Tag: Life Stories

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The Essence of GLBTQ by Michael King

I was four or maybe five when I asked my grandmother why Aunt Ethel’s son wasn’t at any family gatherings. I knew she had a son but I had never met him and no one ever mentioned him so it all seemed strange to me. My grandmother held her head high and announced, “He is not welcome. He likes boys,”

I didn’t understand but I knew without a doubt that I could never like boys, whatever that meant. Around the same time since I was always sick the doctor suggested that my family find some activity for me to do when I was bedfast. My grandmother taught me to crochet. I liked to dress up, dance and in general I would now consider myself to have been the “sissy” that I was often teased as. I now think that my parents accepted that I was queer. They seemed to be very surprised when I got married.

I have always been naive. I wasn’t influenced by religious fundamentalism, sin, hellfire and damnation. I was instead very concerned with rejection, hatefulness, and not being accepted. I was very curious about male genitalia. I didn’t get to do any athletics because of asthma so I didn’t get to see other guys to satisfy my curiosities. I just knew that it wasn’t OK to like boys.

I did have numerous advances made by older men and a few curiosity jack offs with guys my own age. I chalked it up to satisfying my interests not to liking boys. In the case of older men it would now be classified as having been molested. If ever it had been a satisfying experience perhaps I would have lived a different life. Those experiences were without my consent and uncomfortable, not pleasurable.

Even in college the few times I was having sex with guys I didn’t know how or what to do and neither did they. I did want to get married, raise a family and be like a man was supposed to be. I was also curious about having sex with a woman but had accepted that you waited to get married and then you were supposed to celebrate your 50th wedding anniversary surrounded by children, grandchildren and a large and perfect family.

I was introduced to my first wife by an older friend that I met in a summer class. He thought that we would be a perfect match. We met in August and married in December and my first daughter was born in October. I was 20 years old. We did enjoy sex and were living a pretty good and acceptable life for 13 years. My children were very important to me and she neglected them. I couldn’t deal with that so I divorced her and got custody of the children

I didn’t do much about my curiosities. I didn’t even realize how much fear of being unacceptable controlled my life. I seemed to know the rules and had to appear to follow them. I had the fear that if I explored and got caught that the world would fall apart or worse. I still couldn’t like boys. If there was any sex it could not be accompanied with intimacy or affection. I fell in love with a straight guy who was my best friend. He knew it and wanted the friendship but sex was out of the question. That was the closest I came to thinking that I could like another man and have intimacy and love. It took another 38 years for me to meet someone that I could love. I did have several girlfriends after the divorce and enjoyed the sex but couldn’t let myself fall in love. Then I met my second wife. I guess you could say she seduced me. Of course I let her. That was my MO. She came to my place and never left.

I had my three children and I decided that if we were going to live together we needed to be married. We got married. I was more and more aware that men appealed to me but since I couldn’t be intimate with a man I settled into a pretty good 12 year marriage.

I somehow couldn’t come to grips with being gay if I didn’t have a boyfriend. I also didn’t think I could be gay and keep my job. Women seemed to present themselves and I had girl friends but I didn’t have sex with most of them. I just wasn’t interested but I did like the attention and it helped me to live as the acceptable straight image that I thought I had to have. Finally I attended the Gay Pride activities 4 years ago, got involved in Prime Timers and then the GLBT Center and 6 months later had my first boyfriend. It lasted 2 months but I came out, introduced him to my kids and have been a flaming queen ever since.

So what is the essence of GLBTQ? It’s being who you are even if it takes a lifetime. I am happier now than I have ever been. I have the most wonderful partner and my kids all love him too. Could I have found the essence of being gay earlier? Probably not. Through the “Telling your Story” group I have gotten in touch with all those rules and requirements that made being queer impossible. “He likes boys” is the best part of my life. The journey was a wonderful way to grow and mature spiritually as well as emotionally. That maturation process is the essence of being, finding out who you are and being who you are.

July 13, 2013

About the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities,” Telling your Story”,” Men’s Coffee” and the “Open Art Studio”. I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.

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Birth Experiences by Lewis

Since the title of the topic for today is “Birth Experiences”, that is, plural, I must assume that, as I have not been “born again” nor have I any memory of my own birth–the very thought sends cold waves of terror up-and-down my spine–I am confined to writing about those births which I have personally witnessed, of which there are but two.

The more memorable of those I have described here back on August 26th. For the benefit of those who may have been absent that day, I will reprise it, edited for brevity, now:

This is where the magic began. Not only did the fetus go to term but developed into a 9-pound, 5-ounce baby girl, Laura. The delivery was not exactly “normal”, however. Yes, we had taken the “natural childbirth” and Lamaze classes but there is no way to plan or prepare for a baby that resists all efforts to force it into the bright light of a delivery room. The obstetrician decided to use forceps. We had chosen a hospital, Hutzel Women’s Hospital in Detroit, that allowed the father to be present for the birth. I had planned for it but had not a clue as to the role I was about to play.

