Tag: Life Stories

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Humor by Gillian

My parents both had a wonderful sense of humor, though each quite different from the other.

My mother loved words, so much of her humor involved quotations, jokes, and stories. She filled up dozens of little notebooks with such things and, apparently as a reminder to herself, lest she should slacken, an embroidered wall hanging pronounced that the day is wasted in which one has not laughed. Painfully correct grammar for such a relaxed sentiment.

As an elementary school teacher in an old two-room school she reveled in stories told by or about the children she taught, laughing the more with every telling. She would start giggling like a little kid herself. “Oh, you will never believe what little Jimmy Owen said this morning……..” and she was off.

My father’s humor, on the other hand, was, like him, much more quiet. Most frequently it necessitated no word at all, but rather an almost imperceptible eyebrow twitch, or my favorite, the one naughty wink, in my direction. Somehow I always understood what the joke was, what my dad’s gesture was indicating. I think we shared some very special intuitive connection there. Unlike my mum’s happy giggling, which lit up a room, my dad and I sat in silence without even our lips twitching to acknowledge our inner laughter. Oh such delicious secrets we shared in our secret mirth.

Rather unfortunately, I suppose, when my father did use a few words to facilitate some humor, it was usually at my mother’s expense though it was just silliness, never mean. And in a whole lifetime she never stopped setting herself up. “….you will never believe what little Jimmy Owen said this morning….” Dad solemnly winks at me and rises from the chair, heading to the door. “Edward! I was telling a funny story…” “Well, maybe we don’t want to hear something we’ll never believe…” And they’re off.

“Oh, Edward, honestly! You know it’s just an expression!” He sits obediently back down and hears her story, which is wonderfully amusing in it’s own right. We’ve had our little bit of fun.

As I grew older, I sometimes initiated the silent joke with my dad, although it had to be via a wink as I never learned to do the eyebrow-twitch thing in spite of endless hours of teenage practice before the mirror. I also, from quite a young age, spent considerable time and effort making my mother laugh. She loved to laugh and I loved to laugh with her, but one of my main youthful entertainments was making her giggle at inappropriate times and places.

It was the equivalent connection with my mother that the wink was with my father. She pretended to try to make me behave but really she loved it. I made her giggle in church, at school, during concerts and speeches. I especially liked to get her going somewhere like on the bus, where there was no bathroom. Her bladder-control was nothing to brag about and laughter could bring about some challenging results. “Ooooh Gillian, STOPPIT!” She’d whisper, shuffling in the seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

A teenage girl of the Fifties I had heard rumors that when a woman said no she really meant yes, and I have to say that in my mother’s case, with humor, it was true. The more she fought to control her helpless daughter-induced giggles during the graveside service, the more she loved it.

My parents had lost two children to meningitis before I was born, and I truly believe some intuition told me that it was my job to cheer them along. In any case, it served to bring humor to all three of us, and that’s a gift from the gods if ever there was.

My father developed dementia in his eighties, and had no idea who I was. He no longer winked at me, and my wink to him brought no response. My mother, amazingly, still had the embroidered laugh injunction beside her bed in the Nursing Home, though a broken hip had reduced the humor, along with most positive emotional and physical abilities, to a minimum.

If you ask me what is the greatest thing I inherited from my parents, I would say my sense of humor. If you ask me what I miss most I would say their sense of humor. And my father’s wonderful, wicked, wink.

© 2 February 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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Fondly Remembering Bernice by Donaciano Martinez

In a recent email message addressed as “Hello Manuelita” (my alias in Colorado’s underground gay subculture in the late 1950s and 1960s), I was notified that my friend Bernice passed away on January 13 from complications of high blood pressure following one or more strokes that caused extreme brain pressure for which doctors tried to relieve through surgery.

When I first met Bernice (alias in the gay underground subculture) in Colorado Springs in the 1960s, he was a teenager who had dropped out of high school and was studying to get his cosmetologist license from a beauty school that was located in the same block as the Chicano bar where my mother always worked ever since I was a little boy. Because the bar and beauty school were in the same block in downtown Colorado Springs, my mother and Bernice became acquainted long before I met Bernice. Upon talking to me in Spanish about him, my mother always referred to him as “Juanito” (little John) for his real name John.

After Bernice and I finally met, we immediately knew through our gay radar that both of us were gay. An effeminate gay man, Bernice had a great sense of humor and was fun to be around. Oh, my goodness, he could carry on during our many all-night social gatherings. The famous and outrageous drag queen Divine couldn’t hold a candle to the wit that Bernice had upon carrying on and on – everything from “Ooh La La” to “muchas meat” to refer to well-endowed men with whom he did the nasty. Shortly after I introduced him to several gay men in the underground subculture, he and my longtime friend Lolita (alias for Ricardo) became lovers. Because Bernice was estranged from his family and needed a place to stay, he stayed at my mother’s place for a while before moving in to a bigger house owned by Opal and her gay son Jerry.

My Chicano gay friends and I referred to him as “La Bernice” whenever we socialized. After getting his cosmetologist license, he got jobs in that profession at various beauty shops around town. My longtime Chicano gay friend Lorena (alias for Lorenzo), Bernice and I had a “night job” working for about one year as performers at a straight bar (of all places) that was patronized predominantly by straight military men from Fort Carson in Colorado Springs. Because drag was against the law in those days in the 1960s, we had to be extremely careful to conceal our male identities on stage and off stage. I was the choreographer of the many dance routines that Bernice, Lorena and I performed on stage at that straight bar located in the city’s extra-conservative district known as Ivywild adjacent to the super-wealthy district of Broadmoor. Yeah, I know, it was quite daring for us to do something outrageous right in the belly of the beast.

