company reached its culmination at the end of the last century, coincident with the last of my 26 years of being in a straight marriage and the birth of the GLBT organization that has played the largest part in my personal journey toward wholeness. That organization is Ford GLOBE.

GLOBE is an acronym for Gay, Lesbian, Or Bisexual Employees. It was hatched in the minds of two Ford employees, a woman and a man, in Dearborn, MI, in July of 1994. By September, they had composed a letter to the Vice President of Employee Relations–with a copy to Ford CEO, Alex Trotman–expressing a desire to begin a dialogue with top management on workplace issues of concern to Ford’s gay, lesbian and bisexual employees. They were invited to meet with the VP of Employee Relations in November.

In 1995, the group, now flying in full view of corporate radar and growing, elected a five-member board, adopted its formal name of Ford GLOBE; designed their logo; adopted mission, vision, and objective statements; and adopted bylaws. The fresh-faced Board was invited to meet with the staff of the newly-created corporate Diversity Office. Soon after, “sexual orientation” was incorporated into Ford’s Global Diversity Initiative. Members of Ford GLOBE participated in the filming of two company videos on workplace diversity. Also that year, Ford was a sponsor of the world-premier on NBC of Serving in Silence, starring Glenn Close as Army Reserve Colonel Margarethe Cammermeyer. By September of 1996, Ford GLOBE chapters were forming in Great Britain and Germany.

In March of 1996, Ford GLOBE submitted to upper management the coming-out stories of 23 members in hope of putting a human face on what had been an invisible minority. Along with the stories came a formal request for Ford’s non-discrimination policy to be rewritten to include sexual orientation. At the time, only Ford of Britain had such a policy.

Ford GLOBE was beginning to network with similar interest groups at General Motors and Chrysler, including sharing a table at the 1996 Pridefest and walking together in the Michigan Pride Parade in Lansing. After two years of discussion between Ford GLOBE and top management, on November 14, 1996, Ford CEO, Alex Trotman, issued Revised Corporate Policy Letter # 2, adding “sexual orientation” to the company’s official non-discrimination policy. To this day, some of our largest and most profitable corporations, including Exxon Mobile, have refused to do the same.

My involvement with Ford GLOBE began sometime in 1997. For that reason and the fact that I have scrapped many of my records of this period, I have relied heavily on Ford GLOBE’s website for the dates and particulars of these events.

In February of 1998, I attended a “Gay Issues in the Workplace” Workshop, led by Brian McNaught, at Ford World Headquarters, jointed sponsored by GLOBE and the Ford Diversity Office. I remember a Ford Vice President taking the podium at that event. He was a white man of considerable social cachet and I assumed that the privilege that normally goes with that status would have shielded him from any brushes with discrimination. In fact, he told a story of riding a public transit bus with his mother at the height of World War II. His family was German. His mother had warned him sternly not to speak German while riding the bus. Thus, he, too, had known the fear of being outed because of who he was. The experience had made him into an unlikely ally of GLOBE members over 50 years later.

In 1999, Ford GLOBE amended its by-laws to make it their mission to include transgendered employees in Ford’s non-discrimination policy and gender identity in Ford’s diversity training. Ford Motor Company was the first and only U.S. automotive company listed on the 1999 Gay and Lesbian Values Index of top 100 companies working on gay issues, an achievement noted by Ford CEO Jac Nasser. It was about this time that retired Ford Vice Chairman and Chief Financial Officer Alan Gilmore came out as gay. The Advocate named Ford Motor Company to its list of 25 companies that provide good environments for gay employees in its Oct. 26 edition.

Having earlier written the contract bargaining teams for Ford Motor Company, United Auto Workers, and Canadian Auto Workers requesting specific changes in the upcoming union contracts, Ford GLOBE was pleased to see that the resulting Ford/CAW union contract included provision for same-sex domestic partners to be treated as common law spouses in Canada, for sexual orientation to be added to the nondiscrimination statement of the Ford/UAW contract, and that Ford and the UAW agreed to investigate implementation of same-sex domestic partner benefits during the current four-year union contract.

The year 2000 was not only the year that I became Board Chair of Ford GLOBE but also the year that marked a momentous event in automotive history as Ford, General Motors, and the Chrysler Division of DaimlerChrysler issued a joint press release with the United Auto Workers announcing same-sex health care benefits for the Big Three auto companies’ salaried and hourly employees in the U.S. As the first-ever industry-wide joint announcement of domestic partner benefits and largest ever workforce of 465,000 U.S. employees eligible in one stroke, the historic announcement made headlines across the nation. It was truly a proud moment for all of us in the Ford GLOBE organization.

