Tag: Life Stories

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Details by Peg

Without details you wouldn’t have stories. Without details, life would be missing all its color and purpose. Relationships are all about details, how could you like someone if it weren’t for the person’s characteristics; their appearance, your common interests, or purpose, personality and chemistry.

Details bond families. With conflicting details; blood relationships fail and friendships dissolve. Wars are fought over details; contracts are all about details, without them laws would be impossible.

This short essay is about relationships that cannot flower because necessary details are missing.

I have grandchildren, two are my son’s, and two are of a previous marriage. I have not seen any of them for over eight years, and the reason for that long absence is the desire of their parents. A certain detail, my being Transgender is the core of their decision. Fear of what might happen IF, the father of the older two children were to find out that me, the grandfather of my son’s children is Transgender, and with that information, he MIGHT cause trouble for the family.

Another detail is how to explain me (now a woman) to the children and what they might do with that information. The existence of me (the missing grandfather) has been questioned but never honestly answered.

I know the children only by what their grandmother tells me, and the pictures she brings home with her. I don’t hear their voices, see them at play, or listen to their interests. I can’t watch them grow from the toddler and two year old they were the last time I saw them, develop into the people they are now or will become. Without all of those details, a relationship with them is impossible.

Still, I feel them, they are a part of my being, yet they might as well be someone else’s children and if I were to see them on the street; I might not recognize them without an introduction. I love them though they don’t know anything about me; a great void exists because…we don’t know any or all the necessary details.

About the Author


I was born and raised in Denver Colorado and I have a divided history, I went to school, learned a trade, served in the military, married and fathered two sons. And I am Trans; I transitioned in 1986 after being fired for “not fitting in to their program.” 18 years ago I fulfilled my lifelong need to shed the package and become female. I continued working in my trade until retiring in 2006. I have been active in PFLAG Denver and served five years on the board of directors, two years as President of our chapter. Living now as a woman has let me be who I always knew I was and I am genuinely happy.

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Mayan Pottery by Betsy

There’s MY an’ YOUR pottery, and MY an’ YOUR china, and MY an’ YOUR cutlery, and MY an’ YOUR household items of every variety.

When my beloved and I decided to live together, we, of course, were forced to merge many of these above mentioned items. So into the common household they went. Over the years most of the pottery, in particular, stayed in cupboards. Occasionally the need would arise to pull something out, dust off the cobwebs, and put it to use, then put it away for another few years after the guests left or after the special occasion was over.

This is how the conversation would go.

“Do you remember where we put the glazed pot–the one that’s about this size?” Indicating with hand gestures what the thing looks like. “It ‘s the one my grandmother gave me when I was married.”

Depending on who came up with the question, the other would reply, “Well, if it’s the one I think you mean, it’s not blue it’s green and it was given me by my mother.”

“Surely, we can’t be talking about the same piece. The one I’m thinking of would be perfect for this occasion because it’s blue. The one I’m thinking of I have had forever and I can remember the day my grandmother gave it to me.”

“Let’s find it and get it out and then decide if it’s the one you are thinking of or the one I’m thinking of–the green one my mother gave me.”

The piece under discussion is pulled out from the very back of a cupboard. It turns out that it is neither blue nor green but very old.

We both scratch our heads and mumble under our respective breaths, Well, I could have sworn…….and I know it’s mine.” Then out loud, “But it doesn’t matter does it.”

And so it went–many such discussions and discoveries–the origin or ownership of the item never resolved.

Then, sometime around the turn of the century, it came to us almost simultaneously. 

My honey and I were about to have another of the above discussions when we realized that we had been together a long time and furthermore planned to stay together. These household items we talk about are OURS–not mine and yours.

The business of separate ownership is a problem that comes with middle-aged marriage. Each has accumulated stuff and that stuff goes with you wherever you go.

The mystery of past ownership is now, we both agree, a moot point. For some reason it was the new millennium when this dawned on us. Perhaps because we were approaching almost 20 years together. Maybe it was that, or perhaps our respective memories were becoming less and less reliable and we were able to admit that of ourselves and of each other.

