Tag: Life Stories

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Point of View by Lewis

This is a subject with so many ramifications that I hardly know where to begin. So, I will start from the only “point of view” that I can possibly defend–how I see the world through a lens that is mine and mine alone.

As I see it, “point of view” is somewhat misleading in that what matters is not what the eyes see–that is, one’s environment–but how that image is deconstructed in the mind of the observer.

I will not attempt to expound upon the reasons that one person might look upon an image of President Obama and see the Messiah and another Evil Incarnate. Still, it is nearly impossible to come up with a story that explains my truth on this question. I didn’t just wake up one morning and decide to be a liberal. No; one’s political “point of view”–the only one that truly matters to me–is derived from the sum of decades of living, learning and being loved…or not.

My father was born in 1911. The only time I saw him cry was when he was describing how his parents had lost their farm–their four sons’ legacy–to foreclosure during the Great Depression. He was an ardent admirer of President Franklin D. Roosevelt and spent most of his adult life assisting farmers to obtain loans from the insurance company he worked for so they wouldn’t lose theirs. His work helped him to feel of use to society and he understood the important role that government can play in lifting people out of despair. Despite having been dealt a bad hand himself as a victim of polio at the age of 20, he was a lifelong Democrat.

Mother, on the other hand, usually played the role of victim. I don’t want to say too much about her, since “Mom” is the subject for next week. Suffice it for now to know that she was never comfortable in the role of mother and housewife and felt that Opportunity had walked right past her door without so much as a nod in her direction. She could never share in the joy of my little successes, nor could she even stand to hug or be hugged. She was racist and took no particular interest in politics, though I’m fairly certain that she usually voted Republican.

Theories abound as to why liberals and conservatives are the way they are. I agree with people like George Lakoff who think it has something to do with early home life. He believes that conservatives tend to have grown up in homes that are dominated by a strict, disciplinarian father, where punishment for nonconformance is swift and painful. Liberals, in contrast, are raised by nurturing parents who believe that honorable behavior can be modeled and taught through example.

I grew up in a household with one nurturing but passive parent and one who was strict but also passive. How I turned out to be an activist lefty I cannot explain other than to observe that I identified with my dad’s sense of compassion and general love for people. He, at least, could hold me on his lap and read the Sunday comics to me while pointing to the words so that I could learn many of them by the age of four. I admired him. I feared her.

My point-of-view most likely comes from my assimilation of my dad’s politics through association. As I have aged, my politics has evolved far to the left of anything my father could imagine, even as the politics of the Right has moved just as far in the opposite direction. Perhaps if he had not succumbed to a stroke in 1990, he and I would still agree on most political issues. At the very least, I would like to be able to tell him how much he had influenced my point-of-view. I think he would take some satisfaction from knowing that.

© 25 November 2013

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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One Summer Afternoon by Gillian

Betsy and I sat on our patio sipping our afternoon tea. It was an idyllic afternoon. The sun shone from a clear Colorado blue sky and the late summer flowers glowed gold in its reflection, while a few late hummingbirds buzzed the feeder. It was very quiet, with little traffic and few people about. It was one of those times the poet Robert Browning must have had in mind when he wrote that God is in His Heaven, and all’s right with the world.

It was September the 11th, 2001. Sitting on the peaceful, peace-filled, patio, we couldn’t seem to come to grips with the reality of what had happened, was happening, in New York. We, like everyone else, had been glued to the TV, watching in horror as events unfolded. Then we switched it off and it simply went away. And we sat outside, in our silent oasis, and tried to believe, or not to believe, what we had just seen. We wanted to go back in, turn on the TV, and see cheerful mindless commercials followed by the credits rolling as the awful movie we had been watching came to an end. But that was not to be.

That day changed this country, and us, in so many ways. We gave away our rights and freedoms in exchange for promises of a security that can never be a reality. But the changes we wrought on other countries half a world away were so much more, and so much worse.

After the horrors of the 2013 Boston Marathon, an editorial in an Afghanistan newspaper said, and I’m paraphrasing to the best of my memory, here, Welcome to Our World. Welcome to the fear, and the reality, we live with every day. Where will your drones strike next, and how many innocent people will be maimed and die, and how will we try to make sense of it?

My dream for the world is that it may be filled with September Colorado afternoons rather than September New York mornings. But why is that so hard to imagine?