The birthing table, upon which Jan lay, was massive. I think it was made of marble or something equally heavy. The doctor was at one end, his forceps clamped on the baby’s head, a nurse was lying across Jan’s abdomen and I was holding onto the other end of the table. Nevertheless, the doctor was dragging the table with its cargo of three human adults across the delivery room floor by our daughter’s neck while Jan pushed as hard as she could. (Incidentally, my wife was about 5’8″ and 160 pounds.) I was afraid that our baby was going to be born in installments. But, no, she came out in one piece, her head a little flattened on the sides, slightly jaundiced, hoppin’ mad, and gorgeous to both her mother and me.

On my first visit to mother and daughter in the hospital, I donned the required gown. You know the type–they cover the front of you completely and tie in the back. Laura had been in an incubator for her jaundice. The nurse brought her in and handed her to Jan in the bed for feeding. After Laura had nursed for a while, Jan asked if I would like to hold her. I said “yes”, even though I had little-to-no experience with holding a live baby, especially one so small. After holding Laura to my shoulder for a few minutes, I handed her back to Jan.

As I was leaving, I removed the gown. There, near the shoulder of the dress shirt I wore to work, was a pea-sized spot of meconium, a baby’s first bowel movement. True, it’s sterile and has no particular smell, but I knew that I had been branded. My daughter had found an “outlet” for her anger at having to undergo such a rigorous birth and I knew she would have the upper hand for as long as we both lived.

Beyond any real-life experiences concerning birth, I confess that I have always thought there was something sexy about a pregnant woman. The idea of a incipient new and complete human being living, growing and kicking inside my belly gives rise to a state of being that I have carelessly branded as “fetus envy”. Many of you will remember the 1994 Arnold Swarzenegger movie, Junior, in which the star portrays a scientist looking for a way to prevent women from rejecting the fetus they are carrying. When their funding is cut, he resorts to offering his own body as the “test tube” and is somehow caused to become the incubator for the “lucky” child. Seeing this movie was the one and only time I’ve ever looked at The Terminator and wished I could be more like him. Short of that, I guess I’ll have to be content with the occasional spells of nausea that hit me from time-to-time. 

© 27 January 2014

About the Author

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

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Magic by Gillian

Tossing this topic around in my head, I consistently found myself humming that tune from West Side Story, I like to be in America, OK by me in America.

When it finally pushed into my consciousness, I realized that my subconscious was telling me something (as, of course, it always is!) Coming to, being in, America. That is magic. It has been for so many people for so many years. I am using the word America, here, the same way it was used in the movie, to mean the United States; politically incorrect, I was always taught, as America North and South encompasses many countries, but nevertheless that is how it was used in that particular song.

Now, almost half a century since I first set foot on American soil, I can still feel the magic I felt then. And I wasn’t a refugee escaping political persecution, or poverty, or violence. At worst, I was simply looking for a better life than was then on offer in a struggling, and still, in many ways war torn, Europe.

I stepped onto Pier 41, I think it was, off the ocean liner Queen Elisabeth, on a cold, drizzzly, October morning, and felt the magic. This was where I was supposed to be! Not where I wanted to be, I had no experience to tell me that, I had been here ten seconds, but where I was meant to be. I truly felt it in my inner self, as if my soul had somehow been misplaced in a body born elsewhere, when clearly my soul belonged here. I can’t explain that feeling, and I don’t know if all or most immigrants feel that way or if I am the only one. I only know that it was clear to me, and that I still feel it.
After fifty years, of course I recognize that there is much Black Magic abroad in the country; that all is not well, at least as I see it, with the good old U.S. of A. But I knew it then. President Kennedy had recently been assassinated. Oh yes, I knew there was a Dark Side. And since then, in my opinion, the Dark Side has become darker and more insidious; or perhaps I have just become more aware. But my place, my belonging, has nothing to do with intellectual processes. It is simply my soul, whatever that word may mean, knowing where I belong.

August 2013

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

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A Pulsar of Light by Carlos

We all enact a role upon the stage. In spite of our most polished performances, many of us often look back to the stage on which we have strutted and long for another script. Time and again, my friend Paul and I misconnected. He never asked anything of me. I suspect he felt he had no right to assert himself. Neither did I speak honestly to him for fear of being too forward. Looking back at the roles we played, I suspect that I should never have let him go without offering him the bounty of truth. Yet in spite of my misgivings and ponderings as to what, if anything, we may have been able to create, I am at peace, knowing that in the end, the script was perfect just the way it was.

