Tag: Life Stories

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Lizzie Goes to Sunday Dinner by Betsy

It was a sunny Sunday afternoon in 1939. A large family group of 10-12 people is seated around a long table at the Pudding Stone Inn, a cozy hotel tucked into the side of a hill in rural New Jersey. The inn’s restaurant is frequented by this same family at least monthly during the warmer time of the year.

The matriarch and the patriarch, the eldest of the family, are seated each at opposite ends of the gleaming white linen-draped table. It is by their invitation, rather, by their request, that the family is here all having attended church together that morning.

Lizzie is the youngest member of the group at the age of three years. That place of distinction is soon to be usurped by a cousin whose entrance into the world is expected to take place in a couple of months. Lizzie sits in a high chair pulled up to the table but she has her own tray attached to her chair where her food is about to be placed. A napkin matching the gleaming white linen table cloth is tied around her neck and flattened in front to form a bib. Her father, brother, aunts, uncles and cousins complete the group.

Even at the tender age of three Lizzie knows exactly what foods she likes and dislikes. Ever since she started eating solid food, which was not that long ago, she knew also the foods she did not like. She hated oatmeal. At age 3 she did not know enough to call it by its proper name, but she knew she didn’t want any. At home at breakfast time, “Eat this up,” her mother would gently cajole. “I don’t want my ‘up’,” Lizzie would cry. Well, she would not have to eat any ‘up’ at this meal. ‘Up’ is a breakfast food and this was Sunday dinner.

Sunday dinner. The vision of one of her favorite foods enters her mind–a dill pickle spear. Finally, after waiting way too long, the food is brought out to the table. As usual Lizzie’s mother will share her food with her and probably deliver it to her mouth. It’s the usual Sunday afternoon dinner fare–turkey with gravy and mashed potatoes and some vegetables–probably overcooked–but that’s okay; Most children like vegetables that way–soft and soggy. On a plate, way out of her reach is Lizzie’s favorite food, a dill pickle. It does seem odd for a three year old to be so fond of such a strong tasting, puckery food as dill pickle, but it’s true–it is her favorite.

“Can I have my pickle,” asks Lizzie. “No, first you must eat some of this food, Lizzie,” she is instructed by her mother. One or two bites is all that is needed for this rather puny child. She manages to down enough to satisfy Mom. Before she knows it dessert is on the way. Ice cream it is for Lizzie and Ice cream she likes well enough. She hardly has any room left for anything but takes a taste or two to please Mom who is coaxing a cajoling her into finishing dessert. Finally Lizzie looks at her mom as she finishes the last sweet, creamy spoonful at the bottom of the dish. “Now can I have my pickle?” she asks.© 29 March 2014

About the Author

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

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Drifting by Phillip Hoyle

In a very important sense I was drifting through life back then. Oh I had goals in my career and a highly structured schedule, but I was living into the common cultural expectation of marriage with children. I appreciated that my ministerial work afforded me the luxury of reading, researching, teaching, and the like. I easily tolerated the work conditions. In regard to family, I lived with a wonderful woman and by then two very interesting and creative children. I floated my way downstream keeping in the current but letting it move me along well-worn channels.

Then Mike A drifted into my life. He showed up one afternoon at the church where I worked, out on Camp Bowie Boulevard in west Fort Worth, Texas. I didn’t know what he expected, but there he stood looking a little beat down yet clean in cowboy boots, western shirt, Levis, and sporting a tooled leather belt with a big metal buckle that announced in all caps STUD. I was amused as well as concerned. We talked. He wanted help getting his life back together.

I don’t remember if Mike had his equipment with him but he told me he was a welder and needed to get a job. He may have had his welding mask and gloves and probably a suitcase or a box of clothes. He did have a rather pleasant manner and spoke working-class Texan with a distinct twang, drawn-out syllables, and what seemed to me, strange pronunciations. He also had a sense of humor and a charming smile. He was down on his luck but he wasn’t done with life or with living it.

Mike assured me he would be able to get work if he could just get to a particular place to apply. Realizing he’d have to rely on me for a few days, I drove him to a fabrication shop way out in east Fort Worth where he secured a job. Maybe he’d worked there before; I didn’t know. In fact I knew nothing about this world, but Mike did start work at that shop the next day.

