Tag: Life Stories

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Singing by Michael King

As with any group they are both unique and still have similar dynamics as other groups. Once in awhile there is that peculiar charm that you want to see what will come up next.

If nothing else the particular combination of this group is unusual. The leader, Crow, seems unlikely to be the one filling that spot. He is brash and not very musical and it seems strange that the others even put up with him. They don’t especially seem to mind his almost unpleasant guidance. Canary does most of the solos. He is somewhat conceited, but as far as talent goes he is considerably the best singer in the group. Bantam is not especially musical, quite cocky and if not a friend of Duck he probably wouldn’t be interested in the group. Of course Duck isn’t especially musical either but likes the friends he’s made there and since Bantam and He are a couple, Bantam tags along. They never do solos and usually contribute little to the music but their strutting and showmanship does contribute to the total feel of musical presentation. Pigeon has a hypnotizing coo. Meadow Lark, Quail, Robin and Finch round are the other singers and each has their own individual style.

When performing they put on quite a show and are very popular. They do a few concerts but mostly are invited to be the entertainment at conventions, special events and in church services. Crow gets most of the gigs. He seems somewhat in the background during performances and snoozes with the various leaders and Ministers and is able to keep the group fairly active.

In rehearsals, a very different situation exists. Of course Bantam and Duck are a group all by themselves. Meadow Lark, Robin, Pigeon and Quail are a clique. Finch and Canary are close and in performing often do a duet. The effect of the various combinations can be especially moving at times. In between the songs the squawking, shrieks, caws, crowing, honks and chirps are anything but musical.

Fortunately that only occurs at rehearsals. The performances are well presented and have both style and class as well as the surprising tonal and variations in the musical style that exists nowhere else.

It has been over 60 years since I heard The Musicians. They were a part of my childhood and I became very close to several of the members. My experience seems to me to be somewhat unusual. My older sister is five years older than me and my younger sister is four years younger. Alone on the farm with almost no contact with either or my brother that was seven years younger or the neighbors who were too far away, I spent my time with the farm animals, the wild birds and various wild animals from time to time. I don’t recall much music from the radio or records. I preferred to be outside when my health permitted and I learned to be with my own thoughts without language or culture. I was in awe of other kids when I went to school and didn’t learn to make friends until I went to College. The sights and sounds of the farm was my world and my friends and the visitors from the bird and animal kingdom were the entertainment. I enjoyed their performances and assume that they put on shows when I wasn’t around. Surly they had many audiences. They were The Musicians that influenced my life. After all who else would go to a bird concert and hear the songs and arias of the farm. It’s just something that the city folks missed out on.

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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House Cleaning by Merlyn

I did a mayor house cleaning 2 years ago when I left Portland. Almost everything that I hadn’t used in the three years before I left Portland I sold or gave away.

I live in a small studio apartment that’s easy to keep clean. I have a place for everything and don’t keep things I don’t need.

I can fix a whole meal and only have two or three things dirty that I wash right after we eat so there’s never anything dirty in the kitchen sink.

I use one coffee cup for coffee, tea and water and one wine glass.

I have never cared much about fashion; I wear something until it is dirty and then put it in the dirty clothes basket. So there’s never a pile of clothes that were only worn for an hour or so on the back of a chair.

I like a clean house. When something needs to be cleaned I clean it, but I don’t get carried away house cleaning.

About the Author

I’m a retired gay man now living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for the unusual and enjoying life each day.

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Memorials by Colin Dale

Think back to a time in your life when you are up in front of a group of people, all eyes are on you, you know you have to remain up there in front of these people for a certain term — ten minutes, twenty minutes, a half an hour — you know too (and this is the painful part) you’re making an absolute fool of yourself; you know you’re making a fool of yourself, but you can’t stop — one of those times you wished to god you were anywhere else on earth other than up in front of these people. These are the sorts of times when embarrassment comes flooding in not after, but those worst-possible-of-all times when embarrassment takes hold while whatever it is you’re doing you’re still doing, and you can’t stop — when a voice inside your head — a voice that sounds a lot like your own voice — whispers, “Oh lord, I am really making an ass of myself.”

This may seem an odd introduction to memorials, but it’s doorway into a story about me and a particular memorial service and a lesson I badly needed to learn.

Do you remember my story about burying a bull? How, before the cowboy showed up, I had been reading a Patrick Kavanagh poem, the first two lines:

Me I will throw away/Me sufficient for the day

Hang on to those lines. I’ll close with them in a minute. First, though, memorial . . .

One of the advantages of reaching a certain age is most of your stories go back so far you’re safe in naming names — who’s going to care? This story goes back to the mid-’80’s when I’d been in Denver for a while. At the time I had a job working as the delivery guy for a small medical supply house, going around town delivering disposable syringes, plaster bandage, oph-THAL-moscope batteries and cotton balls.

