Tag: Life Stories

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The Accident by Betsy

My first pregnancy which resulted in the birth of my oldest child Lynne was a so-called accident. The discovery of my unintended pregnancy was overwhelming, anxiety producing, and stressful–for about one day. Quickly when the reality of what was unfolding set in, the wonder, excitement, and joy of it firmly took hold in my psyche. 

My oldest daughter is anything but an accident to me. She is a joy and always has been to me and her father. Her conception may have been unintended, but SHE is my pride and joy as are her sister and brother. 
At the time this accident occurred, my husband and I were hardly in a position financially to start a family. However, we had the resources we needed to adjust to the situation. It would only be one or two years before we would intentionally have considered starting a family, and so we were able to welcome the accidental pregnancy. 
Unfortunately it is not so in most cases of unintended pregnancy. Here are some interesting facts on the subject.
Births resulting from unintended pregnancies are associated with adverse maternal and child health outcomes, such as delayed prenatal care, premature birth and negative physical and mental health effects for children. 
For these reasons reducing the unintended pregnancy rate is a national public health goal. The U.S Dept. of Health and Human Services “Healthy People 2020” campaign aims to reduce unintended pregnancy by 10% over the next 10 years. 
Guess how many pregnancies each year in the U.S. are unintended. Close to half–49%. Of the 6.7 million pregnancies 3.2 million are not intentional. Of the two million publicly funded births, about one million resulted from unintended pregnancies, accounting for one half the total public expenditures on births. Total public expenditures on births resulting from unintended pregnancies were estimated to be $11.1 billion in 2006.
The rate of unintended pregnancies in the U.S. is significantly higher than in many other developed countries.
In 2006 of women aged 15-44, those with incomes at or below the federal poverty level the rate of unintended pregnancies was five times higher than that of women of higher income levels. The unintended birth rate for those poor women was six times higher than that of the higher income group. 
The unintended pregnancy rate for sexually active teens is considerably higher than for women overall. 
Facts prove w/o a doubt that contraception works. Sixteen percent of women of child bearing age do not practice contraception. These 16% account for 52% of all unintended pregnancies in the U.S. Two thirds of the U.S. women who correctly practice contraception account for only 5% of unintended pregnancies.
Without publicly funded family planning services the number of unintended pregnancies and abortions occurring in the US would be nearly 2/3 higher among women overall. The number of unintended pregnancies among poor women would nearly double. 
The costs associated with unintended pregnancies would be even higher if not for continued federal and state investments in family planning services. In the absence of services provided by publicly funded planning centers, the annual public costs of non intentional births would increase 60% to $18 billion.
Oh why, then, are so many states shutting down their family planning centers? Why do the states doing away with family planning services think that abortion is the only service provided by these centers?

2

Why, oh why is it that political discussions focus on abortion only. I don’t think I have ever heard a politician discuss the pros and cons of contraception.

Let me repeat: without publicly funded family planning services the number of unintended pregnancies and abortions occurring in the US would be nearly two thirds higher among women overall. The number of unintended pregnancies among poor women will nearly double, and safe abortions will not be available to many. Shutting down publicly funded family planning clinics is hardly the answer. The overall cost of these actions to society as a whole is difficult to foresee as the consequences are many and far reaching.
Just last Friday Oklahoma based Hobby Lobby won a temporary injunction against the Obamacare requirement that employers provide contraceptive coverage for their employees. The conservative Christian owner’s site their religious beliefs as their reason for avoiding the required coverage.
Republican controlled legislatures in several states have recently shut down hundreds of family planning clinics or abortion clinics as they are usually characterized by the media.
In response to stringent abortion restrictions that the Texas GOP controlled legislature approved last week, the Democratic caucus of that state is asking the lawmakers to study the impact that sex education and family planning support has on reducing the abortion rate. Sex education and family planning support–as if that were a unique idea!
Sex education and family planning are so obviously lacking in our culture. In recent years Texas and many other states have defunded women’s health clinics and Planned Parenthood causing many clinics to shut down. If as they say they want to cut down on the number of abortions, then why, why shut down the means for women to acquire contraceptives and information. As a result of these actions the Texas health department has projected that unintended pregnancies and births will certainly increase, especially among those with the least resources.

3

Many unintended pregnancies turn out to be welcomed, as mine did. But in too many cases families,young teens, single women, people of meager means are unable to meet all the needs of a new life–material needs and emotional needs. Often the parent or parents themselves are terribly needy. In these cases the choice to continue or not continue the pregnancy should certainly be available. But in a society such as ours there is no good reason not to have an adequate support system in place for those families to turn to when help is needed.