© June 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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Little Things that Mean A Lot by Will Stanton

Big things, very important things, I already have addressed regarding my friend James: good character, warm personality, maturity, self-reliance, true friendship, respect, and loyalty. Little things, too, are important, especially cumulatively over the years of our friendship. Each little thing in itself, when spoken of, may not sound like very much; however, if one could hear the loving tone of voice or witness the kindness of the gesture, then one would understand how important little things can be.

On a very basic level, we each made sure that we did our share of housework and chores, although we each tended to gravitate toward our own preferences. He had become a good cook and took pleasure in my appreciation of his varied and delicious meals. I did most of the house renovation and yard work, and he always expressed his appreciation for all my labor, wiring, plumbing, building, digging holes for trees and bushes. At times, he would note my fatigue and remark, “You worked awfully hard today. I think I need to take you out for a steak.” We would go to a favorite restaurant, and within forty-five minutes, my energy seemed to come back. Somehow, he always knew.

Imagine our sitting together reading the Sunday morning paper. He stands up and says, “I’m going to the kitchen. Would you like more coffee?” Now, I am perfectly capable of getting up and going for my own coffee, but that little gesture of James’ reveals a lot about his kindness in thinking about others, even with little things.

James dressed immaculately and also cared about my appearance, too. He enjoyed seeing me dressed neatly and looking attractive. From time to time, he would buy for me some article of clothing, always in very good taste, knowing that I would make a good impression in public. Of course, I was half the age and half the weight at that time, so he had an easier task than he would now. I admit that, since he has been gone so long and my not having a G.Q. figure, I pay far less attention to fashion. I don’t have James to dress for.

Any gifts that we bought for each other over the years never were meant to “buy friendship” but, instead, were genuine tokens of his love and thoughtfulness. He cared about how I felt, being concerned if he sensed that I was frustrated or unhappy, and reached out rather than avoiding me if this was the case. He was genuinely happy to see me happy.

James was a voracious reader and knew a lot. We inspired each other with interesting conversations about a myriad of subjects. We truly were interested in each person’s opinion and always made clear our respect for the other’s knowledge and skills. He was an accomplished, published poet, and I took an interest in his latest project even though poetry was not my forté. He understood my passion for good music and, even though he played little himself, made a point of hearing me play and occasionally acquired sheet music for me. We also enjoyed a good joke. I could tell that he delighted in hearing my laughter because he knew then that I was happy.

We always remembered Christmas, birthdays, Valentine’s Day, and took advantage of those holidays to celebrate our friendship. He liked to plan little weekend trips and occasionally longer vacations for our enjoyment, and we took plenty of photos of the scenery and of ourselves together. He arranged a couple of photo sessions so that we could have portraits made of us together. He always was thinking of us, not just himself.

Even when he was dying of lung cancer, he still did those little things that he still could do to reassure me and to show that he was thinking of me. All those many little things, and big things, that he said and did over the years proved his undying love, a love that he expressed in a poem he wrote for me and presented to me so many years ago:

You,
Whose smile enchants
And laugh delights,
Whose northern eyes
Astonish blue,
Wait here awhile
With me beside
This summer world.
So songbirds hush
And watch the stars:
We’ll taste black grapes
And yellow pears
And speak of youths
Lovely long ago,
Whose love they sang
In ancient phrases
And melodies forgot.
Around your hair
Of morning gold
I’ll weave these bits
Of myrtle leaves
And lavender
And fragrant thyme,
While the faint moon
With empty arms
Goes down the west.
Sleep, sleep, love, sleep,
And when the dew
Falls on your lids
I’ll gather you
Beneath me
And encompass you
Against the chill;
I’ll warm you
with my trembling breath
And hold your lips
Upon my mouth
And drink your love
Until they wake,
Until the songbirds wake.
© 14 December 2011

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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Straight Friends Who Love Me by Ricky

Sadly, except for my siblings, my children, and my grandchild, I cannot think of any other straight people who love me. Not even my surviving aunts and uncles fall into that category. There is one straight person who tolerates me now. He once told me years ago that he loved me, but he has never said it again.

He was a school friend of my then 13-year old daughter. At one point my daughter told me he actually told his mother to divorce his dad and marry me. His dad is deaf, refuses to learn sign language, and is a drug addict. All his son wanted, was to have the same kind of relationship that my daughter had with me. The quirky thing about this is that my daughter asked me, if I married his mother, could my daughter marry him. I said no, unless they married before I married his mother. I find the mind of 13-year old’s to be very strange. It must be the raging hormones. I never figured out if it was their hormones or mine.