Mike knew his trade. While returning to our apartment, he said my car was “arkin’” and asked me to pull into the grocery store and give him a dollar. He’d fix it. I knew there was something draining the power from my car and had wasted quite a bit of money paying mechanics who didn’t repair it. I had no idea what was wrong, nor had I ever heard the word “arkin’.” For 89 cents Mike bought electricians tape and wrapped the places where the insulation had worn off a couple of spark plug wires. He knew the sound of an electric arc; after all he was a welder. And his fix held for many years!

Mike went home with me to my wife and two kids and stayed for a week. I gave him a ride to work and picked him up at the end of his shift—what in the church office I called my paper route. One parishioner overheard the reference and asked the secretary if the church wasn’t paying me enough to live on. That week as we traveled back and forth across the city, I picked up random details about his life, his loss of job, his estrangement from his wife, their two girls who lived with her. I felt like I’d gone down this road before; assisting someone, wondering if my efforts would really help.

Within a week Mike arranged two-way transportation for work. It didn’t occur to me that he was probably back into a network of relationships he had known for years; I was too busy with my life to worry over his details. Mike met church people at our apartment. For him being around educated folk may have seemed odd. One of them perceived Mike’s alcoholism. I knew he drank; she knew of his disease. Her insight made sense of some things I had observed.

One night Mike called me. He had burned his eyes at work—a common hazard for welders. “Could you get some eye drops and bring them to me?” he asked. “Of course,” I answered inquiring just what kind he needed. I drove over to his by-the-week motel, knocked on his door, and administered the eye drops. That’s when Mike gave me one of the most precious gifts I’d ever received. As the sting was abating from his eyes he looked up and said, “I love you, Phillip.”

“I’m happy to help,” was my defended reply to this rather crass, beer-guzzling, Texas cowboy stud. But I was stunned. No man had ever said those words to me, not even in my family.

I knew about love. In college years I had learned to speak words of love to my girlfriend, who became my wife. Actually she taught me how. Saying such words seemed a requirement to get married. I’d said “I love you” many times to her, to my son, to my daughter, and I meant it. A couple of years before Mike drifted into my life I realized that I had fallen in love with a male seminary classmate. I refrained from saying “I love you” to him lest it seem manipulative or, worse, scare him away. Now this drunk said “I love you” to me. I took it to mean he deeply appreciated my help. At the same time I realized I was not interested to explore any further dimensions of its potential with him. My heart was already elsewhere—way too committed to my family and to the one male friend I adored.

I also came to realize my patient and caring help to this man who may have been starved for any kind of love—that along with his lowered threshold of defenses due to his drinking—left him open to say whatever he felt. I received his drifting expression with deep appreciation and realized how much I wanted, even needed to be loved deeply by a man, especially one who might open his non-alcoholic heart to me.

It took twenty more years of maturing for me to do what my heart of hearts desired: to live with a man I loved and who loved me. But I wonder how many more years may have passed if I had not heard those words from my Texas cowboy STUD. His gift to me far exceeded mine to him, and I continue to appreciate that Mike A. had drifted my way.© Denver, 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

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A Picture to Remember by Nicholas

Picture this. Jamie and I are decked out in our tuxedos with purple silk bow ties and purple cummerbund, standing near to each other—he a head taller than me. We have boutonnieres of white carnations in our lapels and we are smiling. We look like two grooms because we are two grooms, celebrating our wedding in 2008.

Now, picture this. We are in a hospital room. Jamie, in a hospital gown, is in bed and has a nasal-gastric tube in his nose. I’m standing next to him wearing a polo shirt and khaki slacks. The minister who officiated at our ceremony is signing our marriage license as our witnesses—my sister, Jamie’s sister-in-law, my nephew, and Jamie’s mom—watch. Just married. Our smiles are trying to make the best of a bad situation.

Which picture is true? Which picture do we really remember? The answer is: both. We have the official picture of our wedding, as it was supposed to have happened. And we have the actual picture of our wedding, as it did happen in Stanford University Hospital. The official photo, which is actually from a reception we held months later, sits proudly on our mantel. The other rests indelibly in our memories of that August day in 2008 when the grand celebration we’d planned all summer turned into a desperate rush to the nearest ER. It sits in a box on a closet shelf.