On January 1 of 2001, my last year with the company, Ford expanded its benefits program for the spouses of gay employees to include financial planning, legal services, the personal protection plan, vehicle programs, and the vision plan.

Since my departure from the company, Ford and GLOBE have continued to advance the cause of GLBT equality and fairness both within the corporation and without. I am fortunate to have been supported in my own coming out process by my associates within the company, both gay and straight, and to Ford GLOBE in particular for the bonds of friendship honed in the common struggle toward a better and freer world.

[Editor’s note: Previously published in 2015 in this blog.]

© 2015 

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and 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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How I Learned Some Turkey Anatomy, by Nicholas


It was our first Thanksgiving together so we invited a bunch of friends over to share a dinner. Jamie and I were to cook the turkey and other people were assigned other courses for a sumptuous meal.

We got the bird which was frozen but no problem, we knew enough to leave it in the frig for a few days to thaw out. It seemed to be doing so nicely and on Thanksgiving morning as I prepared the stuffing and prepped the turkey, things were moving along smoothly.Turkey in the oven, we were on our way to a feast.

The first sign of trouble came innocently enough when Jamie was talking to his mother about our celebration. I should point out that this Thanksgiving was a kind of late rebellion on his part. We had decided not to go to his parents for dinner, even though they were nearby, so we could have our own gathering with friends. But mothers have that knack for asking questions that can throw your plans right into the rubbish.

Bragging about our turkey in the oven, mom posed the question, “Did you get the giblets and stuff out of both ends of the turkey?”

What “both ends,” I demanded. Of course we’d pried out a bag of turkey parts from its hollow innards. But was there more in some other secret cavity? Was there something stuffed up its ass, too?

So, we hauled the bird out of the oven and poked around its backside to find out that not only was there another pouch of miscellaneous bits but that our future dinner was still, actually, frozen. Well, it did seem a little stiff when we stuffed it but now we realized we had a still frozen 12-15 pound animal and all bets were off as just when dinner would be served.

We threw the thing back into the oven and cranked up the temperature. Nothing much happened. We turned the oven up higher. Still, not much changed. It was turkey’s revenge—it would cook in its own time and never mind our plans for dinner.

Our guests started arriving and our main course was just thawing out. We had appetizers and wine and conversation while the bird began to show some sign of cooking. We reversed the order of the meal and served other courses like salad, potatoes and vegetable and more wine until at long last we pulled from the oven what we hoped was a cooked turkey. I can’t even remember what it tasted like. I guess it was good or we were all too hungry to care. Everybody ate it, nobody got sick. It was a fun time, even though a disaster.

My first venture into real cooking did not augur well for pursuing culinary delights. But, as it happens, one gets hungry and has to repeatedly do something about it. Peanut butter sandwiches as a diet are not that appealing. So, despite being shamed by a turkey, the lowest form of conscious life on this planet, I did go back into that kitchen with the intention of turning food into meals.

I am happy to report that success followed my persistence. Hunger is a good teacher and I have come since to associate the kitchen with many satisfactions and pleasures.

I love to indulge myself and what higher form of indulgence is there than food. And food grows ever more satisfying with age. Taste grows more complex and nuanced with age and taste buds, unlike other body parts, actually work better as you grow older. Kids can be finicky eaters, it has been said, because their underdeveloped taste buds aren’t working to their full capacity with just sweet and bitter dominating their little palates.

I like food. I like everything to do with food—shopping for it, growing it, picking it in the garden, preparing it, cooking it, eating and sharing it with others. I like reading about food and cooking; I like planning big meals. My favorite store in the whole world is the Savory Spice Shop down on Platte Street. Walking in their door is entering a different world full of wonderful aromas that hint of countless flavors from the dozens of herbs, spices and exotic salts on the shelves. The variations and sensations are near endless in my imagination.

Cooking is now part of my identity. I love to cook. Well, I just love food. Cooking is now a creative endeavor as I tend to use recipes not as instructions but for inspiration and as suggestions as to what goes well together and in what measure. Many times I simply dispense with recipes and make it up on the basis of what’s in the frig and hunches. The hunches—like adding paprika and dry mustard to a stew—usually pay off, i.e., are edible, but sometimes they do not turn out so well. Those I won’t go into.

Food has its rituals that can be likened to religious liturgies culminating with the sharing of sacrament. Food is work and joy, is nourishment and pleasure and connotes special relationships to those you share it with and to the earth it comes from.

So, let me officially launch this great season of holiday feasting—my favorite time of the year—with the words: Ladies and gentlemen, start your ovens. Let the eating begin!