On the other hand, I have a few happy friends, who are very cheerful when around me, and probably even more joyful when not around me. Nevertheless, not to confuse anyone with these multiple designations, I will just call them my gay friends. To me they are as straight as my non-gay family members are, because to me, they do not appear to be bent or crooked.

It is rather depressing not to have straight friends, so I will end this story session with a happy little anecdote sent to me by a friend.

It was a dark and stormy night. Bob Hill and his new wife, Betty, were vacationing in Europe…as it happens, near Transylvania. They were driving in a rental car along a rather deserted highway. It was late and raining very hard. Bob could barely see the road in front of the car. Suddenly, the car skids out of control! Bob attempts to regain control of the car but to no avail! The car swerves and smashes into a tree.

Moments later, Bob shakes his head to clear the fog. Dazed, he looks over at the passenger seat and sees his wife unconscious, with her head bleeding! Despite the rain and unfamiliar countryside, Bob knows he has to get her medical assistance.

Bob carefully picks his wife up and begins trudging down the road. After a short while, he sees a light. He heads towards the light, which is coming from a large old house. He approaches the door and knocks. A minute passes. A small, hunched man opens the door. Bob immediately blurts, “Hello, my name is Bob Hill, and this is my wife Betty. We’ve been in a terrible accident, and my wife is seriously hurt. Can I please use your phone?”

“I’m sorry,” replied the hunchback, “but we don’t have a phone. My master is a doctor; come in, and I will get him!” Bob brings his wife in.

An older man comes down the stairs. “I’m afraid my assistant may have misled you. I am not a medical doctor; I am a scientist. However, it is many miles to the nearest clinic, and I have had a basic medical training. I will see what I can do. Igor, bring them down to the laboratory.”

With that, Igor picks up Betty and carries her downstairs, with Bob following closely. Igor places Betty on a table in the lab. Bob collapses from exhaustion and his own injuries, so Igor places Bob on an adjoining table.

After a brief examination, Igor’s master looks worried. “Things are serious, Igor. Prepare a transfusion.” Igor and his master work feverishly, but to no avail. Bob and Betty Hill are no more.

The Hill’s deaths upset Igor’s master greatly. Wearily, he climbs the steps to his conservatory, which houses his grand piano. For it is here that he has always found solace. He begins to play, and a stirring, almost haunting melody fills the house.

Meanwhile, Igor is still in the lab tidying up. His eyes catch movement, and he notices the fingers on Betty’s hand twitch, keeping time to the haunting piano music. Stunned, he watches as Bob’s arm begins to rise, marking the beat! He is further amazed as Betty and Bob both sit up straight!

Unable to contain himself, he dashes up the stairs to the conservatory. He bursts in and shouts to his master.

“Master! Master! The Hills are alive with the sound of music.”

© 28 October 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 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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Camping: With Apologies to Certain HOMOPHOBIC Boys Organizations by Ray S

The stair treads creaked and groaned when I took another step up to the attic storeroom of my grandma’s old Victorian house.

When I was a kid my folks, my brother, and I lived with Gram for about three or four years. Dad had been transferred from his post at Rocky Mountain National Park, back to the Park Service headquarters in Washington, D.C. It was supposed to be a temporary posting, so Gram’s house in an Annapolis suburb was where we all lived. My brother and I joined the Boy Scouts of America having already completed the prerequisite Cub and Webelos servitude back in Estes Park, Colorado.

Now, some twenty-two years later I return to Londontowne, MD to help with the disposal of the house’s furnishings in preparation for the sale of the house. Gram had decided to check up on our grandpa and see what shenanigans he might have gotten into since he had died some seventeen years earlier.

I reach the room that had always been set aside for storing old steamer trunks and miscellaneous luggage, out-of-style clothes and furniture, baby diapers (just in case one of the grand children produced another leaf on the family tree), old school books, high school and college yearbooks. There even is Gramp’s Army Air Corps uniform.

Digging around in a far corner I find my old camping stuff—the mess kit, canteen, and a number of merit badges that were never sewn onto our uniforms. Gram used to say: “Never know when these things will be needed again” or “Waste not, want not.

There it is—my official BSA pup tent! My search was over. My mission to the attic jungle room was to find the little tent to give to my neophyte Boy Scout nephew just in time for the upcoming Jamboree this summer.

Boy, does this bring back memories. I learned a lot more than knot tying and lanyard weaving in the clandestine shelter of that two-boy tent. Scouting covered a lot more territory than hikes, campfires, and all the pages in the manual. Adolescent boys came to Scouts but left Scouts—for better or for worse—as budding young men. Any vague acknowledgement in the manual, relative to sex education was unheard of and besides what hadn’t you already picked up in the boys’ room at middle school?