I don’t know the reason for sure but the discussions are a thing of the past. MY an’ YOURS had become OURS. And so it will continue to be, I expect, until the end of our days.

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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The Party by Merlyn

I could talk about the Republicans or the Democrats but that’s too depressing.
I could talk about the crazy sex, drug and booze parties I liked to go to in the 70’s and 80’s but I won’t. 

In 1979 through 1980 I drove a truck from coast to coast for Curtis Trucking in Denver. Sometimes I would have to lay over waiting for a load back to Denver. Most of the time I was able to hook up with someone and have a good time.

It didn’t matter if I was in LA or New York all I had to do was get on the SB radio, key the mike and say “Breaker 19 I’m a trucker out of Denver and I’m parked at wherever until tomorrow”, then say something like  
A   “Does anyone know a good place to get something to eat around here?”
B   I’d let everyone know that I was a 35 year old trucker out of Denver and I like to Party.”
C   “I’m in a big truck with an oversize sleeper cab.”
D   I’d let everyone know that I was a 35 year old trucker out of Denver and I like to Party.

The people in small towns in Connecticut do know how to have fun.
One Saturday night I had 6 people stuffed in the truck, 2 women and 4 men, two bottles of booze and a little smoke. I did not have to get back to the truck until Monday morning so when the booze was gone I ended up at a party at someone’s house that went on nonstop for the next thirty hours.

One evening I was at a truck stop in Ontario, California. I was with about 4 or 5 other drivers swapping lies and drinking out of brown paper bags when we heard someone yelling, “He’s stealing my truck! He’s stealing my truck!”
The guy doing the yelling was running across the parking lot to the lot exit. (Was he going to try to stop the guy with his body?)

The stolen truck passes right in front of us and turns towards the exit.
The truck is heading for the parking lot exit and the road that goes to the freeway. When he gets there he is going to have to make a sharp turn across a 5 lane highway, somehow missing the cars going by on the highway.

The guy that was stealing the truck was already going too fast to make the turn without turning over.

 I’m about a block away from the exit. Thankfully the whole mess is moving away from me.
The owner of the truck has a gun and starts shooting at his own truck. The truck tries to run over him. We are looking at the flashes coming out of the gun. He is shooting towards us. Everyone hits the ground. 

The stolen truck makes it to the exit and somehow makes a left turn hitting a car; the car goes spinning out of the way, two cars run into the trailer.  
The truck keeps going and disappears up the freeway ramp.

The next morning I went in for breakfast and everyone was talking about what happened the night before.
The owner of the truck had shot a hole in the radiator and the truck stopped running a few miles down the freeway, the cops caught the thief. Four people in the cars were taken away to hospitals and no one knew how they were. No one was hit in the parking lot.

That was one of the most exciting parties I was ever at.

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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Communication by Gillian

My dad was a quiet, almost silent, man.

I never use the word taciturn in his case because that has a certain negative connotation and my father’s silence seemed one of peace and contentment.

He just felt little need of words.

In fact one of the dictionaries’ synonyms for taciturn is uncommunicative which my father most definitely was not, he simply communicated in other ways.

He never once told me he loved me, but I never once doubted it.

We had an ancient chopping block sawn from the trunk of a fallen oak tree.  My dad split logs on it as his father and grandfather had done. It was very hard wood but it had been slowly worn down to a shadow of its former self by three generations of abuse.

On one of my last trips back home he handed me a circular wooden chain, which, he actually did tell me in words, was carved from the old chopping block.

It is one of my most cherished possessions.

I cannot imagine how long it took him to carve this intricate creation from that tough old wood, and when I cleared up the shed after his death I found many rejects and practice bits and false starts tossed on the woodpile, and some complete chains which were not, apparently, just perfect.
For me it had to be perfect.
Communication comes in many forms.
This beautiful gift expresses Dad’s love for me in a way no words could ever do, and it lasts a whole lot longer.

