Tag: Life Stories

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Marriage, by Ricky

I was married once.  It lasted for 27-years and 9-months until she passed away from complications of breast cancer on 15 September 2001.  During the years we had together, we found peace, joy, love, companionship, comforting, support, advice, acceptance, hope, security, solutions, and problems to overcome.  In other words, we were best friends.
We had four children, three girls, and one boy all of whom turned out to be decent people.  During their growing up years, our family did many things together.  My military work schedule did not always make it easy to plan for family outings, but we made it work.  We took weekday or weekend trips to nearby tourist sites wherever we lived.  Included in the activities were trips to children themed museums, movie theaters, parks, bowling alleys, camping, and ShowBiz Pizza.  When I had my annual 30-day leave, we would go to “exotic” places like Disney World, Mt. Rushmore, Crazy Horse, Lettuce Lake, Lake Tahoe, Tucson, Gulf Coast Beaches, the Redwood Forest along US Highway 1, The Donut Store, Fjords Ice Cream Store, Storybook Island, and Waterton National Park in Canada.
Deborah and I always supported the children in whatever appropriate activities they wanted to try.  Before we even had our first child, we decided that our home would always be open to their friends and available for use for parties and other activities.  (That way we would always know where they were and what they were up to.)
Deborah and I came from family situations that were not optimal and dysfunctional to one degree or another.  Thus, we were committed to having a home where life was supportive of children through all ages of growth so our kids would not have our issues.  It worked out well.  They all have their own issues not even remotely similar to ours but perhaps still, a result of our efforts not to make the same mistakes our parents made.
Sadly, due to my early childhood and adolescent traumas, I cannot say that I was “happy” in the marriage.  I have experienced joy when each of my children were born, but “happiness,” I’m not sure I’ve ever truly experienced it from age 8 onward.  Beginning about a year before Deborah’s death, I even began to question myself as to whether I had even really loved her.  Her death provided me with the answer, “Yes.  I loved her then and still do.”  However, true happiness still eludes me I think.  On the bright side, I am over the 10-years of major depression that followed her death.
Nonetheless, I believe that my married life was good for her and me, my sexual identity notwithstanding.  Raising four children from infancy to adulthood is an experience every decent person should experience for there are many opportunities for happiness (or very pleasant feelings at least).  Certainly, there are too many emotionally damaged people, for which parenthood would result in disaster for the children.
Some gay men have never been inclined to marry a woman or to become fathers and are quite satisfied with their lack of offspring.  I respect everyone’s decision not to marry or procreate, just as I hope they respect mine.  I have heard that many gay men “look down upon” married or ex-married gay men for being “cowards” and living in the closet of a “straight” society and culture.  I have only two things to say to them.  First, I repeat that I enjoyed every minute of my marriage and children and I’m glad for the experience.  The second thing is, “Get over it.”  We are all free to pursue our own visions of “happiness” and one does not negate the other.
Genesis chapter 2, verse 24 describes God’s joining Adam and Eve in what is considered marriage.  Except, the way it is worded and punctuated it appears that it is Adam who is “speaking” the words not God.  And recall that the King James version, which I am referencing, was not written directly by God, but by a group of scholars who argued over the interpretations and the meaning of the words (from the original sources) that were being translated.  Consequently, opinions of people with egos, theories, religious training, and “agendas” may have distorted the facts recorded in the original documents and then placed in the Bible.  So, what is true?
I do know this; before Deborah and I could be married, we had to obtain permission from the State of Utah to be joined in matrimony by an authorized minister of a religion recognized by the State.  In other words, the marriage ceremony was religious in nature but authorized by a Civil Government—in effect, a civil union with a religious ceremony.
Our nation’s Declaration of Independence proclaims to the world the reasons we are no longer British citizens and our land is no longer British colonies.  It also proclaims that all “men” are created equal and have the inalienable right to pursue happiness.  Our Constitution prohibits discrimination and one of its purposes is to protect the minority from the tyranny of the majority.  Recently, the U.S. Court of Appeal affirmed a lower court’s ruling that the Defense of Marriage Act is unconstitutional because it denies rights to legally married same-sex couples that legally married opposite-sex couples have.  Of course, all of the gay and lesbian community and many in the heterosexual community already knew that, but the bigoted religious extremists continue to spew lies and hatred (anti-Christian behavior).  Isn’t that exactly what we should expect from religions whose preachers are paid by the congregations and who must, therefore, preach what the congregation wants to hear in order to keep their jobs.  After all, no one wants to pay a minister to tell them each week that they are vile sinners and religious bigots.  Jesus never taught a Gospel of hatred, so why do the (so called Christian) extremists?
Preaching a Gospel of hate is not a Christ-like behavior; and when taught to children, constitutes child abuse.  So, why isn’t the government prosecuting for a child abuse hate crime?  When preachers use the pulpit to teach hatred and tell lies about political candidates to influence the votes of their congregations (which is against the law), why isn’t the government revoking their tax-exempt status?  Persecution of gays and lesbians by religious extremists reminds me of the WW2 Nazis of Germany.  Is that where America is heading?  Are the Jews next?
Perhaps Stonewall should not remain just “history.”  Perhaps there should be protest marches on those congregations of “non-Christian” believers who profess Christian values, beliefs, and lifestyle but are, in reality, self-righteous bigots.  If they actually read and understood the Bible’s teachings, they should understand that it condemns their behavior and makes plain their “sins.”  The Book of Matthew, chapter 23, verses 27 & 28 describes and condemns them perfectly; Jesus says,  Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees [the religious bigots/extremists of their time], hypocrites!  For ye are like unto whited sepulchers, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men’s bones, and of all uncleanness.  Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, but within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity.”  I believe we can locate them mostly in the South or in the GOP, but march on them wherever they are found.
That fruitcake preacher who wants to put all gays and lesbians behind a 100-mile electric fence and feed us until we all die natural deaths has the right idea but the wrong target group.  All the preachers and teachers of hate and their supporters and followers should be behind that fence until they all die out.  The world has seen enough hate and it is time for all hate to cease to exist once and for all.  Then, as the song says, maybe everyone can “Sleep in Heavenly peace.”
© 3 June 2012 
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 was sent to live with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001 terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.
My story blog is: TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com
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Dancing with the Stars, by Ray S