[Editor’s note: This piece was first published in this blog in 2012.]
© November 2012

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

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Setting Up House, by Louis

Right now I am trying to set up house in Wheat Ridge; CO. Fortune Magazine said that Denver, CO, was the best place to live in the U. S., and my brother William decided to settle here. I am trying to “settle” in nearby Wheat Ridge, CO.

I come from College Point, NYC, NY which was a beautiful town. My father’s house used to be here. Should I have settled here?

For me setting up house means searching for gay utopia. The only true gay Utopia I know about is Cherry Grove, Fire Island. I heard South Beach and Key West also come close to this definition.

In the early 1960’s I received a scholarship to attend the École supérieure des sciences et technologies de l’ingénieur de Nancy. I flunked after the first year but not by much. Since Queens College was my alma mater, I decided to take advantage of their year abroad program. I pretty much became accustomed to the French way of life. Political quarreling in the U. S. got so unpleasantly intense, I found it more tranquil just to stay abroad.

Since I did not have an actual income other than the scholarships I had, I lived in a dormitory at the Université de Nancy from September 1965 to June 1966. It was not a question of setting up house. The reason I mention my two year stay in France was that many of the participants in the année propédeutique (or year of teacher preparation, pedagogy), though they were American, decided to stay in France. A few years after I returned to the U. S. and later, especially after seeing Michael Moore’s movie Sicko, I felt that settling in France would not have been a bad idea. France offers universal health care, and in general the French are better educated than Americans. For instance, nowadays I have met college graduates who never heard of “Europe”. What am I supposed to think? Duh!

So my search for Utopia began in the 1960’s. When I returned to College Point in 1965, I finished up my course work for my B. A. at Queens College, applied for a scholarship at the University of Delaware to study French Literature. This was in Newark, Delaware. My cousins lived there. They worked for the Dupont Corporation. Newark, Delaware, was nice enough, but the nearest gay colony back then was Philadelphia. I studied French Lit. at the University of Delaware for 1 and 1/2 years, then went to the University of Pennsylvania under a teaching fellowship.

Should I have settled in Newark, Delaware? Other than my cousins, there was nothing there. Philadelphia was an improvement over Newark, Delaware. There were gay bars, and I lived near the 30 Street Station. The men’s room there was good for cruising. It was big and clean. The cops did not bother checking up on it much. I guess I was little more promiscuous than I should have been. Then there was the nearby Club Bathhouse in Camden, NJ, just over the bridge. I went there about once a month. I wonder if it is still there.

I was at the University of Pennsylvania for 2 ½ years. That ended with my getting a Masters Degree in Romance Languages with a specialty in French. Should I have settled in Philadelphia? It was significantly nicer than New York City, but the summers in Philadelphia were very unpleasant. It was hard to breathe.

While, at the University of Pennsylvania, I met two gay men who, like me, were searching for a gay Utopia. Don and Tom were their names. They rented an apartment on the top floor of a high-rise nearer to downtown Philadelphia than where I was. I was near the University of Pennsylvania campus in west Philadelphia. Don and Tom lived east of Rittenhouse Square.

The apartment was quite an elegant penthouse. It had a beautiful view of downtown Philadephia. The air conditioning was fabulous. For the 2 ½ years that they stayed there, they were actually happy. My apartment was in a somewhat rundown building, but there was ivy right outside my window. And I did some clever decorating, so I was happy there for the time I was there.

Like me, in the long run, Tom did not become a French teacher. Don did become a French Instructor in some college in Florida. But Don and Tom were not lovers. Their boyfriends lived elsewhere. Tom wound up living near Washington Square Park, which is right near Greenwich Village in Manhattan in New York City. Tom lived there in the same apartment in Manhattan for the last 45 years. I guess he is and was happy there.

Should I have settled in Philadelphia? It still did not feel like home. Tom tells me that Don had a habit of overeating which brought about his recent death. I wonder if he was happy in Florida?

Up until the year 2002, I was still living in my parents’ house in College Point, but poor College Point continues to deteriorate and deteriorate, garbage everywhere and dead animals in the street, broken sewers and the municipal services disappearing. College Point stopped being a Utopia about 30 years ago.

I am sure settling in Wheat Ridge will become impossible once the local political establishment will become as hostile as the New York City establishment. But so far that has not happened.

© 7 September 2016

About the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

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Goofy Tales by Gillian

I bet I could have given each of you a hundred guesses and not one of you would have come to the conclusion that my goofy tale would be the story of cashing in a savings certificate. Neither would you have been thinking North Dakota! Those of you who know that part of the world well are in for a special treat. Those of you who don’t will see how much you have missed, and want to jump on the next Greyhound bus to Fargo.