But this story — even though I just said it was — is not really about me. Enter, now, on stage, the next actor . . .

One day after deliveries I returned to the warehouse to I find a new employee working there, Marc — Marc, not with a “k” but with a “c,” like Marc Antony. But since this story is not about Marc, either — at least not for the my purpose today — I’ll condense these surface events:

Yes, I fell in love with Marc. Marc, although affectionate — and as hard as it is for me to say it — he never really fell in love with me. As a result, we never moved in together — probably a good thing. However, for a year we were a pair. Our friends thought of us as a pair.

Condensing this part of the story even more rapidly now:

In time, Marc’s affections reattached themselves elsewhere. He and I saw less and less of each other. He established what looked like a permanent relationship with a fellow I didn’t know. Then, I heard through mutual friends, Marc was diagnosed HIV-positive. His partner left him. Marc’s father, knowing that his son and I had been friends, contacted me, told me Marc was in hospice and said if ever I would want to visit him we might go together. We did, until dementia took Marc three or four months later.

Again, this is not about me — well, of course it is, but not in a flattering way — what I mean to say is, it’s not about me the hero. The story is about a lesson learned — and only in the sense I’m the guy who had to learn that lesson — only in that sense is it about me. Otherwise, it’s more an Everyman story, a growing up story, the sort of story I’m sure a number of us have lived through.

Some months after Marc’s death, a memorial gathering was announced. His father honored me in inviting me to speak. Our driving together to and from the hospice must had given Marc’s father a fair idea of how much his son had meant to me.

Marc’s family was a broken one, mother and father divorced. A scattered family, too, family all around the country. I envisioned a small memorial. Maybe Marc’s mother, maybe one or two of his brothers, coworkers from the medical supply house, a few of Marc’s local friends, those his father had been able to contact.

Large or small, it would be a memorial requiring certain decorum. A touch of humor wouldn’t necessarily be out of place, depending upon the tenor of occasion the family might be imagining, and also the relationship of the speaker to Marc.

In the days leading up to the memorial, I’d given thought to what I might say, without putting anything down on paper. The memorial was late on a Saturday afternoon, so I resoned I could easily set aside most of that day to getting my thoughts together. If I’d decided one thing in advance, though, it was I wanted to tell people what Marc had meant to me — a hint, without being revealing.

Saturday morning I started putting thoughts down on paper. On index cards.

Also Saturday morning — about mid-morning — I had a first drink. I was determined to stay clear-headed. However, that first drink led to more. I kept scribbling on my index cards, but the more I drank, the more maudlin my intended remarks got. Before long I was adding anecdotes of some intimate stuff Marc and I shared — not carnal stuff, but meals Marc and I liked to cook for each other, our favorite places for long walks — that sort of intimate stuff. I put new batteries in my boom box and queued up a number of cassettes with some of Marc’s and my favorite songs. Time now short — and me already getting all choked up on my nickel sentimentality — I added a few lines of cheap poetry. I’d come a long way from early morning, when I had made a plan to hint, but not reveal, all the way to cassettes and cheap poetry.

On the platform in front of everybody that afternoon, I was an embarrassment. I was an embarrassment to them. I was an embarrassment to me. As I shuffled through my index cards, I could tell by the creaking folding chairs I was confusing everybody. Playing the cassettes, I found the lyrics creaking into the big, hollow room to be unintelligible. I looked out on 30, 40 stone faces each asking, What the hell is going on? Nearing the end, and the cheap poetry, I was — predictably — in tears. I was of course the only one in the room in tears. I finally finished, in a room of people all wishing they were somewhere else.

That’s when I learned my lesson — although I wouldn’t be able to put it into words for some time. I’d had tried to make Marc’s memorial into something about us. Worse yet — far, far worse yet — I had tried to make Marc’s memorial into something about me. I had tried — and failed, thank god — to contort Marc’s memorial into autobiography. And so . . .

Me I will throw away/Me sufficient for the day

Not knowing that’s what I’d been doing, I had been trying to become the centerpiece of Marc’s memorial; instead I ended up its fool. It took 20 excruciating minutes for me to learn a much needed lesson: that I needed to give up trying to be the center of other peoples’ experience — that if ever there is a time and place — perhaps one of the few times and places — a person deserves to be the center of everything, it’s his memorial.

Me I will throw away/Me sufficient for the day

About the Author      

Colin Dale couldn’t be happier to be involved again at the Center. Nearly three decades ago, Colin was both a volunteer and board member with the old Gay and Lesbian Community Center. Then and since he has been an actor and director in Colorado regional theatre. Old enough to report his many stage roles as “countless,” Colin lists among his favorite Sir Bonington in The Doctor’s Dilemma at Germinal Stage, George in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Colonel Kincaid in The Oldest Living Graduate, both at RiverTree Theatre, Ralph Nickleby in The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby with Compass Theatre, and most recently, Grandfather in Ragtime at the Arvada Center. For the past 17 years, Colin worked as an actor and administrator with Boulder’s Colorado Shakespeare Festival. Largely retired from acting, Colin has shifted his creative energies to writing–plays, travel, and memoir.