Early on the morning of our wedding day, Jamie complained of a stomach ache that seemed more than a case of wedding day nerves. At 6 a.m., we went to the Emergency Room at Stanford Hospital where doctors quickly diagnosed that they didn’t know exactly what was going on but Jamie had to stay in the hospital until they could figure it out. Sorry, said the doctors, no wedding that day.

Then someone, I don’t recall who, asked about having our wedding in the hospital. The docs were surprised but said, sure, if the nurses were OK with it. The nurses were thrilled to have a wedding in their hospital and they set about making Jamie look presentable.

We hastily arranged for just family to squeeze into Stanford’s tiny chapel where we recited our vows and were pronounced married. The reception with catered dinner and fancy cake with two grooms on top went on as scheduled since we had 80 people gathered—some travelling from far away—to help us celebrate this momentous day. Jamie, of course, had to remain in the hospital while I, so tired I could hardly think, had to play host—alone. Yes, I received countless good wishes that day but I barely remember that.

A few days later, Jamie was operated on to relieve a bowel obstruction and began a long, slow recovery that kept us both in California for over a month but not for the honeymoon we’d planned.

So, we have our pictures—the one we happily remember and the one we can’t forget.

© March 2015

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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Angels and Archangels by Phillip E. Hoyle

Save me from angels! They’re too fiercesome. Why even in the ancient Hebrew book Tobit, young Tobias’s guardian angel Raphael carried a sword. That angel was no sentimental Europeanized childhood protector but rather the leader of the angelic host, the army that surrounded the throne of the great Lord, God of Israel. Raphael served the one that no one could look upon and live. And then someone said of me that I was an angel—this after I’d lost my lover Michael to an AIDS related cancer. Of course, somewhat like Raphael did with Tobias I walked with Michael on his way to test after test at Denver Health, accompanied him during his chemotherapy sessions, picked him up from the floor when he fell, helped him to the restroom, cleaned up after him, loved him mightily during his rapid decline in health. I also sat with him while he died. Many things actually. That seemed simple love proffered to a beloved, not something magical or mystical; simple love mixed with profound responsibility.

When Michael’s friend told someone I was an angel, I’m sure the man meant something very sentimental. But mythological? I don’t know. At the time I was in no mood to be either kind of angel. I was angry at my loss and all too aware that my late arrival in Michael’s life journey saved his closest friends many, many hours of care giving. I was not going to be consoled by anyone’s guilty feelings or sincere intentions. And besides, I knew my journey into this love and my imperfect execution of love’s demands. I knew myself all too well. Spare me the blather.

Now we’re talking mythology here, but it always seems to get mixed up with sentimentality. I abhor that! Still I don’t know how to get beyond it to something more constructive. It’s always easier to criticize than to create something new.

A couple of years later I again got called an angel this time after the HIV-related death of my Rafael. His Mexican mom told his Puerto Rican social worker that I had been his angel in his last months. I’m sure he had dramatized for her just what we had going—probably with too many details for her comfort. He insisted that she understand our love. The case manager told me what she expressed. Somehow since the ascription occurred cross-culturally and from a devout Roman Catholic person, I could more easily accept it being assigned to me. For her to say so was a breakthrough of acceptance, one I knew her dying son demanded of her. She was strong in her love and although she didn’t say it directly to me, she did convey it through a third-party, a way of communicating much more Mexican than American. I realized I did serve somehow as a messenger of the divine love, acceptance, and care to a young man who had meant no harm, who had experienced too little love, and who had broken too many Mexican taboos in his too short life. My love for him, whom I found somehow beautiful enough to assign godly terms, made me happy to provide the divine service however it was perceived and interpreted by others.

Our affair was in so many ways perfectly divine—even in the ancient Judeo-Christian sense with the fearful God who sent fearful angelic troops to announce to freaked out shepherds that they were to receive a great joy, one for all humankind! Whatever my role, whether angel or shepherd, I was finally pleased—oh so pleased—to be in the middle of such a divine drama.

Some months after Rafael’s death I told the man who had irked me with his angelic name calling that I would not care to meet another man named for an archangel—no more Michaels or Raphaels for me. He smiled and with an arched eyebrow and sly grin asked, “Well, what if his name was, say, Lucifer? Could that get your attention?”

“Probably,” I admitted.

© 15 December 2014

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot

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Plumage by Nicholas

I like scarves. I like to wear them and I like seeing them worn by other people. Scarves are both fashionable and practical. They can provide warmth and protection against the elements on a cold, blustery day. They can also provide an elegant touch of color, a bit of flair with a swath of fabric flung around your neck and over a shoulder. And they can make statements about who you are and even what side you take.