Because our performances at the aforementioned straight bar were risky enough, I was downright aghast when Bernice informed me that he was hired to perform as part of a chorus line of real-women dancers at the Purple Cow Bar (PCB) that was located at the entrance to the military base at Fort Carson. In addition to his day job as a “hair fairy” (gay parlance for cosmetologist), he worked his night job at PCB for over a year. Because he was so convincing as his female persona, his male identity never once was uncovered throughout the entire time he worked at that super-straight PCB.

Bernice is the one who introduced me to the military police officer with whom I had a very clandestine three-year-long relationship while I was a radical activist in several movements for social change. Because that was the era in which the U.S. military had a strict anti-gay policy, my partner’s position as a police officer required him to take special precautions while living with a radical activist who opposed the military draft and the U.S. war in Vietnam. We were keenly aware that any slip-up about our gay relationship would have resulted in my partner getting a dishonorable discharge and facing time in the stockade (military parlance for jail).

When Bernice moved away from Colorado Springs to the San Francisco Bay Area and later relocated to a peaceful rural area on the island of Maui in Hawaii, he always made an effort to keep in touch with me. He was a loyal friend to me and others who knew him down through the years. In addition to letters and cards several times a year, he also sent me wall calendars that were handmade by him. One year, he sent me a handmade colorful trinket that still hangs on the wall in my bedroom.

“If it wasn’t for John Henson, I don’t know what I would do,” wrote Bernice in letters to me about several health challenges he had the last few years of his life. Bernice always told me how he deeply appreciated the many efforts that John Henson (formerly of Colorado Springs in the 1960s, he has been a California resident for many years) made to fly to Maui in order to assist Bernice during periods of poor health. Their longtime friendship spanned six decades.

“After all he has been through, it is surprising that blood pressure was his downfall,” wrote John Henson in his “Hello Manuelita” email letter to let me know about the death of our beloved Bernice. “He will be missed,” added Henson upon expressing a sentiment that captures my own.

© 29 January 2014   


About the Author



Since 1964 Donaciano Martinez has been an activist in peace
and social justice movements in Colorado. His family was part of a big
migration of Mexican Americans from northern New Mexico to Colorado Springs in
the 1940s. He lived in Colorado Springs until 1975 and then moved to Denver,
where he still resides. He was among 20 people arrested and jailed in Colorado
Springs during a 1972 protest in support of the United Farm Workers union that
was co-founded by Cesar Chavez and Dolores Huerta. For his many years of
activism, Martinez received the 1998 Equality Award, 1999 Founders Award, 2000
Paul Hunter Award, 2001 Community Activist Award, 2005 Movement Veterans Award,
2006 Champion of Health Award, 2008 Cesar Chavez Award, 2013 Lifetime
Achievement Award, and the 2013 Pendleton Award. La Gente Unida, a nonprofit co-founded by Martinez, received the
2002 Civil Rights Award. The year 2014 marks the 50-year anniversary of his
volunteer work in numerous nonprofit situations.

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A Letter to My Younger Self by Betsy

1952

My Dear Betsy,

What were you thinking. What’s even more important, what were you feeling? For that matter, take some time to think about what you are feeling. Logic is good, but it can get in the way of feeling. Too much logic and you by-pass your feelings, you don’t notice them. How you feel about something is ever so important. After all, your feelings probably determine how you are going to behave, whether you are happy or not, and whether or not you are at peace with the world and with yourself.

I can’t really blame you for acting like you are lost. You ARE lost. It’s hard to look at your feelings isn’t it? You know why that is, don’t you. They are feelings you are not supposed to have. Against the rules of social behavior, right? You’re not supposed to have a girl friend. You’re supposed to have a boy friend. Boys are supposed to excite you, but they don’t. Well, you know, you don’t have to pretend they do. It’s okay to feel as you do about the girls. Have a girl friend, and if hers is a romantic relationship, I understand that it must be secret. Someday you will be able to be at peace with who you really are. It’s true. In the little town in the deep south where you live now, it is unacceptable; in fact, I know of no place where it is acceptable for you to be openly homosexual. The important thing now is for you to recognize your true nature and who you really are and then embrace that, and love yourself. You must be free to love and be loved.

© 10 July 2013

About the Author 

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

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Getting Caught by Will Stanton