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Mistaken Identity by Ray S

On an October day some years ago a second son was born to Ethel and Homer. They say he was almost ten pounds which seems like quite a lot for the slight mother. She later used to tell the story about dancing at parties when she was in her 8 1/2 month and how observers wondered how such a little woman with such a huge belly could keep up the Charleston dance step. Seems as though everything came out alright, no pun intended.

The new member of the family thrived on the love and attention from Mom and Dad. The older brother adjusted to the baby’s intrusion on his one-time monopoly of fair-haired first born (seven years difference) Apple of Everyone’s Eye. The seed of sibling rivalry was beginning to germinate but then manifested into an attitude of seeming denial of the little brother’s existence. If necessary the obligatory special occasions would be observed; that is, birthdays, Christmas, and Easter, etc. This pattern persisted into old age.

Early childhood revealed the physical differences between him and the girl next door.

The father’s dutiful instruction on the care and hygiene of the foreskin. How to pee standing up to the toilet. All quite SOP for his age.

Then some matters developed interesting turns. For instance, no one, least of all the child, thought there was anything odd that he had his own Patsy-Ann doll with a doll-sized truck full of little dresses lovingly sewn and/or knitted by mother. An actual talent for painting and drawing came along with a fascination for paper dolls. As time past he couldn’t manage to catch a ball much less win at kick-the-can or sports in general. The end result being a lifelong disinterest in sports or anything competitive.

One day after an exploratory adventure with two neighbor brothers he discovered you could do lots more with certain body parts besides eliminate one’s waste. And it was good!

As he developed emotionally as well as physically way in the back of his mind he became aware of being different.

He, through self awareness, ridicule, bullying, and abuse from older peers questioned his proscribed identity, and this happened before he even knew the words describing one’s sexuality. Ultimately with a contraband copy of Dr. Kinsey’s Report the revelation of twenty some years of mistaken Identity came home to roost. And the struggle went on until the day that the door fell off the hinges of the closet where he and so many other aged fairies resided. The mistake was theirs.

About the Author

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Mother Goose by Phillip Hoyle

“Peter, Peter pumpkin eater
Had a wife but couldn’t keep her,
Put her in a pumpkin shell
And there he …”
          uh, uh, something
“… very well.”
          Two syllables, what was the word? words? Sure.
“Kept her very well.”

These days I still recall several Mother Goose rhymes because some of the names like Peter are answers for clues in one of the crossword puzzles I work each day. They’re stored deep in an obscure folder in my mind and reside in the culture although we rarely think of them as important except for children’s language development.

“There was a crooked man and he went a crooked mile,
And found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile;
He had a crooked cat which caught a crooked mouse
And they all lived together in a crooked little house.”

I recall one of my grade school teachers explaining sixpence and stile just like my college literature professor years later explained odd words and expressions in Shakespeare and John Milton. So these rhymes were an introduction not only to poetry and vocabulary but also to literary criticism.

Most important for me, though, was that Mother played the role of Mother Goose in our house. She introduced us kids to the large volume that had a picture of a bespectacled and bonnet-clad Mother Goose on its cover. From it she read aloud to us endlessly. She quoted even more poetry from memory, she told stories of the family, she researched and relayed her findings about Gypsies, about cooking, about Girl Scouts, about history, and sometimes about movie stars. Mother introduced us to literature: children’s literature, classic comic books, tongue twisters, and so much more. She danced with her cats as well as with us. She entertained. She played. She challenged us to look. She wanted us to engage in life. And, like those of the literary Mother Goose, some of her tales were tricky. We had to figure out just what they were about. Of course, in the meantime, there was always the rhythm, the characters, the word play, and her charm. She never let the characters wander too far away from our conversation. She’d suggest the spider walking across the kitchen floor was just like one that so frightened Miss Muffett, point out Peter Rabbit in her mother’s large garden, or identify me with the little boy Georgy Porgy who so liked eating his puddin’ and pie. She made literature live for her children.

Father Goose lived at our house too. He read to us, usually from the Eggermeier’s Bible story book. He pronounced each character and place name correctly having listened to countless sermons from educated preachers and consistently following the code of his self-pronouncing King James Version Bible. He played the piano to our delight. He sang and taught us to sing. He also entertained, occasionally doing an old high school cheer—he had been a cheerleader—or dancing to an old jazz tune he put on the record player—he’d played for years in a dance band. He employed and discussed difficult words and taught us generosity with vocabulary as well as with other resources.