In 2010, Betsy joined friends for a week’s cycling trip around northern North Dakota. I, as usual, went along in our camper van. It so happened that I had a CD coming due at Bank of the North* while we were away so planned to liquidate it at the branch in Minot, a town of almost 50,000 people at that time, and so quite the Big City by North Dakota standards.

The planned morning found me in line at the branch bank somewhere near the town center. The line was slow, with only one teller, and it was no secret to anyone that I was a stranger in town. So of course the questions started. Where was I from and what was I doing in Minot? Every time they said Minot I had a terrible urge to say why not? but managed to control myself. Since then I have discovered, somewhat to my disappointment, that it is not an original response, and in fact there are actually t-shirts with the logo,

MINOT
Why not?

Anyway, these were nice, friendly, people, who looked in horror at me and each other when I explained about this group of cyclists pedaling fifty to a hundred miles each day in the August heat. They shook their heads and said ‘oh no!’ a lot.

Fueled by these reactions, I recounted how this group of friends had originally met while cycling across the country; 3200 miles from ocean to ocean. This was very satisfactorily greeted by more head-shaking, tut-tutting and and many an ‘oh no!’

The line was moving, if slowly, as I told my tales, and eventually I found myself facing a dismayed teller.

‘Oh no!’ she waved my papers sadly at me.

‘We don’t have that kind of money here.’

She glanced fearfully over her shoulder lest some armed bank robber was creeping up behind her, just waiting for her to produce this king’s ransom. I hadn’t thought of it as a huge amount, but this was a tiny one-room bank.

Shaking her head fervently, she repeated, in case I had missed it the first time,

‘Oh no!’

As she picked up the phone receiver she explained,

‘You need to go to the Main Branch,’ (definitely capitalized)

‘I’ll let then know you’re on your way. That’s your white van isn’t it?’

She nodded, all knowing, at my camper van outside the window. Without needing any acknowledgement, she continued,

‘So … go the way you’re headed, turn left at the next street by the Conoco station and ……’

‘Oh no!’ came two voices in unison from behind me.

‘No. Oh no!’ one continued. ‘She’s not from here. She’ll get lost if she goes that way. She needs to go down to the church and turn there …’

‘Oh no!’ the other rejoined. ‘She’ll have to deal with the one-way streets then. And the flea market. She should go …’

Other voices joined.

Completely ignored in the heated discussion, I suddenly noticed the old woman at the end of the line, which by now was at a complete stand-still, waving me over in her direction. Warily, I left my coveted spot at the head of the line and moved back.

She lightly touched my shoulder, directing my gaze out of the window, and pointed a bony old finger. There, not more than three blocks away, stood a tall brick building proudly bearing, in bright red lights, the words,

BANK of the NORTH

I whispered my thanks and slid silently from the office while those inside continued the hotly-contested argument. I have often wondered how long it took them to notice I was gone.

In the event, the journey was very simple, but as I approached I was amazed to see a young man in a dark business suit leap off the sidewalk and wave me joyously into one of several available parking spaces. He gallantly opened my door. When was the last time anyone had done that, I tried to remember.

‘Found us OK then?’ He beamed a congratulatory smile.

‘Didn’t get lost?’

‘Oh no!’ I replied gravely.

The bright smile faded as soon as we settled at his desk and he studied my letter.

‘Oh no!’ He shook his head sadly. ‘This is not our series of numbers. This is not a Bank of the North CD. Oh no!’ he repeated firmly.

Patiently I pointed to the large Bank of the North letterhead.

He simply stared, too confused even to say, oh no!

‘I originally bought it at Bright Side Savings and Loan. That got bought out by Belvedere Bank which then was swallowed up by Bank of the North. It’s a five-year CD,’ I added kindly, ‘and a mighty lot can happen in the banking merger business in five years.’

I almost added an oh yes! for emphasis, but managed not to.

‘So actually, you see,’ I continued, as he still seemed in need of clarification, ‘It is yours. Now.’

The poor man loosened his tie and took off his glasses.

‘Oh no,’ he regained his voice, ‘I have never seen one of these. Please excuse me for one moment.’

He almost bowed before scuttling off to a glass-enclosed office where I could see him gesturing emphatically to an older man in a pinstriped suit which made him, obviously, senior to my poor young man is his plain and rather well-worn black. Pinstripe picked up the phone and shortly they were joined by an elegant older woman. They waved my letter about and talked animatedly on the phone and to each other. A young woman arrived at my chair with coffee to keep me happy while I waited. It was served in a flowered cup with gilt edging and came complete with shortbread cookies resting in the matching saucer, an ensemble to make my grandma’s heart sing.