There was stuff you knew, you were warned about or outright threatened over and forbidden to do. Of course, that said, the warnings made it all the more tempting, even if some of us were just following the leader. The high point occurred when four or five of our troop hung out in the dark of a vacant garage was what is poetically named a “circle jerk.” Curiosity always spurred you on to pursue the forbidden fruits or in future years of the joys of hetero-, homo-, or bi- or just plain fooling-around sex.

Scouting camping is such fun, character building, healthful, teaches you how to get along with your fellows. Hopefully discouraging bullying and taking the Lord’s name in vain. Scouts Honor! And so many more virtues, and believe it or not, some of these do rub off (or in) to keep the spirit of “Love thy neighbor” alive in you all your life.

Of course there is a hidden disclaimer, just like the TV ads for miracle drugs, for all of the above; Parents, do you know where your little Boy Scout is or was?

Any volunteers for a sleep-over in a two-person pup tent on a camping outing?

© 17 March 2014

About the Author  


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It’s A Drag by Phillip Hoyle

I go to see Jeff at the bar that has drag shows and meet Twyla Westheimer. Across the room she sits dressed in midi skirt and patterned blouse, with large breasts, big hair, thick makeup, and looking slightly nervous. She’s primly perched on a bar stool sipping a drink through a straw. Although she looks familiar, I don’t know who she is. She stands and approaches me. Jeff, a new massage client of mine, laughs, tickled that I don’t recognize him in drag.

But Jeff isn’t the only reason I’m here. I like drag shows. I see the Denver drag queen who cracks me up the most, Brandi Roberts, a long-time friend of Jeff’s. Taking the stage, Brandi warms up the crowd, makes announcements, and provides one of the most bizarre performances I’ve seen from her or anyone else. If her opening minutes are any indication, tonight’s show will be a winner.

I find myself intrigued by drag queens. This interest began years ago when I first saw a drag show and increased when, in a seminary course about contemporary contexts of ministry, I started asking questions about them. I’m entertained by a good performance, but mostly I’m intrigued by the men who do the impersonations—their psychology, personalities, motivations, and lives.

Brandi always gives a good drag performance, but off stage she lives an even more complicated full-time gender-bending life complete with female hormones and the $5000 breast job she’s telling us about on stage. I feel so rich since I get to be around Brandi on a regular basis. She now styles hair in the same shop where I give massages. In fact, she arranged Jeff’s first massage with me. She appreciates my interest in her life and my attendance at her shows. I welcome her openness and great humor. Brandi may be as complicated a personality as I have ever known; certainly she is exotic in some sense of the word, plus candid, creative, and casual. With her it seems that anything can be said, anything can be done, and anything can be accepted.

Of course, I remind myself that my observations are very limited. I wonder if I find her so intriguing because in her I see none of the defenses that define my personality. I have run into very few of the challenges she experiences and endures daily. But around her I feel like I’m with a combination of several friends from my past: Susie, a very free and funny professional horn player; Dianne, a massage therapist who introduced me to wild life in Denver; Andy, a young artist of great wit and humor; Ronnie, who years ago entertained me with his sexual openness; and Ted, who told me that in San Francisco he was exploring his feminine side. With Brandi I encounter talent, individualism, comedy, good humor, and a passionate engagement with life. I like Brandi. Her life seems the banquet that Auntie Mame was sure most people were missing. The show proceeds.

Crystal Tower, a six-foot-six-inch tall African-American drag queen, enters down the hallway since with her big hair she is too tall for the small stage. I chuckle when her hair piece of huge curls is jarred loose by the door lintel. She keeps her poise and strikes a pose as the musical introduction continues. I’m wowed by her presence: tall, imposing, and important as she stands there in a long-sleeve, ankle length gold lamé dress. Crystal Tower has the stage presence of Nina Simone and delivers a soul piece I’ve heard that segues into a driving R&B piece I’ve not heard. She’s convincing whomever she may be impersonating; I’m impressed. She takes the dollar I wave to get her attention. At the end of her act, she acknowledges the applause with a gracious curtsy.

Scotty Carlisle now enters on stage in a short dress covered with red sequins. Her earrings and large necklace of rhinestones reflect the lights wildly. At age seventy-two, this drag queen shows the legs of a twenty-year-old beauty queen. Scotty looks great and wins the crowd with two torch song impersonations. Red is her color; no doubt about it. My partner Jim and I both approach the stage to give her our dollars. Jim has known her for years. Her saucy, sexy, and scintillating performance pushes along the show.