A few months prior to my graduation from the University of Texas, I found myself leaving the classroom, enjoying the sun on my face and the sweet aroma of the west Texas desert in bloom. Unexpectedly, Peter, destined to become my first beau, approached, gave me a nod, and motioned me to follow. In spite of my trepidation, I followed, anxious to be inducted into a world that I had fantasized, yet feared, for years. I wanted to be held in a man’s embrace, overpowered by his testosterone. Because I was inexperienced, however, rather than becoming a love-under-the-sheets encounter, our rendezvous evolved into polite conversation and gentle hand-holding. Nevertheless, this being my first encounter with a man, my gay card was validated. Of course, I was anxious to learn from him and lie naked in his bed, but being a good Catholic boy, I deluded myself into believing our meeting was a divine act of intercession. Thus, I was determined to win his heart. Therefore, I decided to play my cards in the kitchen. After all, I’d heard the cliché that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. At least that is how I rationalized my actions in my gender-confused world where the game required one partner to be the hunter while the other was the gatherer. A few days later I knocked on his door, having practiced my invitation to cook for him for days. Even now decades later, I can still feel my heart beating like a little boy about to open his first Christmas gift. As the fates would have it, he was delighted, and we agreed to meet a few days later. That week I perused countless cookbooks for direction. I finally decided on a Russian feast to inspire my czar and win his devotion. That Saturday, I arrived at his apartment, ingredients at hand for savory beef stroganoff, buttered noodles, and Cointreau-kissed strawberries Romanoff. Though I was a nervous boy playing at being grown-up, I pulled it off. The dinner was magnificent. Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Russian Easter Festival Overture” provided the auditory punch to an evening filled with sensory delight. After the meal, as we held each other on his sofa, and I felt his heart poetically and impossibly beating to my own, I knew I had bagged my query. I had won him over through my culinary skills and domestic manipulations.

Within a few years, however, what had blossomed in the spring. withered and desiccated. We tried to forge a relationship, but because I had been drafted into the army and was away from home, our meetings were few and far in between. Our May-December flame sputtered, for while he had burned his candle at both ends over the years, my light had just started to flicker. Eventually, he recognized that he wanted what I could never offer, children. Thus, within months after I did return home, he dissolved our relationship, convinced our age differences and irreconcilable goals were impediments to the fairy tale ending on which I had been weaned. And thus, I encountered my first dissolution, my first of many failures. The “Russian Easter Festival Overture” became a dirge, its bells no longer heralding the resurrection of love, but rather the mournful eulogy of forsaken love and childish dreams.

Regardless, in those years with Peter, I learned that being gay is a blessing; I learned to embrace and honor myself. Although the relationship did not take root, that meal became a precursor to my entry into adulthood. Thus, I remain forever grateful to our ephemeral dance. Over those years, Paul, Peter’s best friend, was often a guest at our apartment. Though Paul and I were never alone, in retrospect, I knew even then that the sexual and emotional attraction between us was palpable. I suspect Peter felt it, though he never spoke of it. After my first relationship came to an end and I moved out, Paul visited me often. Our encounters were polite and restrained. Paul stood off in the distance, silent, supportive, and stoic. In retrospect, I realize that though he wanted to reach out to me, his devotion to his best friend and to me precluded him from doing so. And thus, the Russian feast I had years earlier prepared for another was never his. And after months of agony and a realization that my first relationship could not be resurrected and that I needed to move on, I left Texas for Denver, hoping to start a life anew. Yet even before I flew away, Paul and I both knew that so much that needed disclosure would remain forever vaulted. I wanted him to give me reason to remain, yet I could not encourage him; he wanted me to stay, yet he could not betray his honor. We were both stuck in a damned-if-we-do, damned-if-we-don’t’ waltz. And thus, our chosen pathways became the denouement to our Greek tragedy.

And thus, our lives took us in different directions. Because we kept in touch, our friendship blossomed. Though our letters to each other were always warm, it was becoming clear to me that by my running away, I had thwarted a possible bond when he started to close his letters with…Love, Paul. Eventually, he even asked me if I could tolerate him for a brief visit should he find himself in Denver. I let him know that if he took a step toward me, I just might take two steps toward him. But because of his career, he never made it to Denver, and as time progressed, our letters became more infrequent. I concluded we had only forged footprints on a beach. A few years later, I awoke from a dream. Paul hovered protectively next to me, reaching down with his hand to touch my face. I decided enough time had passed between us. Unspoken words needed to be fleshed out. Thus, I called him. To my surprise, a kind stranger answered, and after I asked for Paul, he informed me that he had just passed away. And thus, the last dance came to an end. On my next visit to Texas, I went to his grave, knelt before it, and bide adieu to my friend for whom I should have prepared a feast. I recognized that time had flitted away like a ghost seen only in the periphery of one’s vision. I will always some regret that I did not marry savory to sweet, let the dough rest and rise, or grind the spices between my fingers for Paul. I suspect that my life might have been different had I recognized I am not exempt from the adagio’s last note. I regret my indecision; I regret his indecision. My naivete, my silence, his devotion, his honor, had collided like two star systems pulled apart by each other’s gravitational pull. I will always ponder whether a meal to remember might have scripted a sublime poetic couplet. But regret is a bowl of warm, curdled milk.