Have you ever been caught…caught looking?  I have, and a lot of my friends have, too.  Sometimes, we just can not resist looking.  What is it that makes one human face more
attractive than another?  What is it that
makes someone’s appearance so astonishingly beautiful that it even can take
your breath away?  Believe it or not,
studies have been conducted on this question and some answers found.
Regardless of race, it has been discovered that there are
common factors among all that help to determine beauty.  Even babies were tested to observe their
responses to a large variety of faces and which ones they were most attracted
to.  All of the preferred faces had
features in common.  Of course, as we
grow older, we develop various preferences based upon our own ages,
circumstances, psychological needs, and experiences.  Our preferences often vary from the ideal
elements of human beauty.
Some of the elements of idealized beauty are obvious, such
as youth, good health, fine skin, and luxurious hair.  Then there are finer points, such as the arch
of eyebrows implying openness and friendliness, the wide spacing of eyes and
their bright clarity, and the youthful blush of cheeks and lips, attributes
that contributed to the origins of lipstick and rouge for the aging to imitate
youthfulness.  Another facial factor is
symmetry of features, that is, each side of a person’s face being identical in
a mirror-image manner.  This gift is more
rare than one might think.  Sometimes for
fun, pictures of people have been split down the middle, a right-side matched
with a right-side mirror-image, or a left-side matched with a left-side mirror-image.  The results can be surprising.  They may look like two different people.  I have noticed with one highly successful news
anchor than his face is remarkably asymmetrical. One eyebrow slants somewhat
down, the other dramatically down; his nose is not centered and curves to his
left, his jaw sits slightly askew, and his mouth is not exactly horizontal.  As a person, he is attractive, but I would
not call his physical appearance ideally beautiful.
Along with an attractive face, being physically fit and having
a well proportioned body certainly help. 
Just look at the advertising posters outside Charlie’s.  These physical gifts have been noted for
centuries.  All those Baroque painters, along
with those Greek and Neoclassical sculptors, can’t be wrong.  Of course, non-physical factors can influence
our perception of how attractive a person is, such as  brightness of spirit, charisma, intelligence,
and personality. 
What nature intended by attracting one human being to
another may have to do with assuring reproduction and the continuation of the
species; however, that factor may not account totally for same-sex attractions
nor beauty so intense that it creates an adrenaline rush and butterflies in
your stomach.  That experience can, at
times, prove to be embarrassing, especially for shy gays encountering good
looking guys.  There always is the risk of
being caught when engaging in surreptitious, prolonged glances.   Sometimes, we may be caught off-guard by a
sudden appearance of someone, and our startled responses may alert him to our
reaction.  You run the risk of being
caught.  A glazed look, panting, and
drooling are dead give-aways, too.
I’ve mentioned before a college friend whose roommate was
drop-dead gorgeous, and his big, blue eyes could melt any heart.  Supposedly, the young student was not aware
of his impact upon other guys until gay roomy explained it to him.  From then on, this freshman had his radar
turned on, and he soon detected every time that a gay guy was looking at
him.  He became quite adept at catching
them, and he enjoyed seeing their blushing embarrassment when he suddenly
turned toward them and looked into their eyes with those blue eyes of his.
Another gay friend was standing outside the gym when he
noticed, some distance away and coming down the sidewalk, a jogger in gym shoes,
little blue shorts, and nothing else but his wonderful self.  He was described to me as being like a young
Greek god with remarkably beautiful facial features, well defined chest, a
half-ounce of excess weight on his sculpted stomach, and skin like honey.  Some description!  Happening to have his camera with him, my
friend aimed his camera from some distance away and took a picture.  At that distance, he was sure that he was not
noticed, safe that is until the jogger came near, at which time he said, “Thank
you.”  The jogger immediately caught what
my friend was doing.  At least the jogger
appeared to accept and to appreciate the admiration directed at him.  I certainly admired him, once I saw the
photo.  Of course, he was only mortal,
and he may look like us now.  Too bad.
Getting caught can be rather dramatic when the encounter is
sudden.  On our campus, there was a very
long flight of concrete steps leading up a hill.  Impatient students would dash up those steps,
keeping their eyes trained on the steps rather than looking ahead.  Another friend of mine, Jim, nearly collided
with one of these young Greek gods coming down the steps.  When Jim suddenly looked up and came
face-to-face with this vision of loveliness, he exclaimed, “Shit!”  The startled student responded at first with
surprise but quickly gave Jim an understanding grin.
For those who are familiar with the remarkable film “Death
in Venice“ and
the character of “Tadziu,” who was the object of von Aschenbach’s fascination,
we also had a “Tadziu” on campus, albeit a few years older; and his name was
Peter, not Wladislav Mose.  Peter was so
astonishingly beautiful that even the homophobes stared at him, and that is no
exaggeration; they did.  Some gays on
campus were beaten up, but Peter never was. 
Straight guys seemed to be far too fascinated with Peter to ever
consider harming him.  On the contrary,
Peter once shared expenses with two straight guys in a van going to Florida for spring
break.  When Peter came flouncing down the
front steps to the van, and his house-mate called out, “Have a good time, and don’t
get any nice boys into trouble!,” their jaws dropped.   Apparently, the two guys overcame their
initial surprise, for by the time they pulled over in a rest stop for the
night, Peter ended up being, as he described it, “the meat in the sandwich.”  From what Peter told me, I don’t think that he
minded traveling with straight guys.
Peter also was an unabashed flirt.  He always knew when people were staring at
him; it was obvious.  He caught them all,
but he did not leave it at that.  He
deliberately would embarrass the observers by sensuously sideling up
uncomfortably close to them, pretending to be doing something else, but
obviously teasing the viewers.  He
occasionally would smile at them and not leave until the observers, now
beet-red, were thoroughly upset with themselves for not being really macho,
that is, not having had the strength and presence of mind to ignore Peter’s flirtations. 
Like Tadzio, Peter had long, golden hair.  Between that and his good looks, some of his
friends thought it would be a fun idea for Peter to go in drag to a big party
full of straight people to see how they would respond.  At first, he resisted, but eventually he
agreed to do it.  As it turned out, his
appearance was so stunning that a lot of the guys abandoned their dates, went
over to Peter, and were trying to chat him up. 
Their dates were furious.  Peter
was so convincing that he never was caught. 
He may have been, by nature, flamboyant, but he did not care for
drag.  He never did that again. 
 