Me with my dad in 1948

       

                                                              

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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Holding Hands in Church by Phillip Hoyle

          When I was a kid, Buddy and I held hands in church. We didn’t do it just once, but often. I’d cross my arms with my hands underneath, then lean against Buddy’s shoulder. He’d do the same, and we’d interlace our fingers. Although the act usually occurred during the sermon with us sitting in the back of the congregation, our leaning into each other was clearly visible to the preacher. He didn’t see it, I suppose. Perhaps his eyesight was poor or he simply didn’t want to deal with what may have been happening between two boys in his congregation. 

          The touch surely indicated that we were special friends. At least, we were friendly. Buddy was an outgoing jock; I a skinny weakling with personality. He was humorous, fun to be with although sometimes arrogant. Still, we had a great time, especially when we spent nights together, evenings full of sexual exploration and pleasure. 

  I learned from him more than just how to kiss and have sex. This young teen shared his ideas about girls, a recommendation of the underarm deodorant I still use, the need for exercise and sports I never followed. A wise teen myself, I realized I was somehow a replacement for his older brother who had left home. I had no brother. 

  We became more than friends. I don’t think either of us experienced infatuation, a crush, or puppy love, but we had sex. Enthusiastically. The experiences began with back rubs, progressed to kissing, and then to more explorations. Like most boys, we were not cautious. We didn’t think much about what we left on sheets or blankets, didn’t think about our moms or about the social ramifications of discovery. We just had fun together. 

  That was about it. Ten months into our affair, Buddy’s family moved away, and I went on with my life. I dated girls and really liked some of them, but I didn’t fall in love or hold hands with them in church. 

* * * * *
  Things changed in college with the young woman who would become my wife. We prayed together in the privacy of the prayer chapel, leaning into one another there. I taught her how to kiss when we made out in the car or in the cloak room of the administration building of the Bible college we attended. We liked each other and realized we were in love. Finally I had found someone to hold hands with again. 

  For many years we learned from one another, shared the rich experiences of a full life with children, friends, family, and congregations. We kept up a sexual exploration that increasingly brought satisfaction. Even with the richness of our relationship, its shared values and work, and its serious commitment to one another, I seemed to need more. 

* * * * *
  I met a man while attending graduate school. We couldn’t get enough of each other’s company, walked across campus sharing ideas and hopes, talked endlessly while sipping warmed-up coffee in his apartment. I knew I had fallen in love with this man. I wanted to hold him, to do the things I had done with Buddy, but I did not. Sitting alone on his living room couch, we sometimes did touch, rubbing each other’s feet and, you guessed it, holding hands. That was the extent of it. Neither of us verbalized our feelings although we both recognized that they were strong and loving and, we both hoped, lasting. 

* * * * *
  Years later I separated from my wife and soon after that from professional ministry. I moved to Denver to live as a gay man. During my first months living alone, I attended the Metropolitan Community Church. Each Sunday I would weep during some part of the service perhaps when I glanced across the faces of the many gay men seated there or when the singing roused a feeling of solidarity with gay believers or when the preacher’s words challenged the wider church to be loving, supportive, and open to gay people. Eventually I achieved a modicum of healing. I quit crying but then became annoyed with the language of the liturgy. I sought religious community elsewhere, looking for a church that would accept me and make sense to me. Perhaps I didn’t try hard enough for eventually I quit attending services altogether. My recovery continued outside the church: my community place, a coffee shop; my support group, friends I met there; my ministerial service, massage to clients who came to my practice. With these non-church groups I built a meaningful life and a purposeful career. 

  In Denver I have lived with three different men who provided me good relationships. Two of them were lapsed Catholics, the other a back-slidden Methodist. We kissed and had sex many times. We held hands but not in church. We never went to church. They felt no need, and I didn’t want to be irked. Sundays come and go with little thought of attending service, but I wonder if my religious healing will ever be complete until I again hold hands in church and this time openly. 

  “Hey,” I guess I could ask my back-slidden Methodist buddy, “what are you doing this Sunday?”

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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From the Pulpit by Merlyn

          I’ve been running from the pulpit ever since I was eleven years old. I grew up having to go to a united brotherhood church and never missed a Sunday from the time I was six years old till I was eleven, and I had a five year perfect attendant pin to prove it.