I sit in a terribly worn-out chair drinking too much beer, and as a result get up to go to the restroom. I’ve already done it too many times and self-consciously wonder what others may think of my many trips down the short hall. But I have to do it anyway. My bladder doesn’t hold all that much. I surely will pay for it tomorrow morning. Oh well, at least I haven’t run out of dollar bills to give the performers.

Finally Twyla comes onstage. I’m pretty sure now I recall her character from some eleven years ago when I met her at a party, a Sunday afternoon ‘I’m-running-for-royalty’ announcement affair. At the gathering Jazz Ann was announcing her candidacy, but Twila, her competition, was there. Jeff asked me if I had voted for Twila. I admitted I did not that year but assured him the following year when he became the great empress of something cosmic I did vote for him. Drag queens have long memories; at least this one does. Whether I actually voted that next year I don’t really remember; my little white lie was probably worthwhile. On stage now Twila wears a different tight-fitting stretchy blouse, extreme miniskirt, blue stockings, high platform heels, and a blue wig (I thought it was going to be chartreuse). Sexy, pouty, and sometimes coy, she’s quite a presence and a great contrast to the man I see in Jeff. Still, he seems sure of himself, and he must be a great planner given his successful career and entertainment hobby. I applaud and whoop and holler enthusiastically as he lip synchs one of his favorite songs that I don’t really know. I am happy to be here; and Jeff is wearing one of Brandi’s blue wigs he tells me as I hand him the rest of my dollars. Jim and I are on our way out to return home. On the short walk, I think of the drag queens and realize that their world despite its name is never a drag.


© 23 November 2012

 About the Author

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot

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A Visit to the Doctor/Nurse by Lewis

This story is not just about one visit to a doctor or nurse. It involves multiple visits to several doctors. But it is all just one story. It does not have a happy ending. Nor does it paint a particularly flattering picture of the state of the health care industry in the U.S. today. The names of the medical professionals have been abbreviated to obscure their true identities. The source material was not my personal recollection primarily, though I was present for each of the events, but was taken from my late husband’s personal journal, written at the time of the events in question.

In the summer and fall of 2003, Laurin’s PSA level began to rise. He was 77 years old. At one point, his PSA level was measured at 19–almost double what was considered to be on the high side of normal. His doctor, Dr. S, recommended a biopsy of his prostate. On this particular visit, Dr. S. was accompanied by a young female intern, who was “shadowing” him. Dr. S. asked if it was OK if she was present for the visit. Laurin consented.

In the corner of the doctor’s office was an unusual type of lamp. It rested on the floor with a long neck that curved from vertical to horizontal and had a small, elongated but high-powered lamp on the end. I asked Dr. S. what the lamp was for. He said, “I’ll show you”. He asked Laurin to lie back on the examination table and pull down his underwear. He placed the light at the end of the lamp under Laurin’s scrotum and turned it on. With the light behind it, the scrotum became translucent. Dr. S. said, “See that? That’s water.” I could not begin to imagine what his point was.

Our next appointment was even more bizarre. It was a Monday. Apparently, Dr. S. was intending to perform the biopsy on Laurin’s prostate. However, Laurin and I were both confused on that point. Consequently, we had not done the necessary prep. In addition, Laurin (and I) had a number of concerns about possible adverse effects of the biopsy. (Biopsy of the prostate involves inserting an instrument through the anus. Triggering the device causes a hollow needle-like device to penetrate the wall of the rectum and snatch a bit of tissue from the prostate gland. If any procedure is likely to invoke queasiness in a male patient, including me, it is this one.)

Dr. S.’s response was to basically go ballistic. After assuring us that complications have arisen from less than 0.1% of such tests he added, “If you (meaning Laurin) were a 5-year-old, I would simply tell you to lie down and take it.”

Well, that was the end of our doctor-patient relationship with Dr. S. We started seeing another urologist, Dr. H. He informed us that Laurin’s PSA was at 9. No explanation was given for the apparent sudden drop. In addition, Laurin’s Gleason Score–a measure of the aggressiveness of the cancer–was 7. These numbers are borderline-positive for Stage IIa prostate cancer.