Of course, there are some people who have so much
experience, so much self-esteem, and maybe so much money, that they seem
invulnerable to embarrassment.  Instead,
they see what they like, and they go get it. 
This happened with Peter in Florida
at least once.  The first morning that
Peter was in Fort Lauderdale,
he deliberately took a graceful stroll along the beach, wearing a flowing
caftan, and with the sunshine glowing in his golden hair.  He was fishing, and he immediately caught a
big one.  And, that is how Peter had room
and board for his entire stay in Florida.  The host’s name, however, is too famous and
prominent for me to mention it in writing.
I guess that whether a person is embarrassed or not depends
a lot upon his own nature, his upbringing, perhaps his religious or social
background.  For gay guys who were taught
that being gay is a terrible and unforgivable sin, or for gays who still are in
the closet, getting caught can be emotionally devastating.
There is a scene in “Death in Venice” when Gustav von Aschenbach enters a
hotel elevator; but just before it ascends, he suddenly is joined by an
exuberant group of youths including Tadzio. 
Von Aschenbach vainly attempts to maintain his artificial image of
disinterest; however, his eyes betray him. 
The lads pick up on it; they sense it, he is caught.  To his consternation, they begin giggling and
whispering among themselves.  As the
elevator door opens, von Aschenbach flees toward his room, thoroughly
mortified.   His emotions are so
overwhelming that he hurriedly packs up and heads for the train station to
leave Venice.  Of course, he is obsessed with Tadziu.  When delayed at the train station, he jumps
at the first excuse to turn around and come back.  Apparently, he subconsciously concludes that
repeating the opportunity to see the object of his fascination is worth being
caught.
I suppose that some habitual observers eventually may have
become insensitive to embarrassment themselves and choose brazenly to gaze
unabashedly as long as they wish.  They
should, however, be courteous and not make the objects of their admiration uncomfortable
by endless, rude staring.  My late
partner once said that he could not wait until he became old because he had endured
so many years of people staring at him. 
I never have had that problem.  

© 3 February 2013   


About the Author 



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

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To Be Held by Phillip Hoyle

If “to be held” is a goal, my relationship with the goal was one of slow, slow discovery. I have no memory of being held by my parents. I slept alone throughout my childhood since I was the only boy in the family. When as a little boy I went to my grandparents’ farm, I slept with Grandpa in his big Mission-style oak double bed. I recall he kidded me about having to build a wall of pillows to keep me from kicking him. I now wonder if he built the wall because I wanted to snuggle up to him, something he was uncomfortable doing. I’ll never know. One could say I am from a home in which touch was not withheld; it just wasn’t much of a factor, at least for this child.

In my early teen years I asked girls to school dances. I asked them because I liked to dance having been taught by my older sisters. In the junior high gymnasium we danced the Bop with its spins and fancy steps, the Twist with its aerobic benefits, and sometimes slow dances based on the Fox Trot. My favorites were several line dances the teachers taught us. I liked slow dances, too, for the holding and being held. Sounds pretty normal I guess. Anyway, as we danced, my ninth grade girlfriend rested her hand on my lower back, a fact that others noted and commented on. She was very short, and we danced very close. I had no objections. So we danced a lot that year hanging onto one another. Although at that time I wanted to dance with African American kids in line dances, it never occurred to me to dance with another boy. I had engaged in sexual things with grade school friends but none of my friends danced. I had never heard of boys dancing together let alone seen it. But had I imagined it, I’m sure I’d have wanted to dance with a boy, black or red, brown or white, or any other color of the rainbow.

In my mid-teens a new friend introduced me to a new kind of male-to-male sex that included the intimacy of kissing. I’d never been able to get myself to kiss a girl. I suppose I was still under the influence of my childhood groans during movie love scenes. I had no idea that the fact the hugging and kissing was between a female and a male could have anything to do with my lack of interest. Of course since I am music-sensitive, the introduction of sappy-sounding orchestral strings in such scenes may have really repelled me. But I readily took to kissing with my boyfriend. I didn’t realize that my kissing relationship with him was the kind that felt just right. I didn’t think in terms of either/or, either girl or boy. I just enjoyed what we did together and kept open my search for a girlfriend. In high school I dated several girls. We danced but didn’t fall in love.

Then I met a girl who with my grandmother was visiting our family. We attended a dance together. I danced close with this very sexy and enthusiastic young woman. In the car after we drove back home we held and kissed one another hungrily. She seemed to enjoy that I knew how to kiss even though I hadn’t been able to practice it for over two years, ever since my kissing boyfriend had left town. The next day she returned to her home a couple of counties away. I went off to college. I never saw her again.

I didn’t find anyone I wanted to kiss again for about a year. Then I met Myrna. We held hands. I put my arm around her. On the third date (the appropriate time according to discussions in the 1950s youth group I had attended) I worked up my courage to kiss her. We were parked late at night in the city zoo parking lot watching the lights caused by military maneuvers at nearby Fort Riley. The light show was nice, a novelty for her. Then I kissed her; she bit my ear. I thought, ‘This is something new,’ the effects of it shooting like lightning right down to my groin. I assumed she liked my kisses and maybe me. As it turned out she liked me just fine, but the bite was not a tease or a love bite; she was nervous. She would rather have only held my hand and continued liking her boyfriend back home (whom I never even heard about until years later). She’d rather have gone bowling, played volleyball, and skipped all the sexual, romantic things. But later, when I kissed her in front of several other students, right there in public, she opened herself to feelings she’d heard of in fairytales and assumed she had met her Prince Charming. In short, we married, had kids, and as a couple enjoyed living together with great intimacy—including a lot of touch, kisses, and sex—for years and years.