I’m always surprised how much warmth a scarf can provide when wrapped around my neck on a winter’s day. It’s an extra layer of protection against the wind. It feels cozy and snuggly and shelters some exposed skin. The winter scarves I have are light wool and are burgundy and purple. They’re long enough to completely wrap them around me. I have another yellow scarf that my mother knitted for me years ago but I rarely wear it because I keep it more as a memento of her.

Scarves can also make statements—fashion statements and political statements. Scarves can be gay when a man wears one that is colorful and elegant. It can bring a feminine touch to your wardrobe. I wear a blue and gold silk scarf sometimes and I have a fuschia and black scarf that I wear just for decoration. The secret to always being fashionable, they say, is to accessorize. Scarves can be so gay.

Political statements are also made through scarves. Certain scarves in certain colors on certain days often convey symbolic political sentiments. I own a scarf that is checkered red and black which might be taken for a Middle Eastern keffiyeh, the checkered headdress worn by many Palestinians and adopted by some non-Palestinians as a gesture of solidarity. I didn’t buy it for that. In fact, the resemblance didn’t occur to me until much later when I realized there could be political overtones to my new fashion accessory. But then I doubt a Palestinian warrior would wear my pinkish-red scarf anywhere. It’s not their style.

My favorite scarves are not actually scarves at all but can be worn as such. They are these bright pieces of plumage from Renaissance Italy. These are actually flags or banners representing the different neighborhoods of Siena. Each banner—with different colors, animals (both mythical and real), wild patterns of stripes and daggers of color, and patron saints displayed—symbolically represents one of the 17 districts of the old medieval city.

These banners are used by neighborhood teams competing in the annual horse race, called the Palio, held since the 15th century (and still held) each summer in the huge piazza in the center of town. Of course, the three-day event is more than one horse race. Much pageantry and pomp goes along with it, including parades with these banners carried by people in equally flamboyant Renaissance costumes of tight leotards, puffy sleeves and very bright colors.

So, wearing a scarf can be more than putting on an accessory to highlight a color, more than showing your support for a sports team, and more than just bundling up against the cold. Scarves have become yet another way humans have concocted to say something in a world that might not be paying much attention anyway. A scarf is a flag to wave.

© April 2015

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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Road Trip by Gillian