And we, too, all lived together in a little Cape Cod house where the children’s world of old Britain was brought close to us in our Kansas town. So was the world of the ancient Hebrews, Egyptians, and Sumerians. It’s no wonder I started devouring book after book of historical fiction on my own beginning in the eighth grade. And thanks to the creativity of my mother and father and of the effectiveness of the education I received, Mother Goose stills reigns supreme in my world of literary fantasy.
   
Denver, 2012

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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House Cleaning by Donny Kaye

Housecleaning, thoroughness, reward and perception were all interconnected in my early years of formation with my mother. By the ages of seven, eight and nine I was responsible for the weekly cleaning of our modest home in Athmar Park. My father was a laborer at the nearby rubber factory and consequently our resources were few. This meant that what belongings we did have were cared for in the most particular of ways to extend their life as much as possible. My parent’s European heritage as well as having survived the Great Depression resulted in the lived experience of the old adage, cleanliness is next to godliness.

Weekly, the house cleaning tasks were evident and it was my job to complete those tasks, thoroughly by noon on Saturdays. If the tasks were completed to my mother’s satisfaction, “The Best Little Boy” was rewarded with a trip to JC Penny on Broadway. There I would get to pick out new underwear, or socks, possibly a new striped t-shirt as my reward. The essentials hardly seemed a reward but if I didn’t meet the cleanliness requirements, I went without! Children of today might regard this as abusive!

I learned that each cleaning task in each room of our unassuming home was essential and non-negotiable if I was to receive my reward. Cleaning meant the whole house, in its entirety, not just the front rooms of the house or any type of weekly rotation of cleaning; it meant all of the rooms from the back door and out the front. “Spic and Span”, early on became my motto!

Being “The Best Little Boy” also meant distinguishing early on, the best cleaners for different tasks such as vinegar water, baking soda, bon-ami, as well as the skillful operation of the Hoover and manipulation of the ringer in the rag-mop bucket.

I trained early-on in life and developed some useful life skills when it comes to housecleaning. I also realized as a child that house cleaning served to cover up some of the unique character of our meager belongings. I don’t know that it was a direct teaching but I certainly learned that if it was clean and orderly, there was less likely a question to be raised about quality or fundamental characteristics. It certainly taught me that some things were best kept in the closet, even if the closet in the back of the house existed like the legendary “Fibber McGee and Molly’s” closet.

Some of what I learned as a seven-year-old has transferred into essential skills and learning for life. Especially these past 10 years I have come to realize the whole house does not have to be done immediately and that it’s possible to approach it one room at a time starting with the most essential of the living spaces. If that space that is the most lived in is attended to in a good way, the other spaces of the interior can hold and be dealt with as necessary. And when the main interior space is cleared, the need to cover up what is fundamental diminishes into nonexistence. Since that day in the quiet and isolation of the bathroom when I first acknowledged my homosexuality, the cleansing that was necessary for me to begin this journey into wholeness began. One day at a time; one revelation to the next. First, my former wife, a few close friends, and then my children, extending into coming out clearings with 39 others, the cobwebs of a lifetime resulting from a closet not opened. Recently someone asked me about my coming out. Specifically, they were curious to know how my parents and siblings had taken the news.

“I waited until they all had passed!” I responded.

All had passed except for my nieces, whom I have come out to and one remaining brother-in-law, whom who has known me since I was two. And whom I haven’t been ready to face, much like that closet in the back of the house filled with the messy keepings of a lifetime. Last Wednesday I made that call and scheduled a face-to-face visit with my brother-in-law whom I’ve been avoiding for nearly 2 years. After dusting off some of the space between us with light conversation, I came clean and revealed that I was divorced and finally acknowledged to him what I have always known, that I am a man of a certain sexual persuasion. He moved toward me, close in. With eyes soft and moist, he responded by acknowledging having known me since I was two, that he and my sister realized long ago, when I was a child, that I was different. At eighty-six he even used the words, “coming out” with me as he assured me that my orientation made no difference in his love for me.

A true cleansing had occurred, a housecleaning of sorts. The skills I have learned over a lifetime applied to that final space within. I had come clean, no longer needing to hide the orientation within me that I presumed objectionable to those who have become the fabric of my life. The experience of confiding in him and experiencing his love was about acceptance, both mine and his. We parted with a long embrace, him whispering to me his love for me and his acknowledgment of how courageous it was for me to have come and sat with him. I walked from his front door with a spring in my step. Whew! A sigh of relief! This house is finally clear, it might even be called clean. I know this won’t be the last house cleaning I will have to do regarding this room of my house. Many more conversations will occur allowing me to come clean about the essence of me, just as the housecleaning that is always there as a result of living and the passage of time. But for this moment, like Saturdays when I was 7, 8 &9, the house is clean! What’s my reward? Clean underwear, so to speak. And maybe, just maybe the satisfaction that comes with recognition of a job well done! I think I’m going out and play!!