Still, I sought intimacy with a man. Ten years into the marriage I fell in love with him and basked in our occasional touch, our holding. Twenty years into the marriage I learned much more about my need to be held. My work partner, the senior minister with whom I’d served as an associate for seven years, died a sudden death early on a Sunday morning. I organized elders of the congregation to be at all the doors to greet folk and tell of the death as they arrived at the church. I was cast in the pastoral role for the congregation and realized that all I had learned about grief should be heeded for the whole group as well as for individuals. I didn’t have time to grieve for my personal loss. I bore the heavy responsibility, but I needed desperately to be held.

During the ensuing weeks, my wife and I kept to our normal patterns of intimacy. I held her. That was good. She remained responsive but somehow our pattern didn’t meet my needs. I eventually realized what I needed was to be held by my male lover, a man I’d been in love with for nearly a decade. He called by phone. I was pleased, but he did not come to the funeral. He didn’t come to see me in the following weeks. I didn’t think much about it at the time being too busy tending others. Still, I didn’t get held like I needed to be held. I seemed unable to ask anyone for what I needed. Eventually I did find a man to hold me. In receiving his fine care, I realized I had sought it because I was unwilling to call on my friend whose responses to me had always been unpredictable. I was needy beyond my past experiences.

I survived. I realized I needed a man-to-man relationship that would provide me more reliable and accessible contact. Eventually I found it. Then another. My needs pushed me into behaviors that spelled the ends of my marriage and career. I don’t say this as an apology for my behaviors or as an accusation against anyone. I tell it as description. I don’t expect other people to be more able to respond to life’s challenges any better than I. So I describe these experiences because the events and my responses revealed to me just how strong a need can be and how strong a pattern of behavior can be to prevent one from getting the need met.

I finally realized I needed to be held by the people I loved and who I knew loved me. I’m an old man now having entered a gay world where one can get sex rather easily, but the habits still restrict me; and of course there are the habits of other men as well as my own, habits that define asking and getting. They clarify experience, feelings, fears; mine and theirs. Sadly and stupidly I again find myself getting less holding than I believe I require.

I cannot write an ending to this story; I’m not yet dead! Who knows what the coming years may yet teach me about my need to hold and to be held?
Denver, 2012

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen practicing massage, he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists and volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot

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The Accident by Michael King

I’ve had so many accidents that I don’t know which single one stands out or has most affected my life. One was the first pregnancy that was unexpected and changed the course of my life. Knowing that I was to become a father guided all my decisions and thwarted opportunities but also provided some of my most rewarding experiences. Probably the other most life changing accident was getting my little finger nearly cut off.

I was working as a mold maker for fine arts bronzes and doing catering on the side. I got a call from a nurse in the lock-up psychiatric ward a St. Luke’s Hospital. It was her turn to do the annual Halloween party and she needed to do something with her mother so decided to hire me to do the party.

I had too much stuff to carry over to the hospital in the car so I borrowed a friend’s new pick-up. All went well. I was an interesting experience very different from any other as the behaviors of the patients were anything but normal. After returning home I was carrying the last load into the kitchen. Apparently the weight of my walking across the floor was enough to cause a mixing bowl to fall out of the dish rack and hit the sink breaking it into many pieces. One of the pieces wrapped around my little finger and severed the tendons and nerves. I knew I had to go to the emergency room, grabbed a towel, wrapped my hand and drove to St. Anthony’s. Blood was everywhere including on the leather seat of the pick-up. I felt myself losing consciousness and didn’t park very straight in the lot. I managed to get into the reception room dropped my billfold on the desk and fell into a seat letting the towel drop. It shot blood across the room. Almost immediately they were there to take me into ER. After about 1 ½ hours they got the bleeding to stop. I was weak and hungry. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and it was around 7 PM, I’m guessing. I hadn’t had a cigarette for hours.

I was going have to wait for surgery and even though I knew there were probably rules I lit up a cigarette and settled in for what became a very long wait. Of course I was told I couldn’t smoke there and I demanded they tell me where I could smoke because I sure as hell wasn’t going to go without a cigarette. This was in 1979. I was on a gurney and they rolled out into the hall where I was allowed to smoke. I’m sure that they knew that no matter what I would have gone outside or something and they had me pegged as a trouble maker and a number one asshole. Smoking in the hall would never happen today since there is absolutely no smoking in hospitals. There was no food available but at least I could smoke.

About five or more hours later I was finally taken into surgery. They tried to put up a screen so I couldn’t see the surgery but finally let me since I wouldn’t take no for an answer. It was so strange to see my arm devoid of blood and only the size of the bone. Each nerve and each tendon had to be reconnected by using magnification and miniature stitches. It took an incredible skill and was fascinating to watch.

Immediately after surgery I was taken into my room and the poor nurse’s aide was told in no uncertain terms that I was to have a steak immediately. She left the room shaking and I didn’t know if I would get food or not. It really wasn’t that long until someone else brought me a Salisbury steak. I still remember how delicious it was. I’m sure I must have felt a little guilt for having yelled, demanded and intimidated so many people, but I was also appreciative that it was over or so I thought.

My daughter was able to clean the blood off the leather seat of the pick-up. The following week was not comfortable keeping my hand above my heart and I was limited in doing anything while experiencing a great deal of pain. My mold making days were over. Catering was out of the question but I was optimistic and did the therapy and all seemed well. I had great movement with my finger as if the accident had never happened.