At last all three emerged from the glass office and headed my way en masse, pushing their triumph before them.

‘We have it now,’ the woman gushed. Not an oh no! in sight.

‘If you would just step over to the counter with me …’

‘Can I get two hundred of that in cash?’ My horrified brain heard the words running out of my mouth before it could stop them.

‘Oh no.’ She sounded very distressed. ‘That would be ….’

My brain rushed to get my mouth under firm control.

‘Never mind,’ I hastily assured her, ‘It’s not important. I don’t need a thing. Oh no!’

A few weeks ago I was in a Denver branch of Bank of the North, arguing over a ten dollar charge with a teenage manager with spiky hair.

Had he said oh no! just once, I would have given him the damn ten dollars.

But he didn’t and so I didn’t.

Oh How I sometimes long for North Dakota!

* There is no such bank. Nor do the other banks mentioned exist. I do not wish to identify the actual bank involved, which is in fact a large and well-known bank with branches all over the country.

© 2013

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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A Flaneur in Wal-Mart by Cecil Bethea

A flaneur is usually a man of leisure and impeccable tailoring who strolls along the boulevards of Paris eyeing the grande monde passing. Depending upon the era these gilded gods might be the Princesse Bonapart, the Duchess de Uzzes, or one of the extravagantly courtesans in outrageously expensive equipages with a coachman and footman… Later Hemingway studiously ignoring Gertrude Stein at the Des Magots, or Townsend talking to James Joyce at Le Dome. Those days and idols are all dead, dead, dead.

In Denver what is a body to do especially when the closest to Paris he has ever been is Savannah. One does what he can with what he has. Wal-Mart is an accursed name amongst part of the population but not with me. Being a Southerner and having no sentimental illusions about general stores with their omnivorous mom and pop owners who charged share croppers one percent per month on high priced goods. Sam Walton broke their oligopoly with the world becoming if not a better place at least a cheaper one.

Broadway and Wadsworth are not the Rue Rivoli nor the Champs Elysee, but they supply a suitable address for a Wal-Mart with large parking lot. I had to park away over to one side. Although we think of its customer as being from the lower economic tiers, their cars belie such a belief. I do not remember seeing any vehicle older than five years. Maybe they were the object of much attention.

At the door checking whether patrons were bringing in goods, was an affable woman with salt and pepper hair probably in her fifties maybe even sixty. I asked her how many hours she worked. Being a full timer. She works eight hours a day.

This store has a high percentage of Hispanic customers at a minimum of 75%. Of course signs are in both Spanish and English. Near the door was a stand of cook books with four being in Spanish. Many Spanish DVD s and movies were for sale. In the book section were some books in Spanish by Joe Steen. I believe him to be pastor of a mega-church somewhere and author of inspirational books.

I encountered one Black African family in the produce department. A new product had struck my fancy – chopped onions at twenty cents per ounce. The mother of the family was talking on her cell phone in a language beyond my ken: certainly they were not from Europe.

Two stereotypical Muslim families were filling carts. One was acting strangely; not enough to interest Homeland Security but strangely nevertheless. With a digital camera, they were taking family photographs in the Christmas tree section. They must be Sunnis. No matter, I can’t imagine taking a camera to Wal-Mart to take pictures as though they were at Grand Canon or Central City .


Just inside the door was a MacDonald’s. Time was Wal-Mart operated their own eatery but not enthusiasitic.

The management certainly does believe in wide aisles. Because the date was a week before Halloween, costumes were on display in this aisle and were receiving much attention from families with children.

Being be able to judge men’s clothing than women’s, I went to men where I noticed that the shirts were drab which would mean that they would never be bought by an impulse buyer only by someone interested in covering his nakedness. No bright colors. Wanting to see how the women s clothing compared I moved into that section. Again dull colors. The T-shirts are red, yellow, and so on, but they are tired colors. About the brightest colors were a weak pink a purple that looks like the stain a grape soda leaves upon a white table cloth. Is this what the customer wants or what he can afford. No doubt part of the cost of high goods is in the dyeing.

Wandering around the store for nigh on two hours. I noticed several things about the customers. A number of fathers had taken their sons under ten to the store. Several were buying Halloween costumes. Others were making purchases of a more general nature. I wondered where moma was. First, I thought they might be giving here an hour or two of respite from hearing that dreaded call of Moma. On the other hand, perhaps the parents are divorced; and this is dad s week-end with his boys. Surely a sociologist could make a study of this phenomenons. Wal-Mart would be a likely sponsor. The other question was about married couples shopping together; who pushes the cart? Sometimes the man would push the cart to give the woman greater freedom and efficiency in pulling goods from the shelf. When the woman pushed the cart, the man seemed to be along for a stroll. I wondered who whipped out a credit card to pay. Is there a correlation between who pushes and who pays.