          I was taught that everything was a sin. Dancing, drinking smoking, any kind of sexual activity including masturbating would send me to hell.

          Every summer I was sent to church camp where I remember all of us kids crying as we went up to the pulpit to be saved. Then there were the tent revival meetings where we all had to be saved again and again.

          The thing I remember the most about going to church was sitting there on Sunday watching people. My aunt would be sitting there with her husband even though everyone knew she had a lover; my favorite uncle would be there too, but his gay boyfriend would wait outside in his car. Everyone would be singing the songs and acting so holy when they did communion.

          I hated having to waste every Sunday morning acting the way they did.

          When I was eleven I started making money on a paper route and working for neighbors. My parents made me pay board. I loved it; I did not have to do chores anymore.

          As long I paid my mother every Saturday I was free to do whatever I wanted to do.

          I stopped going to church.

          I started to love Sunday mornings, it was the only time I had to masturbate without someone catching me.

          I don’t think I have been in a church more than 20 times on a Sunday morning in the last 57 years.

          Spiritually I used to wish I could have the blind faith in one of the gods that other people worship but being honest organized religion has never worked for me.

          It took me most of my life to realize that any real spiritual peace that I have ever felt can only come from deep inside of me.

          There’s a feeling deep inside that gives me peace. I know I do my best to live my life and treat others the way I want to be treated. So I don’t let anyone make me feel guilty when I mess up.

          I have had a near death experience that taught me that everything will be ok. I do not think anyone really knows what happens to us after death actual takes place.

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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My Deepest Passion by Ricky

Forward: I wrote this memory in response to the topic “My Deepest Passions” while I was visiting my brother at South Lake Tahoe in the summer of 2011. He was a terminal cancer patient. I emailed it to our story group leader who read it to the group.

          Prior
to these past weeks my deepest passions were reserved for politics and undoing
the damages done to America since the passage of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Amendments.  At this point in my life,
having lived at South Lake Tahoe these past several weeks, my deepest passion
is for my youthful memories of my life at the lake.  Perhaps you can tell from the four postcards
you should be viewing today and over the next two weeks, if Phillip and Stephen
keep bringing them, as I asked them to share the photos with you all.

          This
morning around 8:30AM, I arrived at Emerald Bay and spent the next 2 hours
taking some photos (none as nice as the post card photos) and reliving my
memories from when I was 10-years old living at the bay and serving as the deckhand on my parent’s 38-foot cabin cruiser tour boat; the Skipalong.  I walked the very short trail to the top of
Eagle Falls (photo op) and then down the steep1-mile trail to Vikingsholm
(photo op) and an additional 3/10 mile trail to the bottom of the falls for
another photo op.  After all that, I
walked the same 1-mile trail back to the parking lot.  The uphill trek seemed like 3 miles instead
of the actual one mile.  I had to take
baby steps to make it in reasonable time and to keep my heart from pounding. 
          I
was surprised at how strong the feelings of regret, past happiness, and longing
that filled me.  Regret for not returning
and staying after my first enlistment in the military; past happiness over the
memories of a 10-year old; and longing for the intervening lost years of
residency.  I visited all the homes I
lived at while I did live at Lake Tahoe (all three of them).  The last one is vacant and amazingly the
entire side of the block my home was on is still exactly as it was when I
left.  It is like living in Central Park
in New York City as the house is the only one on the block and is all open in a few places and wooded in the
remaining).
          Memories
of elementary and high school; working at the county campground; my boy scout
troop activities and campouts; my original desire to be buried in the top of
the mountains to the south at Star Lake; and the time a few of us uninvited scouts went to Idaho
and “crashed” the Boy Scouts’ World Jamboree, are just a few of the memories
that resurfaced.
          The
result of all this is that I really don’t want to return to Lakewood, but I will when my business with my
brother is completed.
I wish you all a great life and lots of creativity in writing or telling your stories. – Ricky

My parent’s tour boat.
Vikingsholm, Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA
Eagle Falls, Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA

My first home at South Lake Tahoe on Lapham Street.
My second home at South Lake Tahoe on Birch Street.