I came honestly by my
addiction to road trips. I was introduced to them by my mum and dad. In Britain
during, and for years after, World War Two, private cars were relatively rare;
gas was severely rationed. But as we staggered into the fifties, our world
became a little brighter and Dad took his old car down off the blocks where it
had rested for a decade. He worked lovingly on it for some time, then lo and
behold suddenly one Sunday afternoon we were off to the Welsh mountains. Before
long the afternoon jaunts graduated to day excursions and thence to a week in
Cornwall and two weeks in Scotland. There was never any discussion of camping,
not a very attractive prospect in the wet cold British weather, but we were on
a low budget and stayed in small back-street B & B’s. These were nothing like their upscale
modern U.S. namesakes, but simply a spare room in a very modest house, usually
sharing the bathroom and breakfast with the owners. In this style we went to
many different parts of the country and met many interesting people.
Perhaps, had I not been
an only child, I would have hated these vacations and even the day trips the
way many modern kids hate spending hours in the car. But I had the luxury of
the back seat to myself, without noisy squabbling siblings to dig elbows in my
ribs or squash me against the door handle and demand the windows be open; or
closed. I never once recall asking, even silently in my own head, “Are we there
yet?” I think it was a safe and warm haven to me, shut away in this metal box,
just the three of us.
But it was my mother
who turned it from an OK activity to something I truly loved. Mum kept up
something of a running commentary as we passed through the farms and towns. She
loved history and regaled Dad and me, though he never responded except
occasionally to glance back at me in the rear-view mirror and wink, with
fascinating tidbits about different places; not boring things like dates but
little anecdotes. At the time I believed it all to be true, though looking back
I’m not completely
convinced, though she certainly was a very knowledgeable woman. Apart from
history, she would make up silly stories about a farm we just passed, or the
vicar of a village church, or the family in a car we met going the other way.
There were still not many cars on the roads then, so seeing one was just an
invitation to Mom’s
imagination. Most of all, she loved to laugh, and if there was nothing too
immediately amusing in the vicinity, she would create something. She made
herself giggle with some of her imagined stories, and she paid great attention
to license plates, making them into acronyms or rhymes.
My mother leaps up in
my memory quite often, and usually it’s
when something comes up that I know would have made her giggle. During football
games, for instance, not that I can imagine Mum ever enjoying football, but how
she would giggle at some of the commentary, when they say things like, “He wasn’t doing much when he was an Eagle, but
as a Panther he’s
really come into his own.” When she stopped her giggles she would then, I know,
weave some wonderful fairy story around this failed eagle which somehow morphed
into a more successful big cat.
Anyway, having made a
short story long, that was my introduction to road trips; followed, inevitable
by a hiatus of decades given over to work and family. Then, in celebration of a
new millennium, Betsy and I bought our VW camper van and embarked on our own
series of road trips. I haven’t
had time to count them up, but they must number around twenty-five for a total
time of maybe a year, though we rarely are away for more than three or four
weeks at a time.
We have been many
places from the Mexican border to, and into, Canada; and from coast to coast.
We have visited every one of the lower forty-eight states, and camped in most
of them.
We have seen sights we
had always wanted to see but not had the chance, and chanced upon things we had
no idea of. Unlike taking a plane, when the best you can possibly hope for is a
journey that is uneventful, road trips are never uneventful; nor do you want
them to be, though it’s
good when the wonderful surprises well outnumber the bad ones. We have of
course had our share of those less positive – flat tires both on the road and
in campgrounds, loading up in the morning all ready to go and the van won’t start; freeway accidents only narrowly
averted and near misses with tornadoes, hail storms, and forest fires.
I understand that one
day in the not too distant future one of us is going to reach the age where
camping road trips are not such an attractive option. It’s unclear at this time which of us will
reach that stage first, Betsy or me or Brunhilda as we call the van, mostly
though not always, with great affection. That will be a sad day, whatever the
reason. But one of the blessings of aging seems to be the ability to accept
with relative ease that the good times of the moment will inevitably come to an
end, but only to be replaced by other, different, good times. We can love
taking out our favorite memories and dusting them off for further enjoyment,
but at the same time always creating new ones while continuing, with luck, to
live without regrets. And I suspect that my most frequently re-visited
memories, as long as I’m
privileged to have memories, will be of oh those many road trips.
© 15 August 2014 
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 now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25
years.
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Exploring by Ricky