About the Author

Donny Kaye-Is a native born Denverite. He has lived his life posing as a hetero-sexual male, while always knowing that his sexual orientation was that of a gay male. In recent years he has confronted the pressures of society that forced him into deep denial regarding his sexuality and an experience of living somewhat of a disintegrated life. “I never forgot for a minute that I was what my childhood friends mocked, what I thought my parents would reject and what my loving God supposedly condemned to limitless suffering.” StoryTime at The Center has been essential to assisting him with not only telling the stories of his childhood, adolescence and adulthood but also to merely recall the stories of his past that were covered with lies and repressed in to the deepest corners of his memory. Within the past two years he has “come out” not only to himself but to his wife of four decades, his three children, their partners and countless extended family and friends. Donny is divorced and yet remains closely connected with his family. He lives in the Capitol Hill Community of Denver, in integrity with himself and in a way that has resulted in an experience of more fully realizing integration within his life experiences. He participates in many functions of the GLBTQ community.

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Quirky Domestic Tidbits by Will Stanton

Nothing particularly quirky goes on around my household. As a matter of fact, not much goes on at all. I don’t live with a quirky partner who has quirky habits. I don’t have dogs or other pets that do quirky things. If I have any quirky habits, there is no one living here to observe them. And, I am probably too close to the subject to be aware of anything out of the ordinary. So, I guess that I’ll relate a few quirky things that I or close friends have observed elsewhere.

I once knew a couple of guys who lived in an apartment not far from here. They invited me and a few others over for dinner. The self-designated head-chef had decided to make cheese fondue his main course. He never had prepared fondue before. I am told that no host should experiment with his guests. Apparently, he did not know that fondue, or heated cheese dishes of any kind, needs to be prepared over slow, low heat. Otherwise, the cook will “vulcanize” the cheese, turning it into a tough, hard lump – – which is exactly what he did. We guests in the living room began to hear increasingly loud exclamations emanating from the kitchen, and we went to investigate as to the cause of the chef’s frustration. We arrived just in time to witness the angry chef ramming the hardened glob of cheese down the garbage disposal. Our quick advice not to do so obviously was not quick enough, for the chef flipped the switch. The garbage disposal started up, made a loud groaning noise, and then self-destructed, thoroughly plugging up the drain. We enjoyed the dinner out at the restaurant despite the occasional grumbles from the disgruntled, would-be chef.

A friend of mine once lived in Houston, a city that does have some cultural advantages such as their opera. He, being the handsome, charming, erudite gentleman that he was, hobnobbed with financial-social elite. Frequently, a wealthy couple of gentlemen would invite selected friends to their elegant home for an après-opera dinner. All the gentlemen, dressed in their fine suits would stand about with their cocktails, chatting amiably with each other until dinner was served. Apparently, one of the hosts had a habit of imbibing regularly in the kitchen, where he insisted upon preparing by himself one of his specialties.

Now, I know enough about alcohol not to find addiction or abuse in itself funny. I have to admit, however, that on occasion, circumstances can catch one as somewhat amusing, especially when remembered retrospectively or if pretended, as in the case of Foster Brooks or the Carol Burnett Show. I suppose that what occurred next was made more amusing by the fact that all these gentleman held themselves in high regard. At least, their expensive suits indicated that belief. After all as Mark Twain once said, “Clothes make the man.” A large apron or even a wet-suit might have been more appropriate for the co-host. Once everyone was seated and the several bowls of food were being passed around, the inebriated gentleman distinctly began to feel the effects from his time in the kitchen. He did manage to wait until the large bowl of mashed potatoes appeared right in front of him, whereupon he chose that moment to pitch forward, face-first, right into the mashed potatoes. His friend hurriedly assisted the host into an upright position. The guests momentarily were stunned observing the host’s potato-covered face, which had a remarkable resemblance to an ancient Greek theater mask. The embarrassed friend realized that, as the mashed potatoes began to slither down upon the host’s fine suit, that the host appeared to be incapable of removing the potatoes himself or preventing their further spread. Two of the guests, having recovered from their initial surprise, volunteered to help the friend carry the host into the bedroom where they removed the potatoes and the dinner jacket. Fortunately, the host eventually recovered; and the guests complemented him upon the delicious specialty that he had prepared, although none said anything about their having declined the mashed potatoes.

And last of all, here’s a quirky tale of a very different nature. How many of you have seen a big, old, Victorian mansion, an Adams-Family-style house. My roommate did when we were freshmen in college. He lived back East. His great aunt lived alone in just such an “Adams” house in Marietta, Ohio. She told him that, as long as he was passing by on his way to college, he could stop by to see her and spend the night. He agreed to.