One seldom mentioned evil of growing old is remembering what things used to cost. This journey to Wal-Mart was an epiphany to me. Artificial Christmas trees may be bought for prices up to $228. Barbie sets cost $24.88. Halloween costumes are $17.88. A battery controlled dragon is $129.00. These prices all seem outrageous, but I must remember that inflation marches on.

Creative Writing 2154 © October 27th

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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Jealousy, by Betsy

Searching my soul I can say that at this point in my life I do not feel any jealousy. It’s hard to be jealous when at the same time I am happy, and at peace, and content. It has not always been that way, however.

From day one I felt like I was in a competition with my brother 1 and 1/2 years older than I.

He was the first-born, he was the ever important son, and, it turned out, the only son in the family. My brother, Whitford, growing up was allowed to go here and there as he pleased. While I, being a girl, had nowhere near the freedom he enjoyed. My jealousy was tempered however by the fact that Whit was assigned by my mother to look after me in certain situations like walking to school, or on the playground, or in the halls of our high school. I loved having an older brother I knew would be there for me if needed. I don’t remember ever being in a situation where I needed him to come to my rescue. But it was very comforting to know help was available if I needed it. In spite of all that I was jealous of his relative freedom, and more important, the abundance of love I was convinced he received for free and that I had to earn. Whether this feeling was justified or not, I am not sure. I think that my sense that I had to earn what he got for just being had to do with order of birth in the family and perhaps our gender difference.

I do not fault my parents for the difference that I sensed. I have written about the compatibility that my father and I had. He and my brother did not enjoy that same bond. Why, I don’t know.

My brother was not excluded. We often did things as a family. But when Dad and I went off on an adventure, Whit simply was not interested.

Sibling jealousy, it seems to me, is a very common family dynamic. I was not jealous of my sister, however. Perhaps I have had twinges of envy in some of my lower moments of adulthood, but I do not remember any jealousy as a youngster. That is probably due to the fact that she is 8 years younger than I. Because of the age difference, I was HER caretaker often being assigned baby sitting duties in her younger years. She was not an easy child to manage either, and I didn’t have much power over her. She could carry on and scream louder than anyone I had ever come across. Alas, ‘though, that was childhood. She grew up to be a beautiful person and she is still that today.

Another object of jealousy I remember was not directed toward any specific person in my life or even a person I was acquainted with. When I began to wake up and become aware of my true sexuality and at the same time married to Bill, when we were out in public places I would always notice when two women were together. I could usually tell by the way they looked at each other or touched—as if I had a super sensitive antenna—I could tell if they were in a lesbian relationship. I can remember this happening a couple of times. I felt jealous of the women and what they had together. This, needless to say, was during the period when my marriage began to fail.

Now, in the autumn of my life (it’s really winter, isn’t it), my jealousy is directed toward simple things like young people who don’t have an aching back, hips, knees, and shoulders, have endless energy to do all the things I still want to do.

And last but not least, there are those moments when I wish I could be as good a storyteller and as good a writer as many of you in this room. But I’m not so sure that what I feel here is jealousy. I’m inclined to regard my feeling in this case as pure, unadulterated admiration.

© 18 April 2016

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading, writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Setting Up House, by Will Stanton

I am a home-body by nature, very much like a Hobbit. I feel most comfortable having a peaceful place that belongs to me, that I belong to, a comfortable haven away from the trials and tribulations of the world. My spirit is not particularly adventuresome, certainly not like the sixteen-year-old boy Robin Lee Graham who sailed around the world all by himself.

Of course, I prefer an environment that fits my personality and aesthetic sense. It doesn’t have to be a mansion placed in an exclusive gated community. But, I would like to have a pleasant neighborhood, some songbirds and green trees, a temperate climate, nearby people who have something in common with me and my interests.

Once I came to Denver, I never had a home that I could call my own. Like many people, I lived in apartments the first few years. The last one was with my new friend James. Then, having grown weary of apartments, the two of us, along with an acquaintance of James, decided that we preferred to pool our resources and rent a house. Of the three of us, I spent the most time and effort looking for rental property; however, it was the third individual who, just by chance, happened to be driving by a small house that had a rental sign placed in the kitchen window.

The little house itself was an unloved property that needed lots of work. The original owner had not been living there for some time. It had been rented to three college students; however, nine ended up in there, along with a dog, all who fairly well trashed the place. It was all that we could afford, however. It suited our purposes, we moved in, and we cleaned it up as best we could, including the basement room that had been used for storage but had flooded from foundation leakage and had ruined everything stored there. We received permission to throw everything molding in that room out.