  
Source
1.   Guttmacher Institute, Fact Sheet, December, 2013


© 13 July 2013

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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Camping by Ricky

In the summer of 1986, I was in the Air Force and stationed at Little Rock AFB in Jacksonville, Arkansas. While there my wife, Deborah and I got the irresistible urge to buy a tent trailer in which to go camping with our three children. We looked at several models and finally decided to purchase the top-of-the-line Coleman tent camper. We were mesmerized by the quality and creature comforts built into the unit.

It had a queen size bed at one end and a double bed at the other. The table could be converted into a space for one or two small children. The refrigerator could be run on propane, electricity, or the battery. There was an outside compartment for the Coleman stove as well as a stove on the inside. An electric air conditioner was mounted in the roof along with a fresh air vent. The hot water heater ran on either gas or electricity. Besides plenty of storage space, there was a room for a standup shower and another room for the indoor port-a-potty. Completely prepared for travel, the unit was slightly longer than our Chevy Astro van.

We promised each other that due to the cost, we would go camping at least twice a month. That promise was easy to make but hard to maintain in the short to long term. My duty schedule enabled me to have weekends off but not consistently. So, gradually our commitment to camping waned.

Deborah and I loved to visit and camp in state and federal parks. Our thought was that the camper was a good deal because many parks do not have motels or hotels within their boundaries so the camper would be our portable home at a park.

In February 1987, Deborah became pregnant with our last child and that spring, I received orders transferring me to Ellsworth AFB, near Rapid City, SD. We were all excited to go but me most of all, as I had finally “had it” up the “ying-yang” with a completely incompetent commander and really “could not wait” to get away from there.

We left Jacksonville in late May or early June enroute to Ellsworth. Deborah was feeling pretty pregnant and enduring morning sickness, fatigue, and gestational diabetes. Greatly adding to her discomfort was the oppressive muggy heat. We only made about 150-miles that day and spent the night in our camper in northern Arkansas in a “mom & pop” tiny campground where other RV‘s were parked within 3-feet on either side.

The next day we only went about 50-miles because Deborah was so stressed and uncomfortable. We camped in a Missouri state part a few miles off the main highway. Our spot was under a canopy formed by overarching trees which kept out the direct sunlight and provided much shade to keep the temperature way down. There was even a children’s play area close by.

The next morning, Deborah was feeling better and we and the kids all took a walk along one of the park nature trails. This one was about ¾-mile long and remained in the forest mostly under the trees where it was shady and cool. Along the trail we discovered wild strawberries and raspberries. We stopped and ate a few each then finished our walk. The trail began and ended very near our campsite. By this time Deborah was a little “tuckered out” and wanted to rest quietly (i.e. without the kids making noise), so she made an offer we did not want to refuse. Deborah suggested that while she rested, that all of us go back along the trail with some small buckets and pick as many strawberries and raspberries as we could. She said that when we got back, she would then make us some pancakes with the berries included. She didn’t need to say it twice. In a couple of minutes we were off and she was asleep.

We stayed at that campground another day and Deborah recuperated quite well and the kids had fun playing in a new environment with other kids whom also were camping overnight. The next day, we continued our journey to South Dakota without any further significant problems except for the “Are we there yet?” and “How much longer?” routine as the endless miles of the Great Plains rolled by.

© 17 March 2014

About the Author

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Feeling Different by Phillip Hoyle


As a young adult in seminary discussions I realized that sometimes students and professors alike didn’t know what I was going on about. A professor would listen to my ideas and respond, “Very interesting, Mr. Hoyle.” I took it he had no clear understanding of my perspective. That was okay, something I had encountered most of my life. I was talking about one of these seminary “interesting” instances with my mentor Katherine Williams. “They must think I’m strange,” I concluded.

“You are strange, Phillip,” she replied without hesitation.
Strange was not new to me. Although I didn’t feel particularly unaccepted or unacceptable as a teenager, I was aware that my sexual yearnings were unusual enough that they could get me into a lot of trouble or at least make my life a problem to other folk. Besides that, I was mildly nerdy but found my niche in music. If any musician fits in, I fit in easily enough singing in church, school and community. I was a reluctant leader in a couple of school organizations. I felt different; I was different: for instance, I didn’t know any other kids my age who organized music groups; I didn’t know very many guys who studied as attentively as I did although I admit I didn’t over-do it; I was physically rather uncoordinated, but not so much as to be made into a fool; I had good humor; I was independent and happy to be so. My feeling different didn’t make me feel particularly bad since I was easily entertained, easy going, and tolerant of groups and different kinds of people. By that time in my life I was reconciled to the fact that I was quite different and that the difference was acceptable to me if not to anyone else.

In college, I felt attracted to three guys: Todd, Dirk, and Chad. Todd and Chad seemed straight. I assumed Dirk was but now wonder if he was bisexual. He seemed somehow attracted to me as if he knew I was do-able. We never went beyond touching disguised as wrestling. Straight Chad was rather needy, and I fell for him. He was the first person I ever lost sleep over. But I was on an earnest straight road toward marriage. After seven years of marriage, I had a one-night stand with a gay friend. Our friendship continued. After nine years of marriage, I fell in love with a man and forged a friendship that after five years added a sexual element. The sex was sporadic, yet the love and interest remained constant.