My last home at South Lake Tahoe on Red Lake Road.

© 29 August 2011

About the Author

Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA

Ricky was born in 1948 in downtown Los Angeles.  He lived first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA.  Just days prior to turning 8 years old, he was sent to live with his grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years while his parents obtained a divorce (unknown to him).

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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Is that the Rocking Chair Creaking or Is It Me? by Nicholas

          I don’t have much to say about fingers and toes. I have the usual number of each and none hold any fascination for me. My digits perform the usual duties and pleasures just fine, require the usual routine care, such as clipping of nails, and have yet to pose any problems. No story there.

          Other body parts, however, are getting to be more challenging these days. Yes, I’m of that age where body parts, though still the sources of many pleasures, do require attention. As someone once put it, when I wake up now everything is stiff except what used to be.

          Aches and pains rove around my body from head to toe, stopping most frequently in my lower back. But other areas have put in their demands for attention as well. For a while I had to deal with plantar fasciitis—what used to be called heel spurs—which appeared and disappeared mysteriously. There’s little relief, except for some ineffective exercises and angrily cursing, until it just goes away.

          To celebrate enrolling in Medicare, my body decided to launch a whole new issue by blowing out my knees. I came home from a trip to San Francisco, a great city to walk in and up and down, with aching knees. The ache went away and then it didn’t and then it went away and then it didn’t. Now except for walking, standing, sitting, kneeling, stooping or laying down, I’m fine. Running is out of the question, but that never did appeal.

          So, I saw a knee specialist doctor who informed me that this was just part of growing older and just happens to a lot of people regardless of injury or prior abuse of delicate joints. I was showing early signs of osteoarthritis in my knees. Early?, I said. What’s it going to be like when it’s late? I’m hobbling around now. He told me not to climb stairs or walk up or down hills (but I am going to San Francisco), use ice for other than cocktails and take Aleve.

          He told me to put off any surgery as long as possible. No argument there. I’d rather keep my old knees than get new ones. Luckily, the thing I enjoy most—bicycling— is about the best thing I can do to combat the degeneration. And I have a whole new set of stretches to do each morning. And there’s always Aleve and ibuprofen and maybe glucosamine to help.

          Well, what can I say except that getting old sucks. Sure, it’s better than the alternative but it still sucks. This is the first experience I’ve had of physical limits due to aging. Suddenly comes the realization that I’m not making all the decisions here. Choose as I might to be active, that activity might be reduced because, well, I just can’t do it anymore—like spend hours on my knees tending my garden. Now limitations mean changing how I live each day. My independence is being questioned.

          Since my ego hurts far worse than do my knees, I refuse to give in. My response is not to just fall onto the couch and grab the TV remote even though I am fully entitled to do so. I’m doing the regimen of stretches the physical therapist gave me though I don’t much like them. And I’m cycling and spinning as much as I can. And the ice—which actually feels good even if it doesn’t do much.

          A friend who has also been dealing with this stuff and is in his 70s still takes five-mile hikes, limping along at his own pace. So, I say screw it. I’m not into five-mile hikes but I will take my walks along the ocean shore when I’m in San Francisco next week and will probably walk up too many hills to get to that fabulous restaurant at the top, but that’s what I’m going to do. And when the time comes for a knee replacement—which I hope is years away—I’ll deal with that.

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

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Breaking into Gay Culture by Donny Kaye

          My new home is only a couple blocks down the street and along the park from the coffee shop where my most recent introduction to gay culture started, some ten years ago. To understand the significance of my new home’s location I must go back in time to my earliest introduction to gay culture.

          After I graduated from college and before I was married I hung out with several colleagues who were friends of mine. The selection of hangout spots was always determined by a couple of the gals within the group. Their choice was either a country and western themed dance club or a gay bar on the outskirts of the city limits. We partied weekly as we danced and drank together unwinding from the challenges of work.