After supper, they chatted for quite a while and eventually retired to their separate rooms. His bedroom was rather large and with a high ceiling. The bed was a big four-poster sitting on a wooden-plank floor. At the foot of the bed was a large seaman’s trunk. Late that night, he began to hear strange noises. Eventually, the sounds became so unsettling that he turned his light on several times to see what might be causing those peculiar sounds. He never saw anything that would explain the noises. When he was about to fall asleep, he suddenly heard a very loud, extended scraping noise. Terrified, he turned on his light and immediately saw that the seaman’s trunk now was on the complete opposite side of the room. That was absolutely enough for him. Without further thought, he immediately threw his clothes on, grabbed his bags, and without saying a word to his great-aunt, fled the house. He preferred driving throughout the night to the college rather staying a moment longer in that house. Now that is one quirky house!

© 03 February 2012




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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Writing My Story by Ricky

I suppose that everyone else has some or most of the same impediments to writing their story as I do when writing mine.  Between all authors of course, there are the differences of skill, vocabulary, imagination, and life experiences from which to draw inspiration. I am referring to the hindrances brought about by the so-called “writers block” and “the muse isn’t musing” and a lack of “passion” for the topic.

Only rarely do inspiration and passion combine to motivate me to write on a topic earlier than five to eighteen hours in advance of its presentation to our Telling Your Story group. A procrastinator all my life, (influenced by all those before-the-sun-comes-up farm chores while living with my grandparents) I seem to be my best when faced with a rapidly approaching deadline. This writing is well within those time limits as I began to type it at 8:15 this morning after having it in my subconscious mind for over a week. Even after all that passage of time, no ideas on how to approach the topic for writing presented themselves until Sunday morning between 1:30 and 3:00 AM.

While looking for some photographs I could place into my stories on my blog site to jazz-it-up a bit, I found a box of photos labeled “John & Deborah.” As I perused the contents, I began to travel down the memories invoked by the images. Suddenly, the muse attacked and I knew what to write about this week.

Actually, the writing about part is really the same-old-thing; it’s about me. I am writing about my life’s story not just any story (as most of us do in this group). What makes the topic most difficult for me to write about, is my desire to include my dealings within in the context of how I interpret the meaning of the topic. I guess that is the “Drama King” or ego part of me wanting the story to be about me. But then again, that is the premise of this Telling Your Story group, so maybe I am not being a drama king or an egotist; just following the premise.

Now you might think that I am done with this topic as this is an easy place to stop but you would be wrong. This story is really about the effect the photographs have on me because the muse attacked me with that idea. Therefore, this is the rest of the story, as Paul Harvey would say.

There were several photographs of major interest to me. Especially enjoyable are the ones where either my spouse or I had written some information on the back. Then there were those where nothing is written but I knew all the people and the background indicated the place if not the exact year. Then there are the mysterious ones where again nothing is written on the back and I knew at least one person in the photo but the background does not provide any memory jogs to time or location.

I found three black & white photos of me as a little boy of at various ages. One shows me sitting on a new Schwinn bicycle in front of the Christmas tree. I was five or six-years old.

Another photo shows me standing at the curb waiting for the school bus for my first day of 1st grade at the Hawthorn Christian School.

There are two official school photos of first and second grades. I really cannot tell which is which. There are very slight changes in my facial structure and one slight difference in the school uniform I am wearing, but I am not sure which one shows the younger me although I made an “educated” guess.

1st Grade
2nd Grade

Yet another shows me at 5-years old crouching on the front porch of our home. The expression on my face made me think that I was looking at a photo of Leonardo DiCaprio at 5-years old. In contrast, Donald thinks I look like a young Buddy Ebsen, which I can’t see any resemblance.

I have seen a photo of my mother, stepfather, and my 3-year old brother and sister taken on Easter Sunday in 1962. I know I took that picture but always wondered why there wasn’t one of me. Well, I found my equivalent photo in the box with all the others through which I was rummaging.

Me and my dog, PeeWee.

That photo and another one taken at high school graduation made me re-evaluate my life-long self-image.

HS Graduation

 Even though it will make me appear to be vain and egocentric if not an egomaniac, I must say that depending upon age I have always been very cute or rather handsome. (Perhaps not vain or an egomaniac as this is supposed to be a story about me.) This next part might be though. I was good looking enough that every pedophile within 50-miles of me should have had me on their most wanted list. Why they did not I will never know. Perhaps I was not all that attractive in reality.

So now, you know what struggles I have with writing my story and what goes through my brain as I do it. I hope it is not an ugly or frightful sight. 

©
16 July 2012

About the Author

Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA

Ricky was born in 1948 in downtown Los Angeles.  Just prior to turning 8 years old, he was sent to live with his grand-parents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years while (unknown to him) his parents obtained a divorce. 