Thursday morning, God or the Gods in the heavens had their priorities set for the occasion and the sun shone mightily.  
The “house” was packed, it was SRO. The devout, the devoted, those titillated by remembered “tittle-tattle”, all gathered for the celebration of a good friend who had found another path to follow, an everlasting journey, more than likely in a bright red Mercedes with a WARHOL license plate.
The paraphrase of an old Tin Pan Alley tune, “the hip hooray, the ballyhoo, that’s the lullaby of Broadway.”
It was solemn godly, holy, prayerful, and joyous at St. Andrews house this day.
For those of the uninitiated, the opening production was splendid theatre; for the true believers, it was as it should be: elegantly proper and appropriate. It was like an opening night and a closing night combined, and the star was taking his curtain calls.
Memory time recalled a fascinating career in so many public endeavors, the many people and places of a life well lived. A loving family and, of course, the names (and sometimes even the addresses) of scores of friends and their circumstances.
The remembrances offered by friends at Telling Your Story were so very heartfelt. To me, none could have been more poignant than Orville’s “Amen.”
The pomp and circumstance concluded. The mourners are left with their thoughts and grief, or loving joy. On this latter note, I know that there now is a shining new star “Dancing with the Stars.” The houselights have dimmed, the curtain has fallen, this show is over, but his star sparkles brilliantly in the firmament forever.
Goodbye, dear friend.
(Author’s note: Irreverent as I may appear, no disrespect of the Church and its traditions and dogma are meant. It’s just that I knew Randy Wren as a happy, wonderful showman and sensed his love affair with the theatre. Amen.)
© 24 Jul 2017 
About the Author 