The recommended therapy for Laurin was radioactive seed implants, also known as internal radiation therapy. This involves inserting a large number of tiny pellets of a radioactive isotope, such as plutonium, into the prostate gland. In Laurin’s case, approximately 70 of these tiny pellets were placed, one-at-a-time, into his prostate by a radiological oncologist, Dr. T. The patient is given a local anesthetic and the process takes less than an hour. The after-effects are mild and short-lived. I was in the waiting room of the doctors’ clinic the entire time. Eventually, the prostate dries up–I won’t say is fried–so that it looks like a date…or raisin, I’m not sure which.

On one of the follow up visits with Dr. H., Laurin was in the examining room waiting for more than a few minutes. When Dr. H. came in, he couldn’t find some instrument that he needed and in a pique of righteous rage at the negligent nurse, with his arm swept everything on the counter onto the floor. I could hear the commotion in the waiting room. Time to look for urologist number three. (Some time later, I asked Dr. T, the radiological oncologist, who was really quite civil and was himself suffering from a rare form of bone cancer, “What is the deal with urologists, anyway?” He answered to the effect that urologists are notoriously emotional creatures, which I interpreted as, “When it comes to your dick, don’t get sick.”

Recently, medical researchers have been telling men that they should stop getting routine PSA tests if over a certain age. They tell us that a very high percentage of us will develop prostate cancer–somewhat like Alzheimer’s Disease–but that it is very slow growing and we could very well die of some other cause first. Laurin was given similar counseling by Dr. H. early on. Yet, doctors don’t put croissants on the table by not treating disease. I don’t know what Laurin’s life would have been like had he not had the internal radiation therapy. I do know what his life was like for years after the treatment, however.

Fecal incontinence, according to Dr. T., affects only about 5% of men who have had the seed implants. Just another seemingly inconsequential factor in balancing prostate cancer treatment against letting it run its course. Other friends of mine who have had surgery to remove the prostate ended up with a perforated rectum or lifelong impotence. In terms of the impact upon a man’s quality of life after age 75, I would have to say that fecal incontinence must be the worst of the three side effects. The horrors Laurin and I went through are too embarrassing and humiliating to attempt to describe here. Let me just say that they led to him having to put severe restrictions on his social life, undergoing a colostomy, and suffering the complete loss of his self esteem.

Let me end this diatribe with this caveat: the medical profession will never say “No” to a decision to fight cancer with everything you’ve got. Medical costs during the last year of life account for an enormous chunk of Medicare dollars expended. In America, we tend to believe in “fight to the last ounce of your strength” or, as Dylan Thomas wrote:

“Do not go gentle into that good night,


Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light”.

However, if the light has faded to a dung brown, perhaps it’s dying be a blessing.

© 22 June 2013 




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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What’s Your Sign? by Gillian


I’m a sign of the times.

I am a woman with more freedom than any previous generation in the history of humankind.

I have freedom of expression, and self-determination of my life, which women of the past could scarcely dream of.

I vote, a privilege not extended to all women in the U.S. until 1920, with the passage of the 19th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, although in Colorado, women gained the right to vote in 1893.

I have complete control over my own property, a privilege not extended to American women until 1900.

I can even purchase my own property, a privilege I was astonished to find not extended to me in 1966. I had a good job and determined to buy a house; a very modest, two-bedroom frame house, the likes of which have mostly become “scrape-offs” in recent years. However, I found that although I could qualify with my income, I could not get a loan. This refusal certainly had nothing to do with my being a lesbian; it would take another 20 years for ME to figure that one out! It was because …. What would happen if I became pregnant? As an unmarried woman I had no one to pick up my debts when I had to quit work. (Hey, perhaps being a lesbian might actually have been an advantage!) Poor innocent little ol’ me. I had no idea that only one in a thousand women (0.1%) owned homes in 1960, but, WOW, by 1970 we zoomed all the way up to a shaky two in a thousand (0.2%). Currently, single women are around 20% of homebuyers while single men account for only 10%.

Just in my lifetime, how things have changed. I own my home, I own and drive my car, I manage my own money. I haven’t worn a skirt since I retired; I am free to follow fashion or ignore it. I am free to follow social mores or ignore them.

I talk about religion and politics, very much verboten in my youth, and, still worse, about sex!

I have lived with my beautiful Betsy for over 25 years. Far from causing us to live in fear, this fact does not seem to faze anyone among our acquaintances, friends, and families. And now, in July 2013, neither does it, according to the Supreme Court, threaten all those straight marriages out there. Which, by the way, are failing at a rate exceeding 50%.