Within two years, the third person was established in a new job, had good income, and decided to move downtown nearer to his office. That left James and me in the rental property. I initially assumed that this rental property would be a short temporary place to live, and then I would move on. I’m still here.

Within a couple of years, we received notice that the owner wished to sell the house. James and I were fairly well settled here, and we had registered with the Secretary of State a home-office at this address, so it would have been inconvenient to move. James, who also never had owned a house before, suggested that we finance and buy the house. I suspect that, by that time, James understood that I was a home-body by nature and empathetically wished to see me comfortable and secure. We arranged a thirty-year loan and began making payments.

I tried my hand at repairing much of the house and yard that I could. The original owner had been a postman with nine children, and he had turned the basement into a barracks for some of the kids. He had tried to build a bathroom with shower but did such a bad job that the interior walls were mold-covered. I had to tare it all out and rebuild it. As for décor, his wife had the gawd-awfullest taste. She had chosen cheap shag carpets in hideous colors (which a renter’s dog had pissed on), had the trim painted in turquoise, had a cheap turquoise carpet in the livingroom, and put up plastic drapes. The kitchen looked like something out of a 1940s summer cabin and had been painted screaming-yellow. Trash-trees had grown up near the foundation that had made the leaks into the basement. The fact that the concrete patio in back sloped toward the foundation did not help, either. There was no garage for off-street parking and shelter. Oh, I could go on and on, there were so many deficiencies and problems with the property; however, you get the point. But, this is what we could afford.

At the same time I held a job, I spent years working on the house and property, putting in new plumbing, a lot of electrical, a new bathroom for the basement, cable and stereo wiring throughout the house, paint with decent taste, and paneling. I dug deep holes around the yard and planted numerous trees and bushes. I rented a jack-hammer and took out the offending concrete patio. I taught myself how to do all these things from reading manuals and through common sense. As our incomes eventually permitted, we replaced the heating and cooling, the kitchen, carpets, and roof. We had a garage built and installed a sprinkler system for the yard.

I was surprised with James. He said he never had been very interested in having a home before, but now he was very motivated to spruce it up as much as possible with appropriate furniture, new drapes, kitchen appliances, attractive dinnerware, and several previously owned paintings and statues. I knew he had come to enjoy having a home, but I also knew that he did all this especially for me. That’s the kind of person he was.

Together, setting up house over the years, we turned a “sow’s ear into a silk purse.” Together, we made a home for ourselves.

“Together” could have last longer, but it didn’t. After James died of cancer, my elderly mother passed away. The family offered to me the very attractive family home in another state. I wouldn’t even have to pay the relatives their share of the home’s value. I could move there and gain the equity in my own house. This made a lot of financial sense, but it didn’t make emotional sense to me. This house, and this city, had become my home over many years. My good friends were here; I barely knew anyone still left in my hometown. Going back to my childhood town was not a choice I felt like making. As Thomas Wolfe chose for a title, “You Can’t Go Home Again.” Home is where the heart is.

So, I still am living here, alone, in the house that James and I set up. That’s not always good, living in the same house. From time to time, I see something here that reminds me of James, gone now for twenty years; and I suffer a twinge of sadness. After all, this was our house, not mine alone.

© 23 August 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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Hunting, by Ricky

I am always hunting. Usually it is for my next meal. Often, it is for ice cream. Sometimes, it is for a cheap gas station. Occasionally, I’ll hunt for a traveling companion. Once I hunted squirrels, but gave it up after the time I shot a squirrel high in a tree. The squirrel fell down landing “spread eagle” practically at my feet followed two seconds later by the branch he had been sitting on. Whereupon, the squirrel jumped up, looked at me with those big squirrel eyes as if to say, “How could you?”, and ran away. I decided I wasn’t much of a mighty squirrel hunter, if all I could bag was the branch he was sitting on.

I gave up all animal hunting for good on the night some friends and I were “spot lighting” jack rabbits in the Nevada desert. I had shot one but not a clean kill and it lay on the ground squealing. I tried to put it out of its misery from a short distance away but kept missing. I finally had to walk up to it, look into its eyes while I pulled the trigger. My heart broke and I gave up the thrill of killing animals. Spiders and snakes are another matter.

I even have an on-again-off-again passion to hunt for my ancestors to keep my genealogy moving backwards. I frequently have to hunt for a public or private place where I can be naked soaking in hot water alone or with a friend. The soaking is not always required as I often just contemplate nature’s eye candy.