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Hooves, by Phillip Hoyle

Hooves are more a fantasy than a reality for me, the sound of hooves on the ground more a live radio show trick than an experience of being near live horses. I guess that is part of my city life upbringing although our city had the grand population of 20,000 and sat in central Kansas. There were real horses nearby.
I remember my grandfather Schmedemann’s team of horses that pulled the hay wagon during bailing. I sat on Grandpa’s wagons and imagined flipping the reins to make those huge animals pull me, but due to their size, I kept my distance. I remember their stalls in the north end of the stock barn and the leather strips they wore on their backs to keep the flies off while they worked. I don’t recall just when they were no longer around, sometime in my mid-childhood, but I’m sure I learned the phrase “sent to the glue factory” around then. I don’t know if it was at all true. I did like their large hooves and the shoes they wore.
I recall real hoof sounds from horses in hometown parades, the Cheyenne Wyoming Frontier Days in 1959, and other parades and rodeos in following years, right up to Denver’s Pridefest Parade I started watching in 1999.
The only horses I actually rode besides the pony in a pony ring at an Estes Park resort were likewise in Colorado years apart, two trail rides. The first when I was a teenager I recall in vivid detail. The trail master shouted, “Pull your reins to the right,” to us not long after we’d begun the climb above the Big Thompson River. I didn’t understand or was too preoccupied with my daydreams not to even have heard him. My horse probably didn’t know that much English or looked to see the trail master. She walked the path several times a day all summer long but that afternoon saw off to our left the small bear that concerned the trail leader. I didn’t know what was going on but remember my horses’ hooves clattering on the rocks as she tried to push ahead of other horses on the trail. That’s when I heard the follow-up command shouted at me. “Hey you, pull your reins to the right,” and to everyone else again, “Don’t let them see the bear.” I did so and finally realized the problem. Both the horse and I were okay. The bear was probably laughing. Of course, I’d never even heard of a laughing bear.
The other ride was with a youth group I led. We were at a resort on Grand Mesa. Most of the kids wanted a trail ride. I joined them and held my very young daughter in my lap. About two minutes into the ride she fell asleep. I held her close to me as we went up and down steep slopes, jerking and jostling with the rhythm of the horse. She slept calmly the whole ride while my arms got very, very tired.
I can still play gallop like we kids did in childhood but I rarely do so these days. My grandkids grew up. I have some great grandkids but don’t know if they will ever want to play horse. Maybe I’ll find out at Christmas.
© 9 October 2017  
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
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Clearly, by Pat Gourley

So clearly is an adverb that means without doubt or obviously. With that definition in mind it is a word I should “clearly” be very cautious in using. It should be admonition enough against using this word that the main school of Korean Zen I have followed for years preaches, “don’t know mind”. In a jacket blurb for Richard Shrobe’s 2004 book Don’t Know Mind author Jane Dobisz defines Don’t Know Mind as “our enlightened mind before ideas, opinions, or concepts arise to create suffering”.  Well, I guess that might explain why despite my privileged white male existence I feel I suffer so much.
Let me cast caution to the wind and most likely prove my Zen teachers right by sharing examples of where I at least quietly in my own head use the word clearly.  Multiple times a day I most often say silently to myself: clearly, you are an idiot. Or clearly, your driver’s license should be permanently revoked. When seeing the current White House Press Secretary at her daily briefs and saying out loud to the T.V. clearly a blind monkey did your makeup. And most frequently these days clearly the words ‘President Trump’ must just be part of a bad dream and I’ll wake up soon.
Putting the many ideas, concepts, and opinions aside that I so often attach the word clearly so there are somethings in my life that are fact and the use of clearly or its synonyms ‘without doubt’ or ‘obviously’ are quite appropriate. Without a doubt, my HIV meds are keeping me alive. It was quite obvious that the early symptoms of HIV infection and T-cells below 200 I was experiencing in the mid to late 1990’s were clearly related to poor viral control due to inadequate medications.
Without doubt, I have diabetes with my most recent HbA1c being 7.6. Clearly, this needs to be addressed or the ravages of high blood sugars will come home to roost sooner than later. Since I already take a butt load of pills every day the thought of adding diabetes’s medicines is in my mind something to be avoided if at all possible. Despite what I think is the obvious solution to a low fat whole-foods-plant-based diet and daily exercise I find this regime to be quite the challenge.
At times I clearly try to rationalize the recent HbA1c of 7.6 by blaming my HIV meds, which are certainly a contributor, but not something I can do without. My recent 6 weeks in San Francisco also proved to be a dietary challenge but the reality is there are plenty of grains, fruits, and vegetables for sale all over that City, really more readily accessible than here in Denver. Just because I spent my mornings fixing breakfast for B&B guests and serving them cholesterol bombs in the form of buttered toast and eggs along with that delicious class one carcinogen, bacon, I clearly did not need to sample the leftovers. Serving steel cut oats, almond milk and fruit for breakfast to most B&B guests would not result in many positive online reviews I suspect.
It is easy to say but for me hard at times to resist. The smell and taste of bacon must surely be the work of the devil, if I believed in the devil: clearly here nothing to blame but my own lack of self-control.
Another fact-based use of the word for me would be: clearly I am one lazy-ass writer. Though participation in this group has been valuable in many ways I am also confronted with my slothful writing habits on a weekly basis, merely coasting on residual grammar habits instilled by years with the Holy Cross nuns. The prompt of a word or two as impetus for writing about my life has for me in some ways been quite ingenious and on occasion productive. It does get me to put fingers to keyboard though most often just a few hours before group.
The lazy part comes for me in that I almost always have many ideas on a subject that would without a doubt require much more thought, energy and research than I am usually willing to devote to it. The excuse I most often use is to keep my word count less than 800 and I do find it a worthwhile challenge to get the point across in as few words as possible. A more honest reflection here might bring into question my need to use valuable time watching all 16 Dead and Company shows, each at least three hours long, on their current fall tour or my near-daily masturbatory dedication to online adult entertainment, many hours clearly thrown into that void. That would be the adult entertainment into the void and not the Dead, who are playing superbly this go around by the way.
So despite my shortfalls here the discipline of writing at least several times a month has clearly been beneficial. Thank you all!
© 20 Nov 2017 
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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Maps, by Gillian