          On those nights when we would decide to go beyond the city limits and visit the bar heading up the hillside to the west of town, I paid close attention to the men who flirted with one another in the darkened recesses of the bar, typically men with men seeming very much at ease as they maintained close physical proximity with one another. Once in a while I would observe knees touching, hands caressing one another and even an occasional extended kiss. My heart would quicken and my mind engage. A few different nights I went back to that bar alone to not only watch but to be.

          On each of those occasions, feelings of excitement stirred deep within me. I got what I was looking for in terms of physical connection that would lead to the parking lot just outside and on one occasion; I actually went home with someone, caressing each other as I excitedly drove down the darkened roadway. My excitement was accelerated by desire and the experience of allowing what I then tried to repress and consciously deny.

           Within moments after the exchange I would be filled with guilt and shame as the awareness that within months I was to be married returned to my consciousness. It seemed so right and yet at the same time not allowable within my understandings of relationship, sexuality and my naïveté regarding models I had experienced for “doing” life, as defined by religion. There seemed to be no other choices. Being like I wanted to be seemed to also include the diagnosis of me having a psychiatric disorder! I just liked guys, why did it have to be so complex?

          Ten years ago I was helping my good friend with the opening of her hair salon, immediately next door to one of the area’s leading gay coffee shops. On each of those days after my early morning work at her shop, I always enjoyed sauntering into the coffee shop ordering my coffee, watching, wondering, and considering the possibilities. I felt very much at home there and I recognized in that setting my secret wasn’t of significance.

          In the interim between those early days and the coffee shop on ninth Avenue there were experiences, especially when work-related travel removed me from the confines of suburban life as a married man. I frequented various theaters, on occasion a gay bar, porn stores and occasionally an extended eye contact followed by a wink, a touch and caress. My experience of gay culture was reduced to a rich fantasy life and the expression of short stories in my creative mind as I ran miles at a time, trying to control my interests in men.

          The coffee shop became a weekly haunt, long after the work at the hair salon was completed. I began to relate to other gay men whom I met through a close friend who is gay. The longing to be in gay culture, at least as I had always known it to be, had started to shift from that of cruising, sexual connection and guilt, to something much different.

          My desire increasingly has included wanting honest relationships with men and women who understood me; who accept my desire, passion, and longing as a man of a certain sexual persuasion. I want to be around those who seemingly understood me and who have an allowance for me being the me that I have always wanted to be AND who are like me in that they are more diverse in their sexual orientation.

          The gift of my life now is the opportunity to integrate a culture rich in sexual diversity with the aspects of my former life, especially my children and grand children.

          Living within the hood allows me to interact in a much more complete and authentic way than I ever considered possible. The culture is no longer someplace I visit in secret in the dark of night and the anonymity of a setting where I’m just passing through. It is no longer restricted to Thursday mornings when I would linger at the coffee shop for hours on end, dreading the return to life as I had crafted it to be.

          My experience of my culture now allows not only for the expression of my natural sexual orientation, but allows for you my dearest of friends. It allows for this space, this time this opportunity to just be me.

          I live just up the block and through the park. I look from my balcony onto the streets and across the space of my neighborhood, which allows the experience of my culture. No longer separate or someplace I’m passing through. It’s where I flourish, the place I call home. My culture. My family. The place I rest in for this moment in time.  

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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The House by Phillip Hoyle

          We moved up to Clay Center, Kansas, on my fifteenth birthday, two counties away from my hometown Junction City. I was born in that Army town with population of around 20,000, adjoining Fort Riley, an Army post with a similar population, that sat next to another small city, Manhattan, with 20,000 population, home of a state university with about the same number of students. Although we weren’t leaving a metropolitan center, compared with the county seat town where we were headed, with its 5,000 population and one stop light, I felt like I was giving up civilization and moving to the center of nowhere.

          At least we were moving into an interesting house. We’d looked at several, each with strong points that appealed to me. Finally Dad and Mom purchased a roomy place with four bedrooms and a bath upstairs; parlor, family, dining, and utility rooms, entry hall with an exposed staircase that my sisters fantasized walking down in formals or wedding gowns, plus a kitchen on the main level; rough partial basement below and unfinished attic above; and an unattached garage, all sitting on three lots on the corner of Crawford and US 24, just one block east of Highway 15. It was a beautiful old place, built sixty years before for a local banker and his family. As the only boy, I got my own room but also a power mower so I could tend the huge yard. Around the same time as our move I dropped my long-standing subscription to The American Indian Hobbyist and began reading House Beautiful.