My absolute favorite hunting activity is to locate a really good pun or good clean jokes like: 

Why do sharks swim in salt-water? Because they sneeze too much in pepper water. 
What did the chicken write in her diary? “Dear Diary, today I crossed the road, yet I have no idea why.”

Don’t you wish we lived in a society where a chicken can cross the road and no one questions her motives?

© 26 September 2016

About the Author

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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LGBT Spirit, by Phillip Hoyle

I had read and thought a lot about LGBT life (I’ll call it gay in this story), observed it close at hand, knew aspects of traditions that I didn’t easily relate to. Then at age fifty-one I moved to Denver to start living the gay life in a truly gay spirit. I had initiated changing relationships with my wife and with a long career in religious leadership and moved west to secure some kind of employment. I hoped to dedicate most of my time to writing and painting. I needed work I could do for fourteen or fifteen years. I was quite excited. I ended up entering massage school figuring I could work in this therapeutic field part time to afford the rest of my life.

I did not choose massage out of an illegal motivation—meaning I did not choose it in order to have easy access to male bodies. I had given massages for years to my family and knew I could learn to do it well. I already knew how massage can help manage pain. In school I learned much more about the therapeutic effects and the techniques that made them possible. In the ensuing years I also dedicated a lot of time and effort to make massage affordable to persons living with AIDS as a kind of memorial to the life of a deceased friend.

My wife from whom I was separated but with whom I was friendly came to visit me accompanied by a woman friend we had known in another city. I wanted to introduce them to some aspects of my new life: a solo show of my art at a coffee shop, some of my new friends, the place I lived, the clubs in which I danced on weekends, the clinic where I volunteered, and so forth. On Friday night we started out to go dancing. I wanted to begin at a disco with techno music I enjoyed and to end up at a bar with Country Western music I knew they’d enjoy. On the way to the disco our friend Nancy said, “I’d really like to meet some drag queens.” I responded, “We’re headed the right direction and will make it our first stop.” We drove south on Broadway past the disco and arrived at BJ’s Carousel where I knew we could catch a drag show. I introduced Myrna and Nancy to a guy I knew who was in street clothes but who often performed there. He was funny as usual and questioned Nancy about her colors—hair, skin, and makeup. Nancy asked, “Why do you ask?” “Because your colors aren’t right,” he said without a blink. She asked for details and when the guy concluded, she said, “That’s exactly what my cosmetologist said.” My acquaintance Eric turned away from the table and with a flick of his head said back over his shoulder to her, “Come with me.” He led her to the dressing room where he and a bevy of his cronies did a simple change over.

Nancy told us later that when they entered the room everything went silent and everyone stared ice at her. “It’s okay,” Eric retorted to them, “She’s real.” Meaning “She’s no competition.” So they shared their ideas and makeup, and she emerged perfectly colored.

Eric stayed at our table for a drink and chatted on a bit about his life. He then said to Myrna, “You know, Phillip is not really gay.” She and Nancy looked just a little surprised. “I know,” he continued, “because he had beautiful me naked on his massage table and didn’t have sex!” We all laughed. I did have him on my table. He came to me because of back pain, probably related to wearing stiletto heels on weekend nights and sometimes even when he sang in the church choir on Sunday mornings. I worked my darndest to address his discomfort, and the work helped him. I was not interested to have sex not because he was unattractive or unavailable. I just didn’t operate that way. I wasn’t interested to mix sex with my practice or to play the role of an older gay prostitute. I wasn’t interested in gay sex by volume but rather I wanted it accompanied with feelings I thought of as love. Old fashioned? Whatever.

Perhaps I wasn’t gay by his standard. On the other hand he really may have been complimenting me in the presence of my wife. But probably he was just, like usual, blabbing out whatever he thought.

Still, I thought about the exchange. Was I not REALLY gay like he supposed? I knew I was—but in my own way. Not as a caricature of sexuality gone amok but rather as a thoughtful homosexual who had finally decided to simplify his life and open himself to a full measure of gay loving that reached far beyond its hormone-driven component. I knew my own gay vision would at best necessitate more than one partner, but I wasn’t interested in just any partner no matter how eager or open he might be.

When we left the drag bar, we went to the Compound to dance, then to BoyZ’s Town to see the strippers—another Nancy request. And finally we arrived at Charlie’s to dance with each other and with more gay and lesbian, trans-gender and probably bisexual folk. And I thought, what a way to celebrate: my way to celebrate my gay spirit. I knew the rightness of it for any encounter with any spirit will surprise and always resist being boxed in by definition and quantification.

© 23 January 2015, Denver

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