I have so many maps that I had thought I would not write anything and just do a show and tell. But once I started going through the collection I found myself transported immediately away on endless waves of memory. Map-memory. Rather like muscle memory in the way it seemed to operate quite outside of any conscious thought. Why had I not anticipated this? I’m not sure
.
Much as I have always loved maps, I guess I never saw them as anything to inspire emotion. But why ever not? Now I find they wrap me in memories in a way that even old photographs do not; perhaps simply because I look at the old photos from time to time, whereas the maps have just languished in a box, untouched for years other than once in a while when I open the box and toss in a couple more maps for the collection.
There are old ‘Tourists & Cyclists’ maps of various parts of Britain dating from somewhere early in the twentieth century, once used by my parents riding around on Dad’s motorbike in the 1920’s. One is of Shropshire, my home county. It is one of the linen-backed, more expensive variety, obviously bought to last. (I stuck an arrow on it, pointing at our house!)
Then there are the common but most popular British maps, those on the one inch to one-mile scale. They were produced between 1952 and 1961 and covered every inch of the British Isles. I bought many of them for school-day, and later college, hikes. They were produced in great detail and made it almost impossible to get lost.
Even more detailed was the series, published around the same time as the one inch to the mile, was the one mile to 2 1/2 inches; maps so detailed they showed every single building. I also bought a lot of these, largely because by this time I was getting into geology in high school and they made fossil sites easier to find. Detailed geologic maps were not common then as they are today, but I had one very generalized map of Shropshire geology which I greatly valued. Fossil finds were mainly communicated by word of mouth, so a detailed map was almost essential. Our house was, as always seems inevitable, right on the joint of two maps, but I put an arrow again. It’s right on the edge of the map above where it says ROMAN GRAVELS. There are endless old Roman sites around there. Just to the left is marked a stone circle. It is small in size, as are the stones, but nevertheless an unmistakable prehistoric stone circle. My parents and I used to picnic there quite often, it’s a beautiful, very silent, remote, spot. At least it was then. Now many tourists apparently go there in the summer. On another one is the tiny town of Bishop’s Castle, where I went to the high school marked at the crossroads. Also, clearly marked is Stone House, the old workhouse now converted to the nursing home where my mum and dad both died. At the south end of the town is the church where they are buried.
Then we come to stacks of maps that I, and then Betsy and I, have bought on our travels. They take me back with great joy to the many places we have been, but they tend to be more of the highway route variety of map and less emotive in detail than the old ones.
I love all maps, and these are a small percentage of my collection, but the old maps are special. There is somehow something surreal about seeing all these places that have loomed so large in my early life depicted so clearly before me on a long-forgotten map. I am grateful to whoever chose this topic for giving me the incentive to explore the contents of that dusty old box.
And, not for the first time, I find myself grieving for the current and future high-tech generations.  I fear they will never know the magic of an old map, tattered from overuse, with pencil arrows flowing from a scribbled teenage note, trilobite fossils here. Who, with the very best of intentions, can find magic in the memories of Siri scolding, ‘you are going in the wrong direction! Complete a U-turn immediately it is safe to do so and return to the intersection.’  Seriously lacking in any sense of history!
I have decided against naming my next baby Siri.