In December my mother-in-law came for Christmas. As I was setting up her room I lifted the night stand to move it a couple of feet when a tendon popped. I think it was Friday and since I was not in pain I decided to wait till Monday to call the doctor. I was in good spirits and figured it could be fixed. The next day I was horsing around with my son-in law when I caught my finger somehow I think on his shirt, another pop.

I was in no pain, and with the holidays we decided to schedule the next surgery in early January. We had a wonderful Christmas that year and I don’t recall being that concerned that I had no job and no plans. Somehow things would work out so I enjoyed the holidays.

The plastic surgeon wanted to do the repairs in his office. He had told me I had three options; cut the finger off, leave it dangling or redo the surgery. I felt that repairing it was the only choice. I didn’t think to question the decision to do it in his office and proceeded to have the microsurgery there only to find out that it was not covered by my insurance. If it had been in the hospital it would have been covered. Therapy was not covered either and I ended up with a crocked finger that constantly felt like it was asleep as it tingled for the next dozen or so years. I told the doctor that he would receive $25 a month for the rest of my life as I didn’t have access to the many, many thousands of dollars that I was billed for.

I had been studying The Urantia Book since 1975 and found out that they were opening a school in Boulder for students of the Urantia Book. I didn’t know how I could swing it but typed out the application with one hand and was accepted. 

That experience is among the best things that have happened in my life. If I had not had the accident I would not have gone to the Boulder School and I have no idea where my life would have gone. I found part time work and managed to graduate with the first class in 1984.

About the first week in December, 1982, I got a call from the surgeon’s office telling me that the doctor was cancelling my debt, “Merry Christmas.”

I don’t like to be superstitious and feel that it’s more that that. It’s more than coincidence, but a kind of guidance when my life has been turned upside down through happenings like the accident with my little finger which made an opening for a new direction and life changing events.

Denver, 7/22/2013

About the Author

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

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How Did I Get Here? by Gillian

How did I get here, to Denver?

The Queen Elisabeth ocean liner and the Greyhound bus.
Why? Because I was madly if secretly in love with a woman who was madly if secretly in love with a young Englishman finishing his Ph. D. at Ann Arbor in Michigan.

I would have followed her anywhere.

We left the port of Southampton on the South coast of England on a pouring wet day, surprise surprise, in October 1964. There were wild storms gathering in the North Atlantic but we were intrepid adventurers caring nothing for weather forecasts. Now at that time the Queen Elizabeth was the largest most luxurious ship afloat and the U.S.A not exactly uncharted territory so we were not quite jumping off into the wilderness, but we were in the spirit of the thing for sure.
This was indeed a magnificent ship and I was truly saddened when, in 1972, it sank ignominiously under mysterious circumstances in Hong Kong Harbor.

But I digress.

The crossing took six days and we had one relatively calm day at each end. The other four days made for one wild ride.
In 1955 “Lizzie,” as she was always affectionately known to the Brits, had been fitted with stabilizers. These cut down the amount of roll by over 50% but, because they head the ship directly into the waves, they increase the vertical displacement. The result, in the bow at least, is the feeling of constantly rising and falling hundreds of feet in an express elevator.

The bow was, of course, where the Third Claass bars and restaurants and ballrooms were located. We were referred to as Steerage passengers, however, because our cabins resided in the stern, within the endless roar of the huge propellers. (Though by that time, the official term had been changed to the more appealing Tourist Class)

1964 Cunard brochure picture

It never occurred to me to resent the luxury and relatively smooth ride of First Class. They could not possibly be having this much fun!

This endless elevator ride got to most passengers sooner or later but a handful of us, the intrepid adventurers, slid happily off our barstools, clambered bravely back on, and watched mesmerized as the huge windows pointed to the sky then sank seemingly forever beneath the water.

Each wave crest was accompanied by rather terrifying shudders and groans from the tortured body of the ship as it rested, horizontal for one moment, before crashing down into the trough.

The several sets of stairs were among our many activities. Going up or down them as they morphed from almost horizontal to vertical was certainly challenging, especially after an hour or two in the bar. Those with deck access were also pouring with water, adding to the overall fun.

I never got sick but my head felt as if it would explode after the first twenty-four hours in that express elevator. Each time we reached the wave’s crest it seemed as if the top of my head was lifted from the rest of my skull, then as we crashed it was pushed down behind my eyes and nose, my neck straining to hold it up.

In the narrow bunk at night invisible springs pushed up in the middle of my back, then a huge weight pressed down on my stomach. It was not conducive to sleep but the previous hours in the pitching bar took care of that.

After two days, the Captain decided we were ready for some variations in entertainment. Apparently, though none of us would have sworn to it, the storm had somewhat abated. We had lost time and, with a schedule to keep, would travel the rest of our way without the stabilizers, enabling us to regain some of that lost time.

I didn’t mention to anyone that my head was grateful for that turn of events, but little did I understand what lay in store.
The elevator rides certainly became less lengthy and a little less speedy, but were now accompanied by drastic sideways rolls seemingly every bit as pronounced as the vertical movements had been.

Serious sea-sickness prevailed.

Meals, for those intrepid explorers still with appetites, were nothing short of a circus. Wooden slats perhaps three inches high had been raised along the table edges to prevent dishes crashing to the pitching, rolling floor.
The Americans among us did reasonably well, grasping their plates in the left hand, their forks in the right, and shoveling in the food with all possible speed.