While living in Albuquerque, a mid-life crisis led me into two homosexual affairs. I conducted these contacts with less care than before as I explored an increasingly gay world. The feelings had changed; my feelings.

Around that time a gay friend said to me, “No one can grow up gay in America without developing some neurosis.” His assertion would mean all gays need psychiatric help. I objected to the notion but then recalled hearing a lecture by a psychiatrist who reckoned ninety per cent of his patients didn’t really need his help. He judged they needed trusted friends to talk with. He laughed at himself saying he was a highly paid substitute friend. The neurosis, if that is the accurate term, subsides when one is accepted in love.

My Albuquerque affairs seemed that to me: the friendships that could sustain me and my sanity. They also were sexual. The first one would never be more than sex play, play I found exciting and that helped me understand so much about my own needs. It afforded the sexual contrast, the complement I desired. The second affair had an emotionally complicated excitement the first did not proffer yet it was sexually boring: the techniques my partner initiated were always the same. I realized sex in my marriage had measures of all these experiences, but the feelings of the homosex offered an amazing contrast. I discovered needs and joys that thrilled me when with these two men. (No, there was never a three-way. Oh well.)


Much of my life I have felt different. I continue to feel different. I’m sure it’s not just because I am gay or that I was always homosexual. It’s the whole package of my life, my different and strange life. I love it. I love myself. I love life.


© Denver, 2011

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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Hmmm, Strange by Betsy

I have an in-law, a cousin, who, himself is not so strange, rather his world of knowledge and know-how seems strange to one who does not study physics. Bill, and his wife Marion, my cousin, are a couple of those spoon benders you may have heard about. Because of his knowledge and belief in the world of quantum physics, and, shall we say some sort of a heightened awareness, Bill and his associates are able to bend heavy spoons with their bare hands, no tools. They twist the handles into cork screw shape using nothing but 10 frail digits and the power of their minds.

Now, you may be saying, “Well, it’s some sort of trick, perhaps a visual trick.”

Trust me, it’s not a trick. Gill and I witnesses the feat with our own eyes.

My cousin gave us the spoon as a souvenir, or as a reminder of the power of the mind. The twisted spoon was carefully laid away amongst our most prized possessions, but somehow is not making its presence known when we most would like to put our hands on it. Perhaps we hid it too well or the magic continues and it has vaporized into a billion particles, but the tortured tool is not to be found in the house. Hmmm, strange.

Bill did the spoon bending as a demonstration of a concept of quantum physics. The fact that it works, perhaps is the result of synchronicity. The phenomenon is based on the theory of quantum mechanics which explains the synchronization of the vibrations of the particles that make up energy with matter. Now apparently, if you can synchronize these things, you too can be a spoon-bender. Hmmm, strange.

String theory is another subject on the agenda of these scientists. String theory has to do with particle theory. I do not speak the language of physics and do not have the concepts and therefore can neither understand nor attempt to communicate what any of it is about. Only that it has to do with the make-up of subatomic particles–the make-up of all matter. The recent discovery of the so-called God Particle has brought much of this to light recently. Even the popular explanations are mind-boggling, I find.

Subatomic particles leave me cold. I cannot see them bouncing around when I look at something and, therefore, am not terribly interested in them.

The theories of quantum physics are to an unsophisticated mind such as mine are, well, strange. Take for example the concept that time is not moving. According to some physicists the idea that the past is gone, the present is here now, and the future is yet to come is but an illusion to us earthly creatures. All of time, all that ever was and all that ever will be is actually present now.

We’ve all heard the advise given that we should live in the NOW, not worry about the future or live with regret for the past. The idea that the Now consists of the past and the future as well as the present moment in time, that the flow of time is an illusion, I find, presents problems when trying to apply this simple advise, live in the now.

All I can do is continue to try to live in my illusionary world and try to focus on what appears to me to be the NOW, hopefully learn from the past, and look forward to the future, but mind you, stay focused on the NOW– and right at this particular NOW I can’t stop scratching my head when I think of my cousin and all those twisted spoons. Hmmm, strange.

© July, 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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Great Performances by Ricky

Part 1 – Ballet

I am not a connoisseur of ballet. My experiences with ballet being limited to a television performance of The Nutcracker, a portion of Swan Lake, and a glimpse of what it takes to become a ballet dancer in the movie Billy Elliot. You can understand then when I say I basically have no vast collection of ballet memories upon which to evaluate any ballet, let alone enough knowledge to judge one performance as being “great” compared to all the others. Having explained my lack of background, I will do it anyway.

This past week, I did watch a ballet that I had recorded on my DVR off the Rocky Mountain PBS channel, a ballet performed by the Milwaukie Ballet that is titled Peter Pan. Many of you already know that Peter Pan is my favorite childhood story and should not be surprised that I would want to watch it. I desired to watch this ballet not because I love ballet, but because I didn’t think that with such a varied and complicated story background, anyone could adequately stage and perform a ballet to do justice to the story. I wanted to see how the choreographer and composer along with all the other persons involved in the production could actually create a decent performance of a great story.

Put together a great performance they did. I can’t comment on the quality of the dancing or compare the dancers to other ballet performers, but I can say that I loved their skill and the talent displayed in this performance. The choreography, music, costumes, and set design were appropriate. The technical application of flying was skillfully done and Peter’s dance with his “shadow” was creative, unexpected, and very well done. Another technical achievement was Tinker Bell’s costume of multi-colored lights and the occasional transitions from live dancer to traveling balls of light sometimes on the walls and sometimes in Peter’s hand.

Another unexpected treat was the interesting way the audience was involved in the “Do You Believe in Fairies?” scene. Ballets being void of speaking (at least in my experience), the scene had to be silent and yet the audience was able to participate by waving small fiber-optic flashlights at the appropriate time.

All-in-all, I believe this was a great performance.

Part 2 – Summer Sausage

From about 1989 until 1997, I worked for the South Dakota Division of Emergency Management, the state equivalent of the Federal Emergency Management Agency known by its acronym, FEMA. My position was titled the State Hazard Mitigation Officer. South Dakota had several federally declared natural disasters during the time I was serving there. The disasters were mostly flood, drought, and tornado related. By the time I departed, I managed about $50M in disaster mitigation project funds.

After local government jurisdictions submitted their project applications and the “state” selected which ones to recommend to FEMA for approval, FEMA would send a team of two young grant professionals to visit each proposed site and further evaluate the proposed project in relation to the site to verify that it was not only feasible but also would actually mitigate the problem caused by the disaster.

On one such visit by the FEMA team, I was part of a “great performance.” I will call the two team members Bill and Ted because I am reporting their “excellent adventure.” We all traveled in their FEMA rented car to visit project locations throughout the state. Our first stop was in Yankton. We stopped at the motel in which we would spend the night and began to check-in. I went first, followed by Bill and then Ted. We were all chatting with the clerk and Ted most of all. When the clerk slid Ted’s credit card back to Ted, I was standing by Ted’s side and reached in and slid the card off the counter and gave it to Bill who was standing behind me. (Anyone who knows me well enough will not be surprised by my action.)

Ted never noticed and put his wallet away. While still standing at the desk, I suggested that we go to dinner next, and Bill, while putting Ted’s credit card in his wallet, said, “I’ll even buy dinner.” I choked back a laugh and the clerk started to smile and laugh quietly also. Bill did buy Ted’s dinner, but on Bill’s own card. I bought my own. The next morning we all left for our next destination with Ted still not knowing that Bill had his credit card.

Once again we arrived at a motel and Ted, Bill, and I went in and registered. Ted was first to register and for some reason he could not find his credit card. Bill and I suggested that perhaps he left it at the previous night’s motel and that he should call the motel and check. Ted used his cell phone to do just that but to no avail. I finally suggested that maybe he just overlooked it in his wallet. Ted had checked his wallet several times before I suggested it, but it still wasn’t there when he checked again.

Bill and I were just dripping with empathy, sincerity, and concern for Ted. It was a great performance up to that point. I suggested to Ted that perhaps the card had somehow fallen out of his wallet and was somewhere around the driver’s seat in the car. Ted, being desperate at this point, went out to check and left his wallet on the desk as he did so. Bill immediately put Ted’s credit card back in the wallet, at which point the desk clerk cracked up laughing. We even had time to explain how we had gotten it away from Ted the night before.

Ted returned from the car totally crestfallen and defeated. Bill suggested that he check his wallet one more time very carefully. Ted resisted but then looked and found his credit card almost immediately. Of course the clerk, Bill, and I were appropriately happy for him, again dripping with sincerity. Ted never did catch on. I was the last to register so the other two had gone ahead to move the car and to locate their rooms. The clerk gave me 10 extra coupons for a free small French fry at a hamburger chain because we had given her such wonderful entertainment. Yes, this was a great performance, but nothing like the one the next day.

We were on the way to a very small town in NE South Dakota when I decided that another great performance was needed. So, I told Bill and Ted that we were going to a small town in a part of South Dakota where people were not fond of federal officials and that a couple of them had “disappeared” in the past two years while in that region and suggested that they be very polite and agreeable. I told them that we were going to meet with the mayor of the town to visit and discuss the project. I also told them that we would meet the mayor at his butcher shop.

Upon arrival, the mayor was in the “workroom” in back of the shop so we waited in the lobby-display or sales area. Ted noticed a display of Summer Sausages and we all began to discuss how much we like summer sausage. I made a small comment that maybe the missing federal officials had been turned into summer sausage. Bill and Ted suddenly got very quiet and thoughtful.

The mayor finished his business in the workroom and we all went outside and walked around the town for a while viewing the proposed projects various locations. The mayor explained his vision on how the project would mitigate some flooding in his town. The tour ended up in front of his butcher shop where it began. About that time, a butcher’s assistant came out the front door and told the mayor that they were ready for him. The mayor asked us to wait as he had to go butcher a hog and he went inside. After a minute, Bill said he had never seen a hog butchered and wanted to watch. Putting words to action, he began to walk along the side of the building towards the rear of it. I called to him and said, “Stop. Haven’t you ever seen the movies where someone is told to wait but doesn’t and sees something he shouldn’t have seen and gets killed over it?” Bill stopped dead in his tracks and looked back at me. Before he could say anything in rebuttal, there was a gunshot from behind the building and Bill came back to where I was faster than when he left.

We then went in the shop’s front door and waited for the mayor to return, which he did momentarily. We all made a bit of small talk and prepared to leave for our next destination. The mayor said wait a minute I have something for you and went back into the workroom. I said, “Oh oh” and obviously but slowly moved away from Bill and Ted in the general direction of the front door. I could tell by their faces that they were not calm but not sure what to do. The mayor came back about then and handed each of us a tube of Summer Sausage. We thanked him and left.

Once in the car, I made a comment that since this appeared to be fresh sausage, we didn’t need to worry about eating those missing federal officials. I never did tell Bill and Ted that I made up the whole background story. It was a great performance even if I do say so myself.

© 20 April 2014

About the Author

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com
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Drinking by Phillip Hoyle

Socially speaking—like at most Friday night happy hours—

  • the first beer numbs my lips,
  • the second beer elevates my vocal volume and brings on laughter, 
  • the third beer helps me become very friendly.

Which leaves me wondering about my friend Little T who years ago was so freaked out when, in such a friendly moment, I slid my bar stool in behind his and affectionately put my hand on his shoulder. Within minutes he left the bar all upset. I followed him out to see if he was okay. He claimed to be okay but wouldn’t afterwards answer or return my phone calls. A mutual friend intervened and paved the way for Little T and me to begin talking again. She encouraged him not to turn down a friendship with me and warned me not to call him for a couple of weeks. When Little T and I later talked about the event he said he assumed I was sex addicted like so many other gay men he knew, whereas he was a love and romance guy. I had thought at the time I was playing a love and romance move so to speak. But in the ensuing months of our relationship by getting to know him much better I found out much more.

Little T was addicted to drugs, an assortment of marijuana, mushrooms, and probably more. He had long before given up using LSD, but a couple of years after that reconciliation between us he started using crystal meth with his boyfriend. By then Little T and I had developed a wonderful, supportive friendship sharing our loves of music, literature, and wide-ranging conversation.

Then he disappeared. Finally, several years later he told a friend to give me his phone number. I waited a number of weeks—or was it months?—and finally contacted him to discover he was living out of state. Eventually he moved back to Denver. Of course, I remained understanding in the light of his challenges. I loved the man, still do, appreciate our friendship, and look forward to it continuing many years. I accept his addictive personality. I applaud his quitting the drugs. I want the best for him.

Still when we are together I can get confused. Sometimes Little T encourages me to drink more, even a third beer. I wonder silently, “Don’t you recall the night I so freaked you out? Surely you don’t mean for that to happen again.” I tell myself either he has a bad memory or I am just not going to “go there.” I guess I just don’t know. I do recall another friend, Big T, saying to me, “Oh Phillip, you just aren’t paying attention.” Now I pay attention but cannot for the life of me figure out what behaviors are meaningful enough to respond to. This drinking stuff always seems to leave me uncertain. Perhaps I should just stick to the Coca Cola I was weaned on although they don’t even make that kind anymore. © Denver, 2013

About the Author

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot

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Where Was I in the Sixties by Pat Gourley

May 2014. Pat Gourley

In hindsight the sixties were clearly the decade of my most dramatic and far reaching spiritual, political and social changes. I went from being the “best little boy in the world” in 1960, a devout virginal Catholic altar boy living on a bucolic rural Indiana farm to a card carrying member of the Democratic Socialist Party, a connoisseur of good LSD, a practicing homosexual (yes, I was still “practicing” at getting it right in 1969) and a budding Dead Head intent on avoiding a trip to Vietnam.

In retrospect I guess I was lucky my head didn’t explode. My hair went from a buzz cut with just a swipe of Brylcream to a shoulder length mass of reddish brown curls. My world in 1960 had great order, comfort and certainty that was only beginning to have cracks in it due no doubt to my budding sexuality, which seemed to be very much out of step with other boys my age. There was a God in heaven and all would be taken care of in the end. Well that worldview had certainly had gone out the window by 1969.

From 1960 to 1965 the event that sticks out most was that fall November day in 1963 and the Kennedy assassination. I clearly recall the day and the event. We were let out early from class that day. I was attending a Catholic High School in Michigan City, a nearly thirty mile one-way daily ride back and forth that my parents, at great economic sacrifice, felt was necessary I suppose to keep me out of the clutches of the Protestant heathens in the local public schools. The day of Kennedy’ s assassination resulted in having to spend a few lonely and frightening hours in the Michigan City Public Library before I could catch the bus home. It was not a school bus but a greyhound bus-type of Transit Company that went within a mile of my home. I would be left off where our country road met the highway and one of my parents, usually mom, would pick me up.

The Kennedy assassination was a particularly hard blow to my parents. I mean on some level I think they thought his death was a conspiracy since an Irish Catholic in the White House really was an insult to many who had a different version of social order and that could not be tolerated. We did have a T.V. and were of course glued to it for days, so much for the Pope coming over to take on the reins of the U.S. government.

The most significant event of the decade for me personally though was in March of 1965 when my family sold our small Indiana farm and moved to another farm northwest of Chicago just outside of a small town called Woodstock. It was this move that facilitated many of the most impacting events in my life. Many of which I have written about or at least alluded to for this Story Telling Group.

It was this transplantation that would result in my first sex with another man one Good Friday afternoon in 1967 in the biology lab of the Catholic High School I was attending, the beginning of an affair that would last into the early 1970’s. It was also while attending this high school that I encountered the truly radical Holy Cross nun who would forever change my political and worldview and to whom I am eternally indebted. A decade later I met Harry Hay who was always admonishing me to look carefully at my most dearly held “unexamined assumptions”, but it was this little nun who really got me doing that in very life changing ways starting in 1966. She was my muse for sure encouraging me to “not trust leaders or put my money into parking meters” to badly quote Bob Dylan.

The move to Illinois also meant that I would attend the University of Illinois in Champaign-Urbana and though this college was no Berkeley it was still much more progressive than many of the public Universities in Indiana. There I fell in with the Democratic Socialist Party leader Michael Harrington, the renowned author of Poverty in America, and became the dyed-in-the-wool socialist I remain today, only now with more of a small “s”.

It was in 1968 that I moved out of the dorm, discovered LSD and met a bunch of hippies with whom I lived collectively in a variety of settings for years to come including a relocation to Denver. They were the dastardly influence of course that introduced me to the music of the Grateful Dead.

And in addition to launching my sexual life as the big homo that I am the sixties probably much more importantly provided me with a strong foundation for becoming the out proud queer man dedicated to furthering the Homosexual Agenda that I became. I owe this strong foundation in no small part to my loving parents, a great civics teacher, and a philandering old socialist and not least of all my first lover a man 20 plus years my senior. The ensuing decades have really just been a building and expansion process on the values and beliefs seared into my soul from 1960-1970. Hopefully they will carry me to a peaceful and content death satisfied that in some small way I have impacted this very transient world of ours for the better.

© May, 2014

About the Author

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

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The Recital by Betsy

It was 1944. In Europe bombs were falling; in London, but mostly in Berlin. The Allies were preparing to invade Normandy. I didn’t know any of this at the time. My parents didn’t think it would be good for a 7 year old to know about the horrors of war–not the details anyway. Everyone knew there was a war going on across the ocean. I knew about rationing, I even had my own book of savings stamps, there was never enough gas to go anywhere, but otherwise the war didn’t really effect my life. Life for me in 1944 was pretty normal.

I had recently started piano lessons. My grandmother, an accomplished musician, had hoped that the talent she had perhaps had skipped a generation and maybe all the music genes had descended into my being.

Life was normal until I got into my piano lessons. My teacher had escaped the war in Europe and, I suspect, had escaped the Holocaust. Of course, at the time we didn’t know there was a holocaust going on, and if we had known, adults certainly weren’t going to talk about it in the presence of children. The war in Europe had effected my teacher’s life all right. I suspect she still had loved ones suffering in concentration camps, or maybe they were already dead. Maybe for her making a living in a strange country in hard times was barely endurable. But I sensed my teacher’s insecurity and volatility. I did not want to make her life more difficult by being unable to perform.

“You must count!” screamed my teacher. “One and two and three and one and two and three and. I turn on the metronome, yes?”

“Tick, tock, tick, tock,” chanted the metronome. “We are running out of time. Recital coming, recital coming,” chanted teacher.

“Maybe my mother will tell me it’s okay just to play the right notes. Don’t worry about the counting at the same time,” I thought.

Am I ready for a recital? Mommy will know.

My mother assured me I was ready for the recital. After all. My velvet dress was back from the cleaners and we would soon go to the city to buy some Mary Janes and socks with lace cuffs. My hair was the perfect length for braiding. Everything was in perfect order for the recital, my mother assured me.

Everything but the music. I was to play three pieces: Marilyn Dances, A Soldier’s March, and In an English Country Garden. I actually had no idea whether or not I would be able to get through those pieces. I have to wonder if my teacher had any idea if I could get through them.

My mother was confident that everything would be perfect. After all, she was in charge of seeing that I was properly clothed and she herself would be doing the braids.

This particular occasion called for braids with rolls. The first step is to divide the hair in 1/6th’s perfectly symmetrical and each 6th–that is, each hank–being perfectly equal in volume. Mother would then roll the front hanks to form rolls of hair directly above the ears. The remainder of the hank is then braided into the other two hanks. “One and two and three and,” as she deftly wove the hair together into two smooth, perfect braids. I could only hope that in a few hours my hands would move as smoothly and deftly over the piano keys as hers moved as she worked my hair.

The day arrived. I was ready–braids with rolls in place, velvet dress with lace collar, shiny patent leather Mary Janes, socks with lace cuffs. I couldn’t have been more ready–except for being scared stiff. Would Marilyn dance, would the soldier march, would the garden flourish? Or would they all just die there on the stage in front of all those people.

Interesting that I remember such detail about my outward appearance. What I don’t remember is how I performed the music and how I felt after the recital. I guess to my mother–and therefore to me–that was an incidental of minor importance. And perhaps that explains why this was my first–and last recital.
© 8 Oct. 2011

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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Self Labeling by Ricky

Interestingly enough this topic is so two sided in the sense of positive and negative labeling (three or four sided if you consider the options of secret labels or deceptive labels). Perhaps a better way to describe labeling would be: uplifting, destructive, or even empowering. I leave it to each of you individuals to discover or categorize labels into whatever groups you desire.

When I was serving as an officer in the military in the position of a Flight Security Officer in charge of 40 enlisted nuclear missile security guards, at one point I was assigned to lead a flight of personnel who were not pulling together to get the job done smoothly without interpersonal problems. I was not the typical air force officer so, I did not impose “severe punishment” for trouble makers right off the bat when I took over. Instead, I did the following to defuse the problems by emphasizing the similarities between everyone.

At my first “guard mount” I had the men repeatedly organize themselves into different groups as I called out the categories (i.e., one group over here, another stand over there, etc.). The categories (labels) were: Republicans here, Democrats there, others by me; blacks to the right, whites to the left, American Indians across from me, others next to me; Catholics to the left, Protestants to the right, Jewish across from me, others next to me (and so fourth through…); enlisted vs officers; NCO’s vs non-NCO enlisted; rural vs urban origins; Western vs Central vs Northern vs Confederate states; high school vs junior college vs college graduates; 4 year vs 6 year enlistees vs lifers; 18-20 vs 21-25 vs 26-30 vs 31+; married w/no children vs married w/children vs single vs widowed/divorced; action films vs chick flicks; and so on for about 15 minutes. At the end I reminded them that regardless of rank or position or psychological temperament, we all belong to different groups with different people we work with at one time or another; we all have something in common with others that perhaps we didn’t get along with prior to today. So, lighten up and see if you can’t become friends rather than enemies because we are all “stuck” together in the Air Force on this flight.

I am happy to report that as far as I could tell, all the interpersonal problems became non-issues and the flight became the best performing flight in the missile security squadron. Naturally, it was not all my doing, I happened to have an extremely well qualified Flight Security Sergeant as my second in command and most of the credit goes to him.

So moving on to a more personal level, I was quite naïve about many things dealing with sexuality growing up. I engaged in what has been labeled as “age appropriate” sex play/experimentation with both boys and girls as I hit puberty but the only label applied was “this is fun, but don’t let mom, dad, older brother, or anyone else know what we do.” There was one member of my Boy Scout troop who was my main sex play partner but we never did anything while on scout campouts or events. After he moved and I was in high school, my naivety continued to confuse me and I began to wonder why I was not attracted to any girls. Mentally, I was fantasizing about sex with boys (and rarely girls) but noticed that I was not attracted to any particular girls but I was to a few school mates. I just never thought of or realized the implication.

It wasn’t until I was in the Air Force as an officer that the possibility of being gay crept into my mind on a few occasions, but since I was married with kids, I put that thought out and eventually accepted that I might be bi-sexual. Ultimately, after my wife died and through the years of depression and self-evaluation I realized that I am (or at least have a large percentage of gay orientation). With the acceptance of this dual labeling, the stress in my life (and the confusion that went with it) disappeared and I feel much more relaxed and comfortable in my skin and around other men regardless of their orientation. In other words, I now know who/what I am.