© 31 Mar 2017 
About the Author 
I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30-years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years. We have been married since 2013.
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My Most Meaningful Vacation, by Betsy

So, what is it that makes a vacation meaningful anyway? I can’t honestly think of any vacation that I have ever taken that was not meaningful. Some maybe were more meaningful than others that is definitely true. I will have to focus on vacations of the last, say, 50 years. Choosing from all the vacations of my lifetime is too overwhelming. My memory just isn’t that good.
I have had a few trips abroad—the heart of Europe as well as remote places like the Orkney Islands off the north coast of Scotland, the train trip through South Africa, plus visits to Canada, Mexico, and Central America. All these trips were memorable and certainly meaningful. Simply experiencing other cultures, and other ways of life is about the best educational experience a person can have. We learn from living among or simply observing others that our way is not the only way.  Our language is not the only language, our humor is not the only kind of humor, our cuisine is not the only kind.
My idea of a great vacation is an exploit filled with excitement, new experiences, and adventure.  I have traveled on vacation by plane, train, boat, car, bicycle, and on foot. One of my most memorable “vacations” was cycling across the United States, from Pacific to Atlantic. I have written several stories about that trip which I took in 2005.
The thing about traveling by bicycle is that you see so much more detail along the way, including the wildlife, sometimes in the form of road kill.
Probably most of my vacations have been of the camping variety. I love camping whether in the wilderness or just off the highway.
When I was married to Bill and the three children were young, we used to take backpacking trips. Bill was always looking for fishing opportunities. I hated fishing. Not enough action. But there was plenty for all of us to do on those adventures while Bill was fishing. I very much enjoyed the hiking, setting up camp,  and being in the mountain environment with nature.
When Gill and I first got together we went backpacking one summer in the Wind River Range in Wyoming.  That was the time she cut a gash in her knee and I saved her from bleeding to death with my Girl Scout first aid kit which happened to have some butterfly bandages in it. She still has a scar on her knee today which I want to pass around the table for all of you to see.
This, one of our first vacations together, could have been meaningful in that it had the potential for being our last vacation together.  But Gill stuck with me in spite of the fact that it was not her idea of a vacation. I actually think it was the butterfly bandages that saved our relationship.
After we had been together a short time, we went to a style of camping more to her liking—car camping. Gill had a VW camper van—a Westphalia— in which we had taken some day trips during our courtship. It may not have been an actual vacation, rather a weekend, when we took the Westy to Rocky Mountain National Park. This was a meaningful trip to me, and I will never forget it. It definitely portended of a meaningful ritual which would become a part of my life every day for the rest of my life. We were driving along through the park admiring the sights when Gill pulled over off the road and came to a stop. “It’s tea time,” she wailed. She jumped into the back, opened the galley, put the kettle on and brewed the tea, and served me a dainty cup of perfect British tea—with milk, of course, not cream.  I am a person who likes structure and some rituals. So, I became hooked on four o’clock tea time for life.
I also became quite enamored of the idea of a camper van for road trips. The Westy was very old and worn out and had to go soon after we started living together. But we both were enthusiastic about having a camping vehicle. So, a few years after selling the Westy we bought a used VW Eurovan—a later model of the Westphalia.  We named her Brunie, short for Brunhilda. She was a big boned woman. The three of us —Gill, Brunie, and I—spent 13 years together, traveled over 200,000 miles in too many trips to count. It was an awesome relationship. All of our vacations together were meaningful because we traveled in almost every state, except Hawaii and Alaska, always had a comfortable place to sleep, we felt safe, and were always warm and dry. Because of Brunie we saw the country, we learned history and geology, we experienced things and places we never dreamed existed. I might add we met all kinds of people who would always approach us in the campground wanting to meet us? No wanting a look at Brunie. 
Some of the more memorable places we visited had been selected as a destination like the national parks, state parks, oceanside settings, historical sites, desert oases.  Others we just happened upon by chance.  We always kept a diary on these trips because we knew as we grew older we would forget where it was that we saw that amazing sunrise, that moose grazing beside the road, those sheep on the cliff above, that approaching tornado. Or all we had, learned, heard, and experienced would become blurred.  And Gill was constantly snapping photos, so we have thousands of those to remind us. Some places were quite ordinary, some elaborate, some filled us with awe, some sights were beautiful beyond imagination, some curious, but not one was not worth the visit. Some of our favorite, nearby places we have been back to several times such as Hovenweep, Canyonlands, Hamburger Rock, Arches N.P., and  Yellowstone.
There has not been one trip or sojourn that was not meaningful.  Most meaningful? Impossible to say.
© 1 Dec 2017 
About the Author 
Betsy has been active in
the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old
Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been
retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major
activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a
volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading,
writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage.
She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren.
Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her
life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.
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Hobbies Past & Present, by Ricky