The Brits were a sad, hungry, helpless lot. We found it genetically impossible to eat without a fork in the let hand and a knife in the right. That left no hand available to retain the plate, which slid forward and back, left and right, at alarming speeds and gave little opportunity to capture your prospective meal. If you were really lucky some gallant American, having wolfed down his repast with comparative ease, would hold your plate for you. Otherwise you simply chased it around the table, knife and fork poised at the ready, as it careened like a pinball around the table.
With the stabilizers retracted and the storm abated, oh ha ha, activities resumed full pace. Can you even imagine playing ping-pong or pool under these conditions? Steerage, sadly, had no swimming pool but I had wonderful visions of swimmers being beached ignominiously on one pool side while the water sloshed back to the other.

The ballroom opened up and the live band played determinedly if rather staggeringly through all the favorite dance tunes. Now this was the age of touchy feely dancing when you actually had a partner whom you touched and, yes, there were proscribed dance steps.

The waltz and the foxtrot, remember them?
Slow, slow, quick quick, slow.

In that ballroom it was more like slow, slow, quick quick quick quick quick as the floor lurched, then wham wham wham against the starboard wall.

Followed by another sequence of slow, slow, quick quick quick quick quick and wham wham wham against the portside wall.

For the intrepid explorers, a laugh a minute!

No, we didn’t end up on Ellis Island but in a cold tin roof shed on Pier 41 with officials giving a perfunctory glance at suitcases and passports. Long before the age of terrorism.
Various jobs in various cities followed, until someone said, as I lamented the hot marshes of Houston, why not go to Denver?

So I did, and found God’s country.

I worked as a waitress at the White Spot café on Colfax, I sold clothes at the brand new May D&F store downtown, I slaved at the PizzaPlenty near DU.

I saved money for my return trip to a gray, still war-torn England.

“IBM’s hiring,” someone said, deftly twirling a pizza crust.
“Up in Boulder. Paying a fortune.”

And a fortune it was. $82 a week I started out at, four times what I had ever made since arriving in this land of opportunity.

I had found a home with beautiful scenery, near perfect climate, and I had a great job.

I never left.

The 1969 postcard I sent my parents upon my arrival in the USA

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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The Party by Will Stanton

The Party, Part 1 of 2

My 16th birthday.
No mention.
No gifts.
No guests.
No party.
No recognition.

No love.

The Party, Part 2

Later, a different time, a different place.
My partner arranged a party.
A celebration in our home.
A dozen friends attending.
Birthday cards, some affectionate, some humorous.
All dressed up, dinner for all at a French restaurant.

Camaraderie, friendship, and happiness.
A gift presented.

And the greatest gift of all, love.

© 1 January 2013

About the Author

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

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Elder Experiences by Ricky

When I was a young boy, parents and teachers always were giving orders some of which were demanded by society of that era. Parents and teachers both believed they were giving sound and correct instruction or at best directions on how to survive family and school life without receiving any physical pain as a result of not heeding their words; corporal punishment still being in vogue. Some youths were naïve enough to believe everything their parents or teachers would tell them. Of course those youths never got into trouble, but they did pick up some quite erroneous views of the world. Those of us who were skeptical about what the adults were saying learned the hard way the difference between an order and good advice; but we also learned early-on in life that not everything we were told was true.

I was definitely one of those who was smart enough to know some things I was told simply did not make any sense. Unfortunately, I was not smart enough to avoid pointing this out to the adults in control of my life so I received many physical corrections until I learned to keep my mouth shut… which I never did. What I did learn was to not say anything loud enough to be heard…sometimes.

Like many children of that era, I was constantly reminded whenever I would “screw-up” that I must always, “listen to your elders.” Naturally being a smart ass even at 4 or 5 years old, I just had to ask, “What’s an elder?” I was politely told that it was someone older than I was. I gave it a brief thought and then asked, “How much older?” They were not amused. I was finally told how much older after the spanking for mouthing-off to my father. I was not amused by the irony.
Also at a very young age I was taught, or so they thought, to eat everything on my dinner plate and become a member of the “clean plate club;” not to be confused with the Mickey Mouse Club, although they expected me to believe there really was a “clean plate club” and it would be nice to be a member. So I listened to them and obeyed. I enjoyed being a member of this club for a long time until that fateful day when I decided to voice my opinion (justifiably based on my gag reflex) that sometimes it just wasn’t possible to maintain membership each and every day based upon what exactly was placed on one’s plate.

That day was the first time big chunks of stewed tomatoes were presented for my taste buds to enjoy. I took one chunk and began to chew and swallow, when to my surprise and consternation, I nearly threw up as the mashed chunk made a valiant effort to slide down my throat which was trying very hard to close off and deny entry. I definitely did not want to make a mess so I desperately made the supreme effort and forced the offending blob to go down, but my throat didn’t like to be forced to obey one little bit. Therefore, in an extremely short time it notified my brain that it was through taking orders from me concerning swallowing stew tomato chunks; my brain duly noted the rebellion and notified me that it would be very prudent to refrain from eating any more of them. I readily agreed. This whole event took no more than 8 seconds from start to what I instantly planned to be the finish; closed book; a done deal. Boy was I in for a nasty surprise.

My super intelligent adults sitting at the same dinner table happened to notice the look on my face as I was facing this challenge and one of them leaping to an obvious conclusion said, “Is there something wrong?” Refusing to follow my first instinct of “keeping my mouth shut” to avoid punishment, I plowed ahead oblivious to the danger and told them that the stewed tomato chunks make me want to throw up. In their I-am-your-elder-voice I was told it couldn’t be true because I loved sliced tomatoes plain, with salt, or with sugar. Not only that, but I loved tomato catsup, tomato juice and tomato soup. All they said about liking tomatoes was true, but I could not understand why they did not believe me about gagging.