My experiences with Paul have taught me that to live life constrained by polite etiquette and fear of risks is like eating strawberries without the Cointreau. The little boy is no more. I have discovered that truth must be honored and life must be lived as though the big bang did not need God. When I look back at what might have been, I honor it, but remain firmly entrenched in what is today, in this Mobius strip of time. Thus, when I first met and recognized the man who a decade later still remains my soulmate, Ron, I turned around l80 degrees and gave him a smile that left nothing to the imagination. And the rest is history. No more retrospective regrets, no more cautious approaches. Life must be lived with a devil-may-care attitude. After all, the last supper is only the precursor to the first breakfast. Thus, I’ve learned to let the dead rest in peace and to keep alive the neutron star that is my lighthouse.

© Denver, 4/11/2014

About the Author

Cervantes wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.” In spite of my constant quest to live up to this proposition, I often falter. I am a man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic. Something I know to be true. I am a survivor, a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite charming. Nevertheless, I often ask Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth. My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the Tuscan Sun. I am a pragmatic romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time. My beloved husband and our three rambunctious cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under coconut palms on tropical sands. I believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty. I am always on the look-out for friends, people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread together and finding humor in the world around us.

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Housecleaning by Betsy

There are two major reasons I don’t spend large amounts of time on housecleaning. One reason is that in my adult life I have never stayed in one place, one house, for years and years and years. Well, fifteen is about the most. Every time I’ve moved even within the area I have been forced to evaluate all my stuff–not just my stuff–but a good bit of the stuff of my three children and other family members. Then comes decision time. Either keep it and move it or throw it away. By stuff I mean memorabilia. Hundreds of photos, 8mm movies, 16mm movies that were my grandparents’, Lynne’s 1st book of drawings entitled “drawn flowers.” Or there’s her labor of love she produced in 2nd grade in the Netherlands when we lived there for two years–a drawing of a face with the words “voor Moeder Dag” glued onto a perfectly crafted wooden frame and given to me for Mother’s Day.

Or there’s Beth’s second grade handwriting exercise with the ever-so carefully drawn words:
“I wish teachers would not give us so much work
Because it makes my fingers hurt.”

Or her hand-bound booklet of birthday greetings for mom and the words “I love you” written on every page.

Or how about John’s ninth grade Mothers’ Day creation:
“One fair day, ‘Twas the month of May, A maiden received a card fair and gay.” The poetry goes on and then finally, “Fair maiden cannot you see. The labor invested in this card for thee? Upon a high mountain I meditated, and to this point my thoughts did sway. I want to wish you a Happy Mothers’ Day.”

All of these are precious bits of my life which I will never throw away. I have said so often: someone else will have to throw these things away for me after I am gone. Then THEY can do the housecleaning. THEY can decide what to keep and what to throw out.

I have much memorabilia passed down to me from parents and grandparents as well. These items will never be the victims of a housecleaning frenzy either. The few times I have considered going through memorabilia and doing some housecleaning, I have ended up spending the better part of the day reading, studying the items, and learning new things about my forebears.

Just to name a few treasures: The story of the Drib Yoj written by my grandmother Edith Rand. (The Drib Yoj, you know, is the Joy Bird.) Newspaper articles and photos describing the lives of my grandparents, great grand parents and in some cases their grandparents.

An article clipped from the New York Herald Tribune draws my attention. It is about the family gathering to celebrate my great grandmother’s 100th birthday. The words on the fragile, yellowed newsprint describe the life of no ordinary woman. Cecelia McConnell, my great grandmother, grew up in Illinois, knew Abraham Lincoln and heard the Lincoln-Douglas debates. At the age of five years she traveled from the East to the mid west in a covered wagon. Then ninety-five years later at the age of 100 she returned to her home on one of the first passenger planes to fly the skies. I was two years old at her one hundredth birthday party and I doubt anyone I know will ever throw out the photo of Cecelia 100 years old with her great grandchildren.

Not all treasures I come across in my housecleaning are ancient. One piece of family history I have acquired very recently. Cecelia’s son, my grandfather Ira McConnell, died before I was born so I have no memory of him. In spite of that I have recently gotten to know him a little bit. Last summer while visiting the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park I came across a bit of information previously unknown to me. Gill and I were camping in the park campground. We had been to the visitor center and brought back to the campsite with us a couple of brochures about the history of the area. I was reading the brochure about East Portal, the town at the bottom of the canyon on the Gunnison River. The town had a tiny community that had sprung up in 1904 when the site for the Gunnison Tunnel was chosen. The brochure describes the conceiving of the tunnel which would carry the waters of the Gunnison River five long miles through the 2000 foot solid rock cliff wall to the arid Uncompahgre Valley to the West. Surveying the tunnel and actually digging it would be a daunting engineering challenge.

Reading on I see a picture of the man I never knew but I have seen enough pictures of my Grandfather to recognize him even as a young man. Quoting from the brochure my recognition is confirmed.

“The jovial Ira McConnell explored the depths of the canyon. He completed surveys that pinpointed the tunnel headings and towns of East Portal in the canyon, and Lujane on the valley side of the tunnel. He guided tunnel construction through the most difficult of problems.”

“Look, Gill,” I yelled. “It’s my grandfather. He is here in this brochure.” This discovery took me completely by surprise, although I knew my grandfather had engineered tunnels in Colorado in the early 1900’s. But the Gunnison Tunnel–I had no idea! This was very exciting, indeed! I returned to the visitor center where I helped myself to a good supply of the brochures knowing I would want to give some away and have some to add to my memorabilia.

I’m quite sure I accumulate material at a faster rate than I get rid of it. This makes housecleaning all the more difficult–downright impossible.

Remember, I said there were two reasons for avoiding serious housecleaning. The second reason is that I have found that housecleaning is hazardous to your health.
It can result in confusion and memory loss and sometimes stress. Let me explain.

Housecleaning can be physically hazardous.

Mop the kitchen floor and lately I find I’m wiped out for the day. These housecleaning chores have become exhausting. I think I would almost rather go to the gym and do a two hour strenuous workout, or climb Lookout Mountain on my bicycle. Nowhere near as exhausting. I wonder why that is?
Another hazard. The minute I settle into a new home I find the perfect place to house my precious memorabilia. Items that cannot be filed in a filing cabinet; such as some of the treasures mentioned above. Then a couple of years later for whatever reason a surge of energy comes upon me and I am inspired to do some housecleaning and find an even more perfect place to store my things that I treasure.

So I move them to their new, improved resting place. Next time I go to look up one of these items it’s not where it should be. Where, then is it? Of course, I have forgotten where the new, improved resting place is. I remember clearly where it used to be. Why did I change it? Or sometimes I remember very clearly where I stored my treasures in my previous home. But I no longer live there. I live HERE. 

Where IS the stuff, anyway

Someday I will learn to spend my energy doing something more useful than moving things around. Let them be. As a result of what I think is a housecleaning endeavor, I’m just confused, stressed, searching, and the house is no cleaner–all because I was inspired to do some clearing out.

Now I have confirmed that housecleaning causes stress. Today I cannot put my hands on that treasured photo of my great, great, great grandparents homestead on the Erie Canal. BEFORE housecleaning at least I didn’t know that I didn’t know where it was.

April1,2013

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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Mirror Image by Will Stanton

Back in the 1930s when millions of people were out of work, most people thought that it was OK, even wonderful, that the federal government would step in and help to provide good jobs for people, especially since there was so much work that needed to be done. Much of that needed work was fixing what previous generations of people had broken through lack of foresight, no sense of wise land use, and even from simple greed. That certainly was true in the rural areas of Ohio where I grew up. Forests had been stripped, top-soil had eroded away, mine tailings dumped near water sources, and streams had been polluted. Many poor homesteads and small villages were left to decay. Work was scarce, the economy poor.

So F.D.R., the President that some people chose to hate, created the Works Progress Administration and the Civilian Conservation Corps. Just in our area alone, hundreds upon hundreds of people were given useful jobs during the 1930s. Thousands of trees were planted to prevent further soil erosion and pollution of waterways. Roads were improved, and small concrete bridges replaced fords through streams.

Nature had created no natural lakes in the area; so to help control water-flow and to boost the local economy in the Zaleski Forest region, a small damn was built, creating a many-fingered lake. Workers built a swimming area with wooden docks and diving towers. They made places for boating and canoeing. They added a picnic area with benches and fireplaces along side of the shore. They built a road to a scenic overlook where, eventually, a rustic lodge was constructed. Nearby, they made several wooden cabins for campers. The Division of Forestry officially opened the Zaleski Forest Park in 1940. Once the Division of Parks and Recreation was created 1949, it was renamed Lake Hope State Park. The area has provided employment and recreation ever since.