          Not much of a story here to tell.  As a child, I had two electric trains and some track.  Both were made by Lionel.  One train was an Empire Line twin diesel-powered locomotive freight train; the other, a steam locomotive (with coal tender) was a modern passenger train (for the early 1940’s/mid 50’s.  For a long time, I was enamored of model trains and envious of those who had any kind of a train “layout”.   I never had a layout and I sold both trains at a flea-market in Tucson during my late 20’s.
          From age 8 through 13 my interest centered on assembling plastic model airplanes; specifically, warplanes from both world wars.  I loved to put them together and then play with them; having dog-fights with my 3-year older uncle and his planes.  While living on the farm with him, I received my most challenging model for a Christmas gift.  It was a scale model of the USS Constitution; Old Ironsides.  It took me many days to put that one together as it seemed to have some zillion little pieces including two decks of cannons, four masts, helm, rudder, anchors with chains, and miscellaneous rigging.  I was really proud of it when I finished.  I didn’t bother to paint any part of it as I learned that my painting skills were not worth the paint in the bottle from the disaster of painting a green plastic Japanese Zero silver.  It looked more like melting tin than silver aluminum.
          As a youth of 11 to 15, I was sort-of trying to collect little flags of countries, states, or places I visited.  Not much of a collection really.  I had one from Canada (their old-style flag); one from the US of course, and one from the Seattle World’s Fair.  The world fair flag was special as it reminded me of three of the things I saw there; the Space Needle; the “car of the future”; and a clear plastic cylinder containing one million US silver dollars (very impressive).
          Also, during that period, I worked as the attendant at a laundromat owned by my parents.  Because of the world fair experience, I began to collect silver dollars as soon as I began working there.  Unfortunately, that was the same time silver dollars were rapidly disappearing from usage at the casinos at Lake Tahoe, so I was not able to collect very many.
          No more hobbies existed until I discovered computers while attending Sacramento State College in 1966.  This hobby morphed into almost a compulsive-obsessive activity affecting me to this day.
          If reading can be considered a hobby, then I have that as one also, because I am an avid reader of books, magazines, and (because either I’m not perfect or bored a lot) junk-mail.
© 9 Feb 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 was
sent to live with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for
two years during which time my parents divorced.
When united with my
mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and
then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in
1966.  After three tours of duty with the
Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four
children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days
after the 9-11-2001 terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man
in the summer of 2010.   I find writing
these memories to be therapeutic.
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Workout, by Phillip Hoyle

I suppose we weren’t quite prepared for the mess although two summers ago Jim and I noticed the Honey Locust tree in the backyard was producing seedpods, a few of them. Last summer there were quite a few more. This summer the tree went crazy with its genetic demand to replicate and has produced hundreds of pods. They are not small, some measuring more than a foot in length and they hang in clusters of two to six. I thought them rather decorative like holiday ornaments. Our neighborhood squirrels showed up for the seasonal party and in the last week of August gleefully began their harvest.
If you know squirrels you realize they are as messy as teenagers, never cleaning up after themselves like the adolescent son in the comic strip Zits. I know about that because my daughter was one messy kid. Still is and so are her children. Luckily, I don’t live nearby so I’m rarely irked by them. But the squirrels live here. They’re as cute as my grandkids and, like them, never give a thought about the consequences of their messes. The tree rats focus only on their preparation for the oncoming winter with its cold temperatures, snows, and otherwise harsh conditions that challenge rodent survival. I don’t blame them, but I do have to contend with what they leave behind. The squirrels live here and interest me. I watch and then grab the broom; my partner just gets mad.
A week ago Saturday, I observed one of the three or four varmints who show up every day. She or he sat on a small branch harvesting. For twenty minutes the critter ate never having to prepare or even reach very far for its meal. She picked a pod, methodically removed the seeds, and dispensed with the rest. A pod landing on the clear plastic awning sounds like a low caliber rifle shot. The first hit was why I knew the squirrel was up there. I leaned back to watch. She chose a pod, worked it like I might an ear of corn except that she’d spit out the pod bites and keep only the seeds. When done in a few minutes or when she loses her grip, the pod falls. Bam. Then she may bite the stem of one of the compound leaves for a taste of something (perhaps flavoring) or strips off a bit of bark (her favorite) and then reaches for another pod. Perhaps due to my attention, she soon jumped from that branch to another and disappeared from sight.
I began sweeping the patio a few days ago. Each day I pick up two or three hundred chewed-on pods and dump them by the shovel full into the compost container. I tend to sweep when the sun gets low and the air begins to cool. The next morning reveals quite a few more pods on the patio, in flowering plants, sticker bushes, fountains, and on the awning. I hope this workout will be done before too many more days although I do get a bit of aerobic exercise and have improved my technique with the broom. But mostly I get a kick out of spotting our furry friends still at work high overhead.
© 11 Sep 2017  
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
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Reading, by Gillian