          Decorating became my theme. Mom was into the house project ordering drapes for the front rooms, buying an extra couch and slipper chairs for the parlor, shopping for a proper dining room set, bringing home fabrics, pillows, and endless ideas for making this house our home. I, too, started thinking about furniture, fabric, and fancy dishes. So immediately after the move, my next older sister Holly and I began haunting Mrs. Stedman’s antique store. We read House Beautiful and discussed our likes and dislikes. Then we shopped to see what we could find to realize our ideas. For months we saved our change and bought a Victorian marble-top coffee table as a gift for Mom. At the end of that first year my sister went off to college in another town. I still pored over the magazine to find ideas for my room.

          One day I noticed an ad for an art print company in New York City and sent off a letter requesting their catalogue. In a couple of weeks I received the illustrated listing and found myself entranced by a print of a painting depicting the torso of a young man wearing no shirt and the top button of his Levi’s open. I wanted that print but couldn’t imagine how anyone would hang such a picture in their house or room. But there it was in a nationally-advertised magazine in full color like an invitation into another world.

          I ordered several prints although not the one I most wanted. In figuring out what to do with them, I realized I needed frames and returned to the antique store we now called the junk shop. For years I had hung prints on my bedroom walls with straight pins. Now I needed to frame them, a need that has persisted throughout my adult life. I enjoyed my years in that beautiful old house with its fancy woodwork, neat window treatments, and the pictures I’d framed.

          A couple of years later I was moving into a college dorm and then three years after that was living in an apartment with my wife. Over the decades of our marriage we lived in several houses and apartments. Together we decorated creating a blend of our tastes. Often she’d move the furniture; I’d hang the pictures selected from an ever growing collection of framed paintings and prints that represented a diversity of style and content. Still there was no torso on display except in the bathroom mirror.

          Years later, after our separation, I started spending nights with my lover Rafael. He’d invited me to his house after a flirtation of several months. There we made love to one another. I was content to spend night after night in this boyish man’s apartment; he was intent on making a marriage of sorts out of our connection. Finally he said I should bring my clothes. “This will be our home, your apartment your office,” he said. Although I was quite taken with him and our relationship, I clearly saw that his apartment lacked style and ornament. It consisted of a large open room with a kitchen along one wall, a bedroom, and a bathroom. Rafael owned two couches, a floor lamp, a small table with two chairs for meals, a big TV that sometimes worked sitting on a large sewing table, a double bed mattress and springs, a single mattress leaning against the wall, a small chest of drawers, his clothes and several boxes of whatnots. From my point of view the apartment’s best feature was a small air conditioning unit in the bedroom wall.

          Together we sought to make this California-style apartment house unit our home. As we moved the furniture, I recalled my House Beautiful interest, the transformation of that old house in my teen years, my cooperative decorating experiences with my wife, and my continuing fascination with furniture and much more. Rafael and I found a bed frame and a lamp in the alley. From my office, I brought over my great grandmother’s wardrobe for the bedroom, a chair for the living area, and a portable sewing machine for Rafael to use. Then one day when Rafael was at work I brought framed paintings and prints to decorate the walls of this cold apartment. The transformation was immediate. The place finally looked lived in and warm. As I hung a collage of a pair of cowboy saints and other gay-themed art, I recalled the print that had so attracted my high school self but realized that this house didn’t need such a picture, for here I lived with a sexually inviting man who thrilled me in ways much more complex and satisfying than that intriguing image of years ago.

          The apartment finally complemented the warmth of our love. There we fixed Mexican, French, Italian, Spanish, Asian, and American dishes for one another. We entertained each other with stories of our lives. We cleaned, shopped, kissed, and kidded. We lived in that house beautiful a couple’s life of delight.

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.”