Boys
and “exploring” naturally fit together like peanut butter and jelly or love and
marriage because curiosity and exploration are part of a boy’s job
description.  
I began my career as an
explorer in January 1949 when I began to explore my home by crawling about on
the floor and tasting small objects I encountered.  Eventually, I reached other rooms as I began
to walk and could “disappear” if my mother turned her back for more than 2-seconds.  I don’t think the term “baby-proofing” existed
yet so drawers and cupboards were never off-limits to me.  Mom did empress upon my mind, via my behind,
exactly which bottles and boxes were dangerous to me.
 Somewhere between the ages of 1 and 3, I
learned without spankings that spiders with the red hour-glass emblem were very
dangerous and to stay away from them.  I
suspect what I actually learned was, “if it has red, stay away.”  Once I began to open doors and explore
outside the house, it was child’s play to open the gate in the fence and do
some serious exploring.  I quickly
learned to take the dog with me so no one would notice I was gone.
My exploration
of kindergarten began in September 1953. 
I looked over my classmates for a suitable playmate (I mean classmate)
with which to be friends and chose a girl of all people, Sandra Flora.  I loved to color and play with all the messy
artistic stuff.  In first grade, Sandra
and I were sent to a fifth grade class to be an example to the other kids on
how to work quietly.  I’m sure I did not
measure up to the teacher’s expectations as I kept getting out of my seat,
quietly of course, and going to the book shelves trying to find a book with
lots of pictures.  Being unsuccessful in
finding a book to keep me interested, I think the teacher became frustrated and
eventually sent us back to our class.
Now enter 1956, I (a newly arrived eight-year
old), was sent to live on my grandparents farm in central Minnesota while my
parents were arranging their divorce. 
Suddenly, I had a whole farm to explore that summer (and ultimately),
autumn, winter, and spring in rotation. 
Eighty acres of new frontier for the world’s greatest explorer and
trapper to collect beautiful animal pelts and bring them in for the women back
east to wear.  (Okay, so they really were
not bison or bear pelts, but if an 8-year old boy squints, just right, under
the proper lighting conditions, gopher skins can look just like bison or bear
hides only smaller.)
1956
was the year of my awakening to the expanded world of exploring everything on
the farm: the barn, milk house, hayloft, silo, chicken coop guarded by a
vicious rooster, granary, workshop (nice adult stuff in there), equipment shed
where various farm implements were stored until needed, and the outhouse (the
stink you “enjoyed” twice a day).  State
and county fair time brought other places to explore: animal barns for varieties
of chickens, pigs, cows, sheep, horses, etc., judging of canning, 4-H, displays
of quilts, new farm machinery (tractors, balers, rakes, yucky manure spreaders,
thrashers, and combines), and of course the midway in the evenings.
As
summer waned and school began, I met and made a few friends. 
I rode
a school bus for three years in Los Angeles so that was not new.  One of my neighboring farm friends and I were
part of the “space race” as we would design rocket ships every evening and then
compare them on the bus ride to school the next morning.  Another farm boy and I did a bit of exploring
of another type while riding the bus to school with our coats covering our
crotches (use your imagination—and “No” we never were caught).
Another
schoolyard “exploratory” activity involved games.  One favorite among all male students (townies
and farm boys) was marbles.  Our version
involved scooping out a shallow depression next to the wall of the school,
placing the marbles we wanted to risk (bet) into the depression, and then
stepping back a distance (which increased with each turn) and attempting to
roll a “shooter” into the depression so it stayed.  If more than one boy’s shooter stayed in, the
two “winners” would roll again from a greater distance and repeat the process
until there was only one shooter in the depression.  The winner would then collect all the marbles
in the hole and the betting process would begin again.  Sadly, I don’t remember the name of this
game.
The
second game we called Stretch.  I can’t
speak for the townies, but all self-respecting farm boys had a small pocket
knife in one of his pockets all the time (including at school).  In this game two boys would face each other
and one would start by throwing his knife at the ground at a distance
calculated to be beyond the reach of the other boy’s leg.  If the knife didn’t stick, it was retrieved
and the other boy took his turn.  If the
knife stuck, the other boy would have to “stretch” one leg/foot to touch the
knife all the while keeping the other leg/foot firmly in place where he had
been standing.  If he was successful in
touching the knife without moving the other foot, he retrieved the knife,
returned it to its owner, and then took his turn of throwing the knife.  If he could not touch the knife, he lost the
game and another boy would take his place challenging the winner.
The
third and fourth games were “King of the Hill” and snowball fights (obviously
reserved for winter recess).  I trust I do
not need to describe these.  In all of
these games, we boys were “exploring” our limits or increasing our skills.
The
elementary part of this school was of the old style, a “square” three-story
edifice with one classroom located at each of the corners of the first two
floors and storage rooms on the third floor. 
The restrooms were in the basement and (miracles of miracles) the rope
to ring the bell up in the cupola on the roof ran all the way into the boys’
restroom.  “Yes,” even during a pee break
(raise one finger and wait for permission) I would occasionally “just have to”
“explore” pulling on that rope and then run back to class, (mischievous is in a
boy’s job description).
Once I turned 10, I began to explore the woods
around our home sites in South Lake Tahoe. 
My Boy Scout Troop provided many opportunities to explore not only the
great outdoors but also my own leadership skills and camping abilities.  About this time, I also began to explore
other boys; not sexually, but socially; learning to interact with them and developing
an understanding of what “boy culture” is and is not.  Well, to be completely honest, of course
there was a little pubescent sex play occasionally, but not on troop hikes or
campouts.
During
those halcyon days of early adolescence, more and more I learned that it is not
what a person looks like on
the outside but what a person is
on the inside that really matters. 
Therefore, I now explore the minds of new acquaintances by getting to
know them enough to determine if they are friend or faux material.
Those
early years of exploring my environment’s people, places, and things shaped my
personality and instilled within my mind, a large dose of curiosity combined
with a love of knowledge.  Those who know
me best can certify that I ponder on the strangest things or ask unexpected
questions on unusual topics in my searches for answers.  If that bothers some people, it is just too
bad, because this is who I am; a curious little boy trapped in an adult body.
© 29 April 2013 
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 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
Posted on