When reunited with his mother and new stepfather, he lived one summer at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife of 27 years and their four children.  His wife passed away from complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.

He came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.  He says, “I find writing these memories to be very therapeutic.”

Ricky’s story blog is “TheTahoeBoy.blogspot.com”.
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Communications by Phillip Hoyle

Communications involve much more than words, a fact that to me seems especially true of communications made in the context of love, sex, and romance. In those contexts I feel uncertain what anyone is communicating to me. Why? Perhaps because I live too much in my own world. Perhaps I don’t hear anything except the words. Perhaps I just don’t get the emotional content of things said. Perhaps I didn’t get to practice love talk as a teen because I didn’t feel impelled toward girls and assumed boys were not interested. Perhaps I just cut off any expectation of falling in love so as to keep from getting hurt. Perhaps I married too young. I really cannot settle on any of these possibilities. 

A psychiatrist challenged my over use of ‘perhaps’ and ‘maybe.’ He would say, “There you go again, waffling. Just tell me. Make up your mind.” That’s a problem. In my own defense I could have appealed to my scores on the Myers-Briggs inventory with its use of Jung’s conscious ego states (I was a strong perceiver and weak judge), but then maybe the psychiatrist wasn’t interested in Jung! Setting that aside, I will try to make a synthesis of these ideas—all my perhapses—and that synthesis begins with a story.

When I was in my mid-forties living in Albuquerque, Teresa, a pastoral counselor, attended the same interdenominational clergy support group I did even though she was not clergy. I liked that for I had always thought the clergy/lay distinction rather meaningless given my background. It seemed good to have present in the group the experience and perspective of someone not trained so thoroughly in theology and congregational life. Pastoral counseling is a category of psychotherapy alongside, for instance, family-systems counseling and other specialties. In addition to psychotherapeutic techniques used in other approaches, Pastoral counseling employs spiritual and religious themes as they seem appropriate to the counselor and counselee. (I say this to be as precise as possible.) Pastoral counselors offer pastors and parishes a referral resource for cases that go beyond the training of local parish pastors.

I liked Teresa. She liked me. When my high-school age daughter needed support in a particularly tough time, I asked Teresa if she’d be her counselor for about two months. Teresa told me it was not her practice to work with children of colleagues, but she trusted me and agreed to talk with my daughter. They met on two or three occasions and helped pave the way for Desma’s decisions to be successful. Teresa told me how impressed she was with my daughter.

Some months later Teresa opened up to me about her frustrations with work. We developed a caring and trusting relationship in which our communications always interlaced mutual respect and humor. She asked me about how I dealt with the dynamics of being an associate minister. I saw she needed help thinking through how to deal with some kind of power inequity in her own work. We talked informally over several weeks as she met whatever was her current crisis. Then she told me, “Phillip, you’re the best defended man I’ve ever known.”

I really didn’t know what she was saying to me but decided to take it as a compliment. After all she had said ‘best,’ and mom had taught me to say ‘thank you’ to compliments, even those I thought I didn’t earn or didn’t quite understand. For years I mulled over Teresa’s evaluation. I knew she was an astute observer of human behavior. I knew she took a woman-oriented point of view. I knew she followed current trends in psychoanalytic perspective. I knew she was kind. So I accepted her comment as I tried to understand its insight in order to better understand the dynamics it could reveal both in my personality and in my work relationships.

My musings eventually went far beyond work and landed me back at the point in my teen years when I must have been feeling the juices of sexual yearning churning in my system. I had watched my older sisters fall in love with guys and get hurt over it. I reasoned if you didn’t fall in love, you wouldn’t get hurt. I have no memory that my homosexual proclivity entered into my reasoning. I simply wasn’t interested in being hurt. I liked both boys and girls. I got hard-ons over both girls and boys. I liked both a lot. I decided that was okay, of course, even quite enjoyable. I dated girls. I sometimes had sex with a boy. I kept busy with music, studies, art, reading, various church and school groups, and my part-time work at the grocery store. I took care of the lawn at home. I was a nice kid who fit in well. I lived into my life. I defended myself from love’s potential pain.

When from my old age perspective I look most searchingly at my young self, I realize that probably something homosexual was at play, but it was deeply submerged. I liked the same boy who broke my sister’s heart, but I didn’t want the hurt she experienced. I wasn’t able to picture a social price for being gay because I couldn’t imagine two guys living together into adulthood. I pushed down what I didn’t even know. I feel fortunate my parents had not taught me guilt feelings or self-loathing. Those would have been destructive. As a teenager trying to figure out life and desire, I took my practical approach and set aside the potential of same-sex love. My defenses were sure and served me well. I didn’t reject my interest in other guys, just watched it. I enjoyed the feelings but didn’t pursue them into any kind of institutional form.