I recall with pleasure and a good amount of nostalgia visiting Lake Hope on many occasions from as young as age two. Sometimes it was just our family; at other times it was with family friends. During those first years, the three routes to the lake were gravel. The northern route was the shortest and passed by the remains of a stone structure resembling an oversize barbeque chimney. It was just one of several dozen 18th and 19th-century iron furnaces long abandoned since the charcoal and ore had been depleted in the area. The southern route took us through miles of hilly rural forest including many acres of pines planted by the C.C.C. And, the eastern route was the most primitive route of all, winding its way through the dense woods past abandoned and near-abandoned settlements and crossing the railroad tracks near the Moonville Tunnel, built in the mid-1800s. The tracks are long-gone, and the tunnel now is rumored to be haunted.

I recall how with excitement I would catch the first sight of the lake, eagerly looking forward to going to the man-made beach. We would wind our way to the parking lot and head for the wooden bathhouse. At age two, I was taken by my mother to the women’s side. (Yes, I can remember that young.) When older, my father took me to the men’s. When so young, I was required to stay near the beach, but I remember seeing my oldest brother going out to the wooden diving tower, climbing up so high, and diving in.

Vintage photo of
Lake Hope’s swimming area

My family and friends would bring along picnics, and afterwards we would find a picnic table near the water’s edge and lay out our food on one of the tables. Little stone fireplaces were provided in case we wished to grill hamburgers or hotdogs. We did not know in those days that potato chips were not so healthful, but we loved them and looked forward to our friends bringing them. They actually brought commercial-size bucketsful. Then there was desert.

Once sated with picnic-food, we would stroll along a path that closely followed the edge of the lake, listening for birds and watching for water foul. In the time of my childhood, the lake was surrounded by old-growth as well as reforested hills. Looking across the lake in any direction, I enjoyed seeing the wooded hills reflected, mirror-image, in the calm water.

Vintage photo of Lake Hope — a mirror image

On other occasions, we rented a small cabin up near the lodge. They had few real amenities, but at least there was a roof over our heads. We brought food and supplies with us, and the lodge was nearby in case we needed anything more.

Later, when my grandmother once came visiting, we took her with us to Lake Hope. It was my birthday, and she thought that I was old enough by then for me to have a Camp King jackknife. My mother did not; she was sure that I would cut myself. Of course, I did, but it was only a slight wound on my thumb.

And as we grew older, we made use of the beautiful stone and wood lodge for dinner. It was perched high on the ridge and had a fine view through the trees to the shimmering lake below. Near the entrance to the dining room, they had placed a Skittles game, and we kids enjoyed playing it when we had some time after our meal. I was sorry to learn that the lodge burned to the ground in 2006. I new one has been built to replace it.

More than seventy years have passed since Lake Hope was opened to the public. Generations of families, locals, and students from surrounding colleges, have enjoyed the facilities and the beauty of this lake. When I last visited there, my memories flowed. Looking across the lake and admiring the mirror-image reflections from the wooded hills, I felt a twinge of nostalgia. I knew that generations more of employees and visitors would continue to enjoy this little Eden. Those 1930s politicians who opposed such projects, those hard-nosed naysayers, were proved wrong. Thank you, you far-sighted individuals who made possible the many benefits from their proposed work projects. Thank you W.P.A. and C.C.C. for work well done.   

© 11 February 2013

About the Author

  

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Juvenile Crime by Ricky

The very first criminal act I can remember doing was when I was only 10; in the 5th grade and on my way home from school. I have a powerful attraction to ice cream. So strong it is that back then, you might have even seen me transform into an “ice cream-zombie”. For that matter, I still do occasionally.

So, one particular week previous to my act of criminality, I had been stopping by the local grocery store where my parents shopped. I had left over lunch money and my purpose for stopping there was to buy an ice cream sandwich at a cost of 10-cents; eating it on my way home.

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

I waited until I crossed the highway before I removed the thing, unwrapped, and ate it. On the bright side, I did throw the wrapper into a trash bin I was walking by; after all I wasn’t a despicable litter-bug. The next four days found me doing the same thing before guilt overcame attraction. I learned from these experiences that males (especially boys) can hear the “siren call” of inanimate objects quite clearly, objects such as ice cream sandwiches, or firearms, or fast cars, or any baseball/football games in their vicinity or on a TV, or the call of a video game console.

Once back from my grandparent’s farm and again living with my mother, I went by myself trick or treating until my little brother and sister were old enough to go, and then I took them. The last year I ever went, my friend and I did pull a couple of “tricks” on two homes we got candy from (interpret that as vandalism). Both people we met at the door said that we were too old to be “trick-or-treating”; I was 15 and my friend was 13. I replied that no one is too old to want free candy. Since they had challenged our “right” to beg for candy, we used ski wax to write four letter words on their car windows. Ski wax doesn’t come off by washing; it must be scrapped off.