Believe It or Not, This Really Happened to Me by Phillip Hoyle

Several years ago I developed an unusual medical condition that stumped my doctor and both interested and frightened me. One morning I discovered a growth on the index finger of my left hand. It first appeared to be a long splinter the length of the finger next to the thumb. Unlike a splinter, it seemed articulated and bent when my finger bent. I was fascinated but also knew I needed to show it to my doctor. I couldn’t get an appointment that first day but set one for the next. Overnight the splinter-like protrusion expanded a little bit beyond the finger, and looked like a kind of lobe, like a smaller finger attached to the index finger.

Many things went through my mind on the bus ride to Dr. Pierce’s office. Was this some kind of exotic infection from Africa? I had any number of African friends. Was it from the high Himalayas, the original home of my friend Ming? Or China where my friends Rong and Fong originated? Or Korea from which Chong immigrated? I decided not to worry and just kept my hand on my lap covered by my other rather normal appearing right hand. But I did worry. Would I ever again play the piano? Could one even play with six fingers? Would I have to give up my massage practice? I’d already cancelled half a dozen massages. Would I still be able to shuffle a deck of cards?

At the doctor’s office I watched as my physician examined the oddity. He said it was not a splinter but rather a buildup of fluid and proposed to extract some of it for further examination. Out came the needle. Into the finger it reached. Out came dark red blood. Doctor looked concerned and marked the sample for the lab to examine STAT. He asked me to wait and showed me to an empty room. I wondered what he’d find. I had wanted to excise the dark line that invited ideas of demon possession, an idea I had long excised from my mind. Couldn’t I simply cut it off like I once did a mole? I examined myself. I thought about the many projects I was planning. I made a list of friends to call, especially those I had lost track of over the previous couple of years. I checked my phone messages, listening to all those I’d not heard, erasing many, many voice and text messages, and otherwise filled my time with distracting tasks. After about an hour, a nurse brought me a bottle of water and some magazines apologizing for the long inconvenience. My one hour wait turned into two hours. Finally Dr. Pierce returned. He told me I would have to enter the hospital. My heart rate rose. “We need to keep watch over this.” He frowned; I wondered why. “The CDC wants you isolated,” he explained for their computers had matched the sample with something dreadful. My fears shook me.

I entered a world of sterile isolation. There all was bed rest, confusion, and fear. The staff members were nice to me yet cautious and also afraid. I was also amazed for when in my long life had anything I had ever done become of national concern? Finally I awoke from the dream that morning, December 29, 2010.

Morning Pages entry from 12-29-2010

Woke up from a dream in which I discovered a growth on my index finger. It looked like a long splinter the length of the finger but protruded a little bit beyond in a separate lobe as if the whole thing were growing alongside my finger. I used it as an illustration that, like this splinter, most folk in the room (were they UUs?) would like to excise the mythological elements from their minds. I wondered if it really was a splinter and thought I’d like to find out. The stuff that came out was liquid like pussy blood. The CDC said to contain the liquid and get it to a hospital for examination. The medics were to isolate me because their computers had matched it with something dreadful. Sterile concerns all along towards the end of the dream. Keep samples sterile, etc. keep the fluid isolated. Isolate me, too.

© Denver 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

House Cleaning by Ricky

          I really do not like or enjoy cleaning
my house.  Even as an irresponsible teen,
I would vacuum the carpet but not dust. 
I would promise to wash the dishes and then not do it, until I needed
clean dishes.  When my stepfather finally
fixed the built-in dishwasher, the dishes got done daily.  Go figure, because I still did not like to do
it.  I kept my bedroom neat enough and I
washed all my own clothes and often those of the twins, my brother and
sister.  However, I never liked to do
house work let alone house cleaning (does anyone?).
          Another type of “house” cleaning also
exists which, as a teen, I never conscientiously enjoyed either.  I did not even know I was doing it until much
later in life.  Now that I am physically
grown up and psychologically aging, albeit slowly, I realize that I am cleaning
my “house” rather less often than before. 
I am referring to having a “clean” mind but not entirely in the
religious sense.  It is important to take
out the trash, cobwebs, dust, and litter that accumulated over the years and
“open the windows” to fresh information that can improve my ability to arrive
at more accurate responses and behaviors to my environment or situations.
          The old cliché states, “You can’t
teach old dogs new tricks.”  Well, people
are not dogs and those who still have undamaged minds are quite capable of
learning, or more accurately, updating their understanding of any issue –
except math in my case.  I am constantly
acquiring new information and insights into any subject or item that attracts
my attention or curiosity.  Some would
say that means I am just easily distracted. 
I try to keep my mind sponge-like and fascinated with the wind of new
information passing between my ears, blowing out the waste.  With any luck, some of it even stays inside
my head, becoming the latest tapestry decorating the space where I actually
reside and entertain my guests.
© 1 April 2013 
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 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
Posted on