I was probably lonely as a child. I had good friends at school but when school was out I had no nearby children to play with, and I had no siblings. But I don’t recall ever feeling lonely as I was always accompanied by friends from books. (I originally wrote ‘from fiction’ but as The Bible was one of the few books available to me, I imagine some might take exception to including The Bible as fiction.)

I say few books were available not because of any failure on the part of my family to love books, but because paper was scarce in post-war Britain and so few books were published. There was a library in the local town but that was a long and infrequent bus ride away.

So my personal book collection contained four Winnie the Pooh books, published long before the war and once belonging to my mother, an old and very tattered family Bible, and a book called Mystery at Witchend by Malcolm Saville, a prolific author of children’s books in Britain in the 1940’s and ’50’s.

So I roamed the countryside accompanied sometimes by the roly poly Pooh and a bouncing Tigger, sometimes by all or some of the five children from Witchend who formed The Lone Pine Club and together had many harmless adventures and solved gentle crimes with never a hint of violence. Indeed the only violence I ever read about was in The Bible. But the Jesus who occasionally accompanied me was the gentle fatherly figure depicted in The Children’s Pictorial Bible which we read in Sunday School. Because of one of the pictures in this book, my friend Jesus always had a lamb draped around his neck like a fat wooly scarf. Looking back I rather suspect that my child mind had confused the picture of Jesus with one of the shepherds greeting His birth, but never mind. As Jesus and I frequently walked through fields dotted with grazing sheep my vision was appropriate enough.

Fast forward a few decades. I am in my early forties and finally coming out to myself, and very shortly after, to others. So. I was homosexual. A lesbian. What did that mean? Obviously I knew the meaning of the words, the definition, but what did it mean? To me, to my life. Where did I go from here? I felt very alone. Who could I talk to about all this? My friends might be very supportive, but what could they tell me? No-one I knew would have any answers.

So of course I turned to books and headed for the library. This was before the advent of internet so I searched through the catalog card files, in their long narrow boxes, for the pertinent categories. Although I was ‘out’ to anyone who mattered, I must confess to peeking furtively over my shoulder as I searched the LESBIAN section, the word seeming about a foot high and glaringly obvious to all who passed by.

There was amazingly little available regarding lesbians at that time, fiction or non-fiction.

What little there was, was awful. I rushed home with the few books on the library shelf, avidly read them, and wondered why I had bothered. Beyond depressing, they were just plain frightening. If this was where I was headed, I was in serious trouble. The Well of Loneliness, by Radcliffe Hall, was my introduction to lesbian fiction; one of the most depressing books I have ever read. The title alone, if you know that is the road you are now taking, is enough to to make you rush back in the closet and throw away the key. This book has become something of ‘classic’ in the lesbian world, in the sense that most of us have read it, though not a ‘classic’ in a positive sense as any mention of it is greeted by groans. I don’t recall now the titles of the other few books, but in all of them the lesbian character seemed destined for a life of abject misery, or suicide, or else they are saved by a return to heterosexuality. My reaction to this introduction to lesbian fiction was, essentially, what the hell have I done??

So, lacking new characters to jump from the pages and accompany me, I thought longingly of my childhood buddies. Somehow I didn’t think they would be much help. Pooh Bear would just sink his chubby head further into his honey pot, Tigger and Kanga are too busy bouncing and hopping to listen. Eeyore would say, as always,

‘It doesn’t matter anyway.’

But it does. It matters very much.