Like Peter Pan, I also had a dark side. I wasn’t always a nice kid.

Pan’s Dark Side

© 2 February 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 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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Second Honeymoon by Ray S

Over a cup of coffee (1/2 regular and 1/2 decaf) In the kitchen of Marcella Norton’s Victorian home in Georgetown, Colorado she casually suggested Pat and I visit her the coming August in Escanaba, MI. Of course, she added, I’ll put you to work when you get there–adding “It is a beautiful time of the year in the UP–upper peninsula to us non Michiganders.

We thanked her for the invitation and wondered to ourselves how, when, and where, and maybe why? Out came the maps and discovery of the best route. to that part of Michigan, our northernmost venture in that part of the mid west having been Green Bay.

But look it is not too much further to our old stomping grounds–Chicago land. Maybe we should stretch this trip to a few days in the Windy City–well, maybe.

I digress to a blustery March day in 1951 when the two of us departed the site of our nuptials, headed for the first act of our 55-year marriage drama. We spent that night at a vintage 1920’s Hotel Baker in Aurora, Illinois. I mention this memorable occasion only because on this road trip to the UP, it was a close as we got to Chicago. For old time sake, as they say, we returned to the scene of the crime and checked out to Baker to see how much it had changed, if at all. And yes there were some marked but few changes. The dining room had been transformed from a glamorous 1940’s glass block dance floor illuminated from below by colored lights to something more acceptably 1970’s Neo-Mediterranean villa. Again giving into a bit of nostalgia we had lunch suitably spiked with the waitress’s story of her times at the Baker as well as ours.

As if that were not sufficient time spent in Memory Lane, we headed for the little historic Illinois City named Galen. The name means “tin” for which it at one time was a financial center and port, since the days the river silted up and the city has slept quietly, except for its other claim-to-fame. It is the home of General U.S. Grant. We had reserved a room at a B and B perched on the side of the hill that sloped down to city center and what had been the tin boats docks on the Fever River, a tributary of the Mississippi.

Galena has grown into a tourist haven and a very charming historic old place, if you happen to be a history buff. We enjoyed scoping out the museum, post office of Civil War note, appropriate restaurants and bars. But the real highlight of our pre-work/vacation in Escanaba was that first morning at the bit of Victorian splendor when we made it downstairs in time for breakfast.

Our hostess inquired if we had rested well as she served us a very nice breakfast of fresh fruit, coffee, and quiche Lorraine. Our reply was positive, and exclaiming that the bed could have been one of Mr. Lincoln’s but much more comfortable. She smiled and returned to the kitchen.

As a matter of fact we finished our breakfast, went upstairs and back to bed.

So much for Escanaba.

© 3 February 2014

About the Author

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Porn by Phillip Hoyle

The book circulated through the men’s dorm that fall of 1967, a pornographic novel that my roommate claimed was written by a group as an experiment to see if a coherent novel could be written by a committee, each member contributing one chapter. Protagonist Candy’s sexual exploits made up the content, and a different male was introduced in each chapter. It was my turn to read the book.

Did I think the committee’s book worked? Would it fool the editorial world? He asked. Of course, it must have worked; I was reading a printed and bound commercial copy. Was it literary? What a question. Perhaps the holy air of a dorm at a church-related college demanded literary posturing. One must consider that people who desire a book with a convincingly direct and graphically explicit sex scene at the climax of every chapter don’t really care who or how many who’s wrote it. They might count the chapters to see how many times the book could bring them to a climax, to guess how many days the book might last! Editors and publishers might also calculate similarly with an eye on porn rights and profits, especially if such a book could be marketed on the legitimate book list. I avidly read Candy by Jerry Southern.

My very first exposure to pornography, though, was in magazines we pre-pubescent boys stole from Eefie Enzor’s little grocery store on West Tenth Street. We stowed them in a secret place in our hideout. We saw pictures of breasts and probably made lots of stupid comments about them. We reveled in the forbidden nature of having purloined print to go along with the purloined cigarettes and cigars we smoked while turning the pages. My favorite magazine was Adam, a glossy-print rag with photographs and stories. Once, someone lifted a copy of the smaller-format Sexology Monthly that featured informational articles on sex plus a few stories. I began reading porn at age ten.

As a twenty-year-old in a college dorm I read Candy. It had been years since I’d even looked at pornography, for by the time I reached puberty, our gang of little thieves had broken up, and I no longer had access to such magazines. Rather, I discovered the joys of ejaculation with another live boy, one a couple of years younger than I. He didn’t come and we weren’t exactly close friends. At least that is my memory. My sexual development at that time was free of glossy porn. I had sex with boys in a most direct and powerful manner.