Like many older people, I get a bit curmudgeonly at times, bemoaning today’s world and muttering on about how things are not what they used to be.

How happy I should be that they are not!

I have lived, and am living, in the best possible time.

I am indeed, and delighted to be, a sign of the times.

© 6 July 1913 

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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May They Rest In Pieces by Betsy

I started smoking cigarettes in high school along with most of my classmates. It was, after all, the thing to do–the cool thing to do. Seventeen years old or so, we were old enough, cigarettes were relatively inexpensive at the time, and it was a way to feel more grown up thanks to the magazine ads. Smoking at home or in the presence of my parents was not an option for me, but that was not so important. What was important was us kids smoking in the presence of each other. The same was true in college only by then smoking with my parents was acceptable and absolutely everyone smoked it seemed. Makes sense. The tobacco industry was in its hay day at the time making more profits than ever and more than most industries.

That was the 1950s. Fast forward about eight years. Now a mother with young children cigarette smoking was not so fashionable and smoking’s hazards to human health were beginning to be realized and made known to the public. So my husband and I gave up the habit and became nonsmokers or rather ex-smokers.

Quitting then was not easy. But it was do-able and we successfully went cold turkey one day.

In the early 1980s my life started to change. My children were grown up, I started the coming out process, I knew my marriage would end as a result, and I felt the need of a crutch other than my support group. So without even thinking (big mistake!) I turned to my old friend, cigarettes. I could always quit later. No problem. I had done it before.

One week of the addictive behavior and one week of inhaling the addictive substance and I was back to where I had left off all those years ago–smoking at least a pack a day. Only this time I knew that it was hazardous to my health.

I must have felt some shame in my behavior because I didn’t want my husband or children to know I was smoking. So I did it in private. Never mind. I needed it now and I could quit later. I had done it before.

By 1990 my life had calmed down. I had gone through an amicable divorce, I still had the stable job I loved, and I had been through two stormy short term relationships, and I had met Gill, the love of my life and we were now in a committed relationship. I hated the fact that I smoked cigarettes, but I was truly hooked. I tried and tried but I couldn’t stop. I read books and articles on the subject, I took classes, I went to support groups, and there were a multitude of groups to choose from. Many people were trying to quit smoking in those days. In fact “how to quit smoking” was becoming a profitable industry. Advertisements for quitting smoking aides were abundant. I often wondered about the ad that declared that you could “quit smoking in less than two weeks” using their technique. Please. It takes at least ten years of not smoking to know that you are finally unhooked.

I will never forget one of the groups that I attended for only one trial session. The leader was ruthless. She was paid well, I am sure, because the cost of the class was considerable (if one chose to join it after trying one session). That leader, in the course of performing her job, humiliated a man who confessed that he had given in to temptation and had lit a cigarette but had not inhaled. She literally kicked him out of the group in front of everyone for the sin of backsliding. This action, I am sure, was supposed to be a deterrent to back sliding for the others. Well, it deterred me from paying the considerable fee and going back to that group.

A couple of years of this back and forth in and out of smoking behavior was becoming tiring and trying. My main problem was not so much the addiction to the behavior and the substance, rather I hated being dependent on something, especially something that was not good for me in any way. How many packs of cigarettes did I buy, smoke one and then throw the rest away somewhere like in a dumpster where I could not get to them later when the craving started. It was making Gill crazy too. “Either quit smoking or quit quitting, she said one day.”

Of the many words of advice I read on the subject, two in particular stuck with me. “Realize and accept that you will fail and back slide maybe many times even after you have made a strong commitment to quitting,” I read. Do not beat yourself up for this; do not view yourself as a failure. When it comes, wait the craving out. It WILL go away. Just keep trying and keep up the commitment.

The second piece of advice I found helpful for some strange reason I do not understand, was this. Make it a ritual. Take cigarettes outside and bury them deep in the ground, say goodbye, and grieve for them. One of my last cigarette purchases succumbed to this act of finality, this memorial service. For some reason it worked for me. Maybe I was just fed up and ready. Whatever the reason all I can say is “may they rest in pieces.”

© 28 January 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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My Didn’t It Rain by Ricky

(Or Did It Rain, Rein,
Reign?)
         