Those kids from the heterogeneous, clean-scrubbed families of Witchend, would look ascanse at each other and say,

‘Oh dear oh dear but this is awfully difficult,’

and probably run home to mother.

I, who do not identify as a Christian, actually did have a little chat with Jesus. And He actually helped. Asking myself the question what would Jesus do, I answered myself, with every confidence, that he would love me and accept me whoever and whatever I am.

Pretty soon, I discovered Beebo’s bookstore in Louisville and discovered that there really were positive portrayals of fictional lesbians. Claimed as the first of these is Patricia Highsmith’s The Price of Salt, in which neither of the two women has a nervous breakdown, dies tragically, faces a lonely and desolate future, commits suicide, or returns to being with a male. But by then I no longer had need for fictitious playmates. Women at Beebo’s had introduced me to the life-saving – or at least lesbian-saving – Boulder group TLC, The Lesbian Connection, which in turn introduced me to many wonderful women; real women, who in turn led me to my Beautiful Betsy.

With a real woman like that, who needs fiction?

© November 2017

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

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Finding My Voice, by Ricky

When I was a baby, I had a voice and I used it often when I was awake and hungry or wet and hungry or smelly, wet, and hungry. Did I mention that I used it often at that age? The wailing I used as my voice was rewarded with attention, dryness, and food. It served me well for a few months when I realized that I needed a new voice. So, I switched from simple wailing to irritating screaming combined with sobbing, sniffling, and whimpering. I was well on the way to training my parents to cater to my every whim.

I accelerated their training schedule when I added cooing, giggling, and laughing to my repertoire of sounds my voice could use. These were most effective in keeping my parent’s attention when combined with smiling.

They seemed easier to train when I began to teach them some of my language. It is truly amazing just how fast they learned to repeat after me words like: goo-goo, gaa-gaa, didy, wa-wa, ma-ma, da-da, and poopy. My greatest failure in their training program happened when I was two-years old. For some reason, my parents just could not understand the concept of “NO!” when I said it to them. I noticed just how frustrated we became when we realized that they just did not understand the meaning even though I tried to teach them the meaning at least 20 or 30 times a day. By the time I was three-years old, they finally understood and the level of frustration between us nearly disappeared.

After their training disaster when I was two, as I turned three I realized they were to long out of the womb to learn any more of my language. Since I was smarter and younger than mom and dad (no brag, just fact), I decided to just give up and learn their language instead of keeping myself frustrated by their failures. Communication between us then became clearer and life at home became more fun.

I became increasingly comfortable with my voice and everyone I interacted with seemed to like it also. That is, until I attended first-grade at the Hawthorn Christian School. Don’t religious teachers of non-religious subjects in a private Christian school have to obtain state certification to teach children? I guess not, because my first-grade teacher apparently had no understanding of child development and curiosity and desire to avoid doing things to displease adults. One day, a boy said a word the teacher did not like and had him come up to the front and put a small square of soap on his tongue. She then called two other boys up and did the same thing. Now, I had heard the word but did not know if that was the problem word. I wanted to know what the word was for certain, so I could be sure not to say it and get in trouble at school or at home. Therefore, I raised my hand and when called upon I asked, “What word was the problem word?” The teacher said to never mind. (I guess she did not want to teach, just for us to listen and obey). I then responded, “Was it ‘shit’?” (Not my smartest question.) Whereupon, she had me come up and put the soap on my tongue. I was so scared of my parents finding out and of the soap, my mouth went completely dry. Thus, the soap never dissolved on my tongue and her lesson was lost on me, much to my relief. Fortunately, after second-grade, I was off to public school in Minnesota and out from Christian school domination. This event marks the precursor display of my innate, and soon to be developing, smartassyness.

Since my father had taught me that human excrement was called “ish”, it was several years later that I learned the correct meaning of “shit”. Even when I was living on my grandparent’s farm for two years, I never heard that word. Grandpa and my uncle always referred to cow manure. My grandma did use the word “ish”, but I could tell she was giving it a completely different meaning.

In December of 1958, I did lose my voice for two-weeks due to laryngitis. When the soreness departed, I found my voice was a new voice. It was different, and I did not like it at first. It felt a bit rough due to the laryngitis I suppose, and I wanted to “clear my throat” all the time, but it didn’t help. I seem to be caught between a low tenor and a high bass when I sing, and I don’t do much of that. So, this is my voice now and I’m sticking to it.

© 23 October 2017

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