Sweetness Personified by Gillian

Sweetness
is not so very common. I have rarely, in fact I think never, heard anyone
describe themselves as sweet, it seems to be an attribute solely bestowed by
others; and then, as I say, not with great frequency.
My
mother was sweet. I thought so, as did most of the people who knew her. I doubt
my dad agreed, but that’s another story. Family baggage skews perceptions. And surely
there has never existed anyone so sweet that they were thought to be so by
absolutely everyone. There are always exceptions. Mom was a teacher and
generally considered sweet by kids and parents alike. She taught in one room of
the local two room school. I doubt, these days, anyone seen as sweet would
survive long in most classrooms. Back then, she just rang a tiny bell and children
scuttled to their desks, where they sat silently, arms folded, awaiting orders.
Of course there were the trouble makers, but I think they were perhaps somewhat
disarmed by my mother’s character. Tricks and scheming and deviltry tend to wither on
the vine when faced with sweetness.
My
dad was probably not seen as sweet by the men he worked with, nor the local
farmers he occasionally chatted to and very occasionally drank with in the
local pub.
He
most certainly was not seen that way by Mom, peering around that family
baggage. But to me he was kind, and thoughtful, and caring. To me he was sweet.
My
mother-in-law was sweet. I thought so. Her grandchildren and
great-grandchildren thought so. My husband, her son and only child, did not
think so. More family baggage.
I
doubt too many people see me as sweet, though I would claim to have my moments.
There
was just one who consistently called me sweet, both directly to me and in
describing me to others: my oldest stepson, Gary. Now for a teenage boy, and
later a grown man, to describe the traditionally evil stepmother that way must
mean one of two things. Either he is delusional, which in Gary’s case is abundantly
plausible as he was a confirmed alcoholic, or she is one terrific stepmom, and
I’m going with the latter.
Actually,
I can understand why I might have seemed sweet to him. He was, at the time he
entered my life, a confused and angry twelve-year-old with a drinking problem.
His mother, confirmed alcoholic herself, just encouraged his drinking. His
father simply went ballistic at Dale’s every delinquent act, which were legion. So that left me as
the sole parental influence who tried to talk calmly about his antics; to
understand, to see his view of the world. I failed, in the long run, to bring
about any major changes in Gary’s behavior. He died two years ago at the age of 55 when,
lounging naked in his hot tub with his wife after a day of heavy drinking, he
suffered a massive heart attack. I was, of course, heartbroken. But now time
has softened the hardest edges, I see perhaps it was not quite the tragedy it
seemed. To die instantly, naked in a hot tub with the one you love, drunk out
of your skull; that has to be one of the better ways to go.
Yes,
sweetness is very much in the eye of the beholder. Maybe Eva Braun even thought
Hitler was sweet. Who knows? I believe we all have a streak of sweetness in us.
To some it appears bright and wide and solid. To others, pale and weak. Some
people perhaps strengthen it, while with others it diminishes or disappears. None
of us can be sweetness personified to all of the people all of the time.
It’s a hard thing to gauge;
difficult to measure its results. If I act towards someone in a negative or
positive way, I can generally have a pretty good idea of what the results will
be; how I’ve
made that person feel or act. But I don’t even know if or when I’m being perceived as sweet, so it’s almost impossible to know the effects. Most emotions I can, if
I try hard enough, maintain at least some control over; determine not to get
angry, to be patient. But I have never actively decided to be sweet. I would
not know how. But I do recognize sweetness when I see it in others, and I know
one thing. I sure hope that somehow, in this new world in which plain old
politeness and civility seem to be dying fast, we do not bury sweetness along
with them. We would be much poorer for the loss.
© July 2014 
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 now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25
years.