So, some labeling can be damaging if it is “true” but denied and acceptance can be liberating but under many circumstances can still be damaging if one is not living in an environment where “truth” is tolerated. I’m pretty sure many of you have had experiences that demonstrate the accuracy of my last statement. Even if you have not, you must know of others who have had those negative experiences of revealing the “truth” to those who don’t tolerate or can’t accept it.

© 11 September 2011

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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The Sprint by Phillip Hoyle

Morning Pages excerpt, September 19

… I’m writing my Morning Pages, the daily exercise I’ve employed the past fourteen years. I am at the beginning of Page 3. So here I hope to sprint. Get into racing position. Put pen to paper. Ready, set, go. The gun sounds. I bound down the college ruled lanes filling each line with words, phrases, sentences. Eventually they form a paragraph, but that doesn’t seem so important while I sprint.

It’s speed I pursue, a record for swift writing. I want to write faster than I can process what I’m doing, to get caught up in the action of it, to open my mind, to disconnect through the physical movement, to discover my writer’s second wind as it were, but how can I sprint writing such complicated sentences? So I write. I don’t care about anything but the speed. Write, write, write. This is no texting with buttons to push, no Twitter, no Facebook, no images except written, but I write, ink runs along the track, a wild spewing of images, ideas, even ideals, like the ideal of being the best, somehow perfect in this sprint, a record-setter. Oh well. I have finished this short jaunt. My page is full. The tape has broken. I pant. I am an artist in a hurry. I am doing the work. I write; I paint; I massage. Life is good. My life is good. Yes.
September 20
…I’m having a slow morning with watering the lawn out front, playing cards, stretching, making data entries, eating fresh-baked cookies, drinking coffee, talking with Ruth, and now at this late morning hour (it’s 11:30), writing my Morning Pages. Perhaps I’ll try sprint writing like I described yesterday.
I work in spurts. Always has as far back as I recall. My lack of physical coordination may have contributed to this style or need. Even more influential are the speed of my thinking and feeling and my fast-changing interests, call this last my tendency towards multi-tasking. Or ADD. Whatever.
I’ve been sitting here attending to this writing.
I hope to be bitten by the inspiration bug so I can successfully write about my most Unusual Day, this week’s challenge in my storytelling group. I still haven’t settled on a topic—a particular day—although I have listed several possibilities. I want to write on something I’ve never before tried to describe. The realization that I have fallen in love is my topic now. I’ve worked on it before, but I don’t think I’ve looked at each instance. Somewhere I wrote a list of such experiences. But I don’t want a list; I need to make a decision for a particular experience. 
I’m thinking about Michael O., the two of us looking at each other. I found the realization of his interest quite moving. When I saw him again I thought, “Oh that guy.” I was pleased. Invited him to stay for tea. Pleased when he called to talk. Then to meet for coffee. I recalled my first impression of how clean he was. I heard his nasal voice and thought of Steve, my longtime lover. I wasn’t especially attracted to Michael’s voice, but I liked his offbeat humor. I liked his kind manner. I was confused when another guy answered Michael’s phone. Later I asked. Michael told me it was Chuck. I didn’t understand. He told me they had been partners but that he was in the process of moving out. He had already been searching for a place to live. We had dinner with his friend Frank. Leaving the restaurant I met Chuck although I didn’t put it all together until later.
Michael brought me gifts: lotions and lubes for sex. I was really pleased. I liked the open signal that approved of and encouraged our love making.
My most defended self speaking.
I accompanied him to an eye appointment. I didn’t understand why none of his friends arranged to go with him. 
“I always go alone,” he said. 
“Not when you’re having your eyes dilated,” I protested. I drove the car home. I didn’t like the inattention of his ex-partner and current friends.
February brought bad news. I had information; I observed swelling lymph nodes. I asked him to be sure to have his nurse palpate them. They started tests. He was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. He would have to start chemotherapy.
Chemo started. I agreed to stay at his house on the nights following his treatment but preserved several days to stay at my own apartment. I didn’t want to signal to his friends that he didn’t need them. But I felt manipulated by the fact no one volunteered to stay with him. I realized Michael was unable to ask. Still I defended some of my independence and looked forward to being alone, to have coffee and walks with Tony, and so forth. 
I had worked downtown giving massages that day. It was one of my free nights. I walked home up Capitol Hill. As I turned south on Downing, I realized I wanted to be with Michael. When I got to my place I called. “What are you doing?”
“Not much.”
“Would you like if I came to spend the night?” I asked.
“Yes, I’d love that.”
So I got on a bus and made my way out to his street. I realized on that unusual day I’d rather be with Michael than preserve my precious independence.
But I realize that while I have been writing without stop, it was not a sprint. I actually took time to feel into what I was recalling. Fortunately I liked the topic. I’ll sprint tomorrow or some other time I need entertainment.
I am an artist. 
Life is good; my life is good. Yes.

© Denver, 2010

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