A poet once wrote, “Rain, rain go away and come again another day for little Johnnie wants to play.” On rainy days, when I was little, I really liked that poem and would repeat it over and over until I realized the raindrops kept falling (on my head, they keep falling…) and my mother would finally tell me to be quiet and go play outside in spite of the rain. It didn’t make much sense to me because, she also said, “Don’t get dirty.” Apparently, getting wet was okay but not wet and dirty at the same time. So tell me, how is a little boy supposed to play in the rain without getting dirty? How is that any fun? It is definitely awkward to be the lone boy on the “sidelines” watching all the neighborhood boys splash in puddles, run through patches of mud, and even throw mud-balls at each other. Then, to add insult to injury, when called back to the house for the eventual “time-to-come-home” routine, mom would have me take a bath before dinner. What’s up with that? I could have had some fun just by being naked in the bathtub all day playing with my rubber ducky instead of being frustrated and jealous of all my wet and dirty playmates. Moms just don’t understand “boy-fun.”

The first “single date” my future spouse and I took was to the Mariana Caverns in NW Florida (a two-hour drive east of Ft. Walton Beach in the panhandle). About 30-minutes prior to our arrival it began to rain. By the time we arrived the rain had lessened to a light drizzle. I guess I must have commented (well, maybe bragged a bit) about building fires without matches while in the Boy Scouts. Naturally, like many young women I’ve met, Deborah thought I just made that up so, she challenged me to prove it. Like any young man, I could not just ignore the challenge (or maybe it was a dare) so I did it. After lunch was cooked on my matchless fire, for my punishment for showing her not to doubt my word, she did the “mom thing”; “John, let’s go walking in the rain.” By this time I had my “spirits” dampened by rain for several years at home, by excessive rain and wet sleeping bag during scout campouts, and rain during Air Force basic training situations so, I was not the least bit interested in walking in the rain. But, since I had no bath tub with rubber ducky in my car, in order to make a counter offer, I went with her on the walk. I’m sure if you could have seen my posture and the look on my face, they would have mimicked the illustrations of Alexander in the book titled, Alexander and The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. [On the bright side, I’m sure I didn’t accidentally call Australia.] In spite of Deborah’s assurances that I would not melt (because I wasn’t made of sugar and spice) I nearly did. Contrary to public opinion, snips and snails and puppy-dog tails are not waterproof.  
[Just for the record: I may not be made of sugar and spice, but I do
have a large chunk of “everything nice” within me—probably because I like to
eat chocolate and Baseball Nut ice
cream from Baskin and Robins.]

At one time I lived in Tucson, Arizona, with the family of a retired Air Force member. One day four of their children and I wanted to go to see a movie. So, we piled in my little two-door, four-cylinder Opel Kadet station wagon and set out. About half an hour earlier there had been one of those famous Arizona desert “gully washer” downpours; the kind that generate flash flood warnings. Time was pressuring us to arrive prior to the movie starting when we approached a “low” spot that had about 20 yards of cross-flowing water over the road. I was young and all grown up at 22, but still stupid, I decided that the movie was worth the risk of trying to drive through the flooded road. At the deepest spot, water was splashing over the front of the engine hood and appeared to be about 1/3 to 1/2 ways up the side of the driver’s door. We made it across, but I believe if I had been alone in the vehicle, it would have floated away.

Once, while in the forest with a female friend, I was saved from injury and embarrassment by about 3-feet of rein. We had come to a small creek and my friend had crossed easily. However, when I got there my horse balked and tossed me over his head, but I held tight to the reins and so landed on my feet. I smacked the horse alongside his head with the reins, got back on, and the horse walked calmly across the creek. Even on horseback, water and I don’t mix but this time the rein was my friend.

Genesis Chapter 2, Verses19-20 describe how God gave Adam the task of naming all species of animals. We know that many species of creatures are now extinct and yet thousands remain. I can just imagine Adam reaching a breaking point one day and sassing God about not having any more ideas for names, which resulted in a small cloud dumping a bucketful of rainwater on Adam and the creature standing next in line to be named. Adam recognized the hint, so that’s how the reindeer got its name. The name is misspelled due to a dictionary printing error centuries ago.

My spouse, Deborah, loved to do genealogy research on our family-lines. She discovered that she is a distant descendant of King Harold of England. He was involved in a six-month reign until he met his end at the Battle of Hastings in 1066. I guess he never heard, “He who fights and runs away, lives to reign another day.”

Eric “The Red” is another distant ancestor of Deborah’s. While he was more infamous than royal, he is the father of Leif Erickson, the probable leader of the Viking expedition, which landed in North America. Eric may have owned a herd of reindeer and I’ll bet he spelled it correctly in Runes as he had no dictionaries to confuse him.

© 17
October 2011

About the Author



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

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

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

My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.