When I was twenty-one, I married a fine woman. When I was thirty, I fell in love with a nice man. I saw what was happening and was thrilled to my toes with the feelings. Eventually an affair began. It was controlled by distance and the uneven needs of my buddy. Some fifteen years later, our on and off occasional contact was not sufficient for me. I wanted to simplify my life, to find something that seemed more natural. Teresa’s comment which was made at around that time may have helped facilitate my changes. I opened myself to more feelings and to acting on them with people who lived nearby. Of course, it was a costly decision that ripped apart the stability of my life. I found thrills, but some twenty years later, even with all my new experiences in love, I still don’t catch onto the emotional content of what may be pick-up lines. I really still need folk to speak to me in simple, straightforward English. I need a hand to reach out and touch me before I am ready to shed my defenses. My settlement these days stands in great contrast to what I did as a fifteen year old, or a thirty-five year old, or even a forty-five year old.

I am so glad this sixty-five year old man had all these experiences. I continue to shed my inhibitions but still don’t want to hurt anyone else with the shedding. I recall when at fifty-five years I was so thrilled over meeting Rafael. I really was. I told a friend about him and wondered aloud at my surprise and at my elation that anyone would be interested in me. My friend Tony laughed and said, “Phillip, you just aren’t paying attention.”

Now I listen more carefully but still am not sure what I am hearing. Does this mean my closet door could open even wider? Does it mean I could become even more gay? I’m listening for the deepest levels of communication in my effort to overcome my own residual defenses—you know that ‘best’ stuff in me—and in my effort I hope really to hear what others are trying to communicate to me.

Whew.

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”

Read more at Phillip’s blog:  artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Culture Shock by Michael King

I’ve had numerous experiences where I found myself in situations, environments or places that were so different than what I could have expected. The most profound was returning to the states after two years in Southeast Asia. I had thought that I was involved in an honorable and positive cause. Arriving in uniform as was required, my family and I came from the airport into San Francisco.

When I left the states no one wore long hair like we saw in downtown, nor dirty, ragged clothing, beads etc. What really surprised me were the anti-war and anti-military signs and attitudes. I think I remember being spit on. I still remained in the air force for another year during which time I was looking at my options for when I would return to civilian life. I was up for promotion to major, but knew that would mean a military career. I did well as an officer, however my heart wasn’t in the military and I had to get out and find a place where I could make a living for my family as well as somewhere that I could possibly feel comfortable.

I knew that to return to New Mexico or Kansas was not an option. Neither was anywhere else that I had been or even visited. Finally I decided on Hawaii as the only option. We moved there and entered a different world. I loved it. But in some ways it took some effort to adjust to that culture also. After about seven years with one of those living in Portland, having been a single father which was frowned on, I had remarried and realized it was again time to relocate. We ended up in Denver. Another culture shock, I had difficulty finding a job using the skills from the past until finally I got a job as an art therapist at the Children’s Asthma Research Institute and Hospital.

I had a degree in education focusing on childhood development and had another major in art with enough credits in psychology to have moved in that direction. The combination was perfect for this residential treatment center. I had another wonderful seven years there. It now seemed that six or seven years were how long it lasted with everything I did, each time becoming a part of a different culture. And since I never developed street smarts, I am always surprised with each new environment. I think that street smart people learn at a young age to see their surroundings more clearly without the glorious and wonderful expectations that soon become challenging disillusions. Otherwise it has been for me a series of continuing culture shocks in which I have to readjust my thinking and my dreams of a glorious and perfect life in a world of progress, hope and kindness.

Last evening we watched the movie “The Man from La Manchaca”. I have a different slant on things but the idealism, hope and glorious potentials for the human race is still in my thoughts and actions as I see the sad inhumanity to others in the homes, the workplace, the corporate greed, the national propaganda and lies, the aggression on the innocent, the helpless and those who don’t fit into the accepted molds of the culture that dominates where they are.

I am rather glad that I have been the dreamer and tried to live a perfect life in a perfect world. I see no good reason why my dream shouldn’t be the way things are, except that we probably need the experiences and challenges to grow, mature, learn tolerance, understanding, have causes to work for, perhaps a mission in life or an opportunity to be of service and gain the self-respect that brings about peace of mind and a sense of purpose.

I’ve owned my own business, worked in retail, volunteered, worked in retirement communities, traveled and have had loving relationships that for a while were quite excellent. I have also experienced failures and defeat, joy and depression, hope and hopelessness. Love and hate. I’ve had a lot of surprises and have been shocked many times in many cultures. Most times because seeing the surroundings and attitudes of those around me differed dramatically from my expectations and the amount of experience that I had at any given time.

I have been perpetually naïve, but I trust that the ideals and dreams are but the reality that will exist in eternity.

I choose to live as a loving and sincere dreamer, always thankful and willing to face the next culture shock.

© 24 November 2012

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.