Still, I was a reader and as a ninth grader found a couple of sex scenes in a murder mystery in my father’s collection of books. I found another hot sex scene in one of his historical novels. As a tenth grader, I continued reading historical novels. I didn’t find sex scenes very often but didn’t miss them or the porn because I found another boy with whom to have sex. Rather, he found me. We kept busy. After he moved away, I got too busy with church, school, and extracurricular activities, and with girls. Then in college, Candy came to call. I suspect that in reading some of the chapters, I made my first conventional use of pornography.

  • Porn helped me understand my sexual needs. For example, straight porn, as in Playboy, did little for me. Pictures of men and women in sex, as sometimes showed up in Penthouse, I found more interesting.
  • I grew to detest the objectifying of other persons as things or tools to be used either as sex object or in general.
  • I like sex but want it with people; real live, complex folk who interest me.
  • I am more interested in people than in bodies or body types. I prefer smiles to muscles.
  • I like porn as substitute sex; at least I value porn at this level.
  • As a married man I didn’t use porn for I had my wife with whom I made love several times a week. I didn’t want a prostitute, even if only a print prostitute.
  • As my homosexual needs gained my attention, I found gay pornography useful to me. In fact, gay literature and occasionally porn helped me sustain my sanity. In addition to my very nice marriage and my longstanding affair with a male lover, gay literature and pornography gave me a growing sense of identity and an immediate sexual release that contrasted with the rest of my life.
  • Pornography for me was literally what the old word means: writing and/or pictures of prostitution. Eventually porn was my going to a male prostitute for what I otherwise could not get in my other relationships. It was the lifesaver for this married man.
  • I’ve long had friends in literary characters and sometimes in pornographic characters as well.

© 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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Writing by Michael King

Off and on in the past, I attempted to do some writing. The stories were probably OK but I never did anything with them. They may be in some notebook that I will never open again. My spelling was atrocious and I printed so that even I might be able to read it. I didn’t use the dictionary until more recently and then along with the arrival of Merlyn there is a computer and spell-check.

About four and a half years ago I started attending the men’s coffee at the GLBT Center when it was still on Broadway. When I found out that Jackie, Ken’s intern with the SAGE program was doing a “Telling your story” group, I decided to attend. At first I did a couple of oral reports based on the topic. Then I decided to write the stories. It seems that no matter what the topic was, some suppressed memory, baggage of the past would appear. I would choke up. I had no idea how much childhood pain I had hidden from myself. I’m sure it is a form of self-protection to ignore unpleasant and traumatic experiences so we can continue on. Having been unable to resolve the situation and not having the skills to confront those family members that I depended on, I tried to ignore all unpleasantness. Some things that nearly brought on tears and caused me to feel like I was falling apart had been forgotten for well over 60 years.

Within a few weeks of these emotional breakdowns, I realized that I started feeling a resolve, a freedom, an understanding. I recognized that as a child I could not possibly have known how to be perfect, wise, in control, etc.

As time went on I had less and less flashbacks. I had a new freedom and was realizing that for me to really be comfortable with myself I had to discover my own truths, my now unencumbered potentials. I needed to examine what I wanted to do with my life all over again. I no longer had the old encumbered paradigm of how to be. I could more freely create a future that is based on my wishes and desires, hopes and dreams, freed from outside limitations and expectations.

This new awareness allowed for subtle changes, no dramatic or immediately recognizable differences. Mostly I could be without guilt or self-doubt. I could say “No” without getting emotional. And interestingly enough, I could have critical thoughts and not feel I had to say anything or sense regret. I could just keep them to myself or I could, if I so desired, raise a stink or attempt to change things without the accompanying embarrassment.

Now what happens when I write is that I have little concern what other people think. I seldom get emotional and I find that writing is a fantastic tool for more self-discovery, for a kind of inner growth and allows me to critically examine what I think and feel in areas that I’ve previously given no thought to. I am very thankful for “Story Time”. Writing has opened many doors and has come to be something to look forward to each week. It also is an activity that Merlyn and I do at the same time and share with each other before we come to the group. I’m so glad we got Phil to take charge and build the program that Jackie started. I think it is one of the best programs at the GLBT Center and that seems to be the opinion of all the regular participants. It has been not only an activity for personal gratification but an environment where we have developed friendships, better understanding of one another and we get insights from the disclosures that can only be made in such a loving and trusting group.

© 13 May 2013

About the Author

  

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities, “Telling your Story,” “Men’s Coffee” and the “Open Art Studio.” I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.