Consequently, in a display of their superior elder-wisdom and by virtue of their position of authority, I was told that I must clean my plate anyway. They then returned to eating their dinner and I sadly returned to eating mine. After they were done and I only had the offending large pile of stewed tomatoes left (well it was really only about four large chunks) I protested again and even resorted to some tears, but to no avail. Resigned to my fate I valiantly managed to eat two more pieces.

Little did I know that those two pieces strengthened my throat’s determination to stay closed and weakened my ability to force the issue. My brain just watched from the sidelines watching the battle between reflex and will power. Just eating those two pieces took me about seven or eight minutes and my elders expressed their opinions: first that they were right I could really swallow them, and second that I was just stalling, and third to hurry up as it was past my bed time. I put the second to the last piece in my mouth, chewed a bit and swallowed. At this point reflex overcame will power and my entire dinner returned to my plate.

The elders learned three things that night: their “wisdom” just might be flawed; they could still learn some things even if from a child (I was their first born so they really did have a lot to learn about kids); and that father does not always know best. From that night on I was never again forced to eat anything I didn’t want to eat. I learned that I could win a battle of wills, if I was in the right, which thinking still led me into trouble because I never learned which battles that I was on the right side of until I was old enough to leave home by joining the military.

Having won the “food fight” on a major technicality, I gave in to the next food issue which came up shortly thereafter. My family would frequently spend the evening with my dad’s sister’s family which included dinner. I had already had issues with the types of vegetables my aunt would serve; namely yellow squash and green beans. Now these two foods did not make me gag but to me the taste and texture was disgusting, which is probably a contributing factor in my elders refusal to believe me about my gagging over stewed tomatoes.

My parents and I had a few dinner table discussions about this during previous visits. After the above event, I was told that I didn’t have to eat all the green beans and squash, but I must eat at least one “bite” of squash and one green bean and to push the stuff around a little, occasionally, to make it appear that I’m interested in eating it. I did listen to them this time figuring winning one out of two was a pretty good split and I knew that the green bean and squash would not make me “sick”. I also liked the idea of fooling my aunt about liking what she fed me. So the elders and I both learned to compromise, but I didn’t realize it until I was much older.

12/5/2013

About the Author

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

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

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic. My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

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A Place Just Right by Phillip Hoyle


In contrast to some other members of my family, I’ve never been over-attached to any one place, for to be so seems somehow contrary to my nature. But one time I found myself living in a place just right. It happened when I moved with my family to Albuquerque, New Mexico. There I discovered a small city large enough to explore, exotic for me in its social and cultural mix, with an Old town that took me away from the day-to-day by offering me a world of fantasy and comfort. A city of visual contrasts including mountains, deserts, volcano cinder cones, lava flows, ancient peoples, Territorial and Pueblo revival architecture, an 18th century church dedicated to San Felipe de Neri, tall modern buildings, US Route 66 running right through its middle, home of the University of New Mexico with its Lobos. A city of museums, festivals, sports, arts, and more, Albuquerque hosted the annual Balloon Festival, but more than that, hot air balloons drifted over the city whenever the conditions were just right and they often were. And Albuquerque was home to the New Mexico State Fair with all the things one might expect from a Midwestern fair plus a strong Native American and Hispanic American presence.

And people just loved living there. And I was there in the right city working in the right church. Close to the university and just a block off Route 66, that church had become more democratic than any I’d ever worked in. A liberal and educated perspective dominated, and I fit in there having found a place and job that seemed just right.

In Albuquerque I could exercise my western and Indian fantasies, view art every day, enjoy mild weather, and eat green chilies regularly. And I moved there at just the right time of my life, when our children were ready to desert the nest and fly away. So Myrna and I were left alone with a wonderland to wander and explore. And we did so: two stepping our way through a cowboy world, running around with several groups of colorful friends, experiencing a diversity of activities and relationships we had never before found. The dynamic of the two of us discovering activities together was a most important factor in my feeling that I was in a place just right.

Something fine happened to me there in Albuquerque, yes something delightful and very costly to the new camaraderie Myrna and I were beginning to enjoy. I turned and turned like a Shaking Quaker until I found a place just right for me on the Kinsey scale. I was no longer worried over the concept of the scale—you know, the science of it all—but began celebrating my position between its #3 and #4 markers. Concepts were still present, of course, after all this is my story. I looked at the scale like a preference of conscious ego states on the Jungian-based Myers-Briggs Type Indicator and in my preferred bisexual place connected with my friend Ronnie and then with another man. The affairs were meant only to be “additions to the report” of my life, certainly not “a correction” to it. But there I was feeling all just right with myself and my buddies. The affairs ended when I left New Mexico but the feelings accompanied me to Colorado and eventually to Oklahoma and pushed me into a life away from my family. I had been to a place just right and nothing else felt like home. Oh, by this I do not mean Kansas where I grew up, not that kind of starry-eyed “There’s no place like home,” but rather, some other place just right, a relationship within me and with the rest of the world. And that feeling continues in various and exciting modes in Denver, my new place just right. And even in this board room at the GLBT Community Center of Colorado where when gathered with the other storytellers each Monday afternoon, I feel just right. Yes, a place just right.


Denver, July 8, 2013

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen practicing massage, he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists and volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot