Tag: Life Stories

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Ne Me Ouitte Pas / Don’t Leave Me, by Gillian

If You Go Away
has been recorded by many famous singers, but I first became aware of it with
the Neil Diamond* release in 1971.
It’s a sad song but I always liked it well enough, singing along with it on the
radio. I also had it on a Neil Diamond album on cassette.
If you go away
On this summer day
Then you might as
well
Take the sun away
………..
The refrain
is simply if you go away repeated four times.
I’m sure
many of you are familiar with the song.
I never
thought a whole lot about the lyrics until, several years later, I stumbled
upon the original version. In French, it was written in 1959 by Belgian
singer/songwriter Jacques Brel. Like it’s English counterpart, it has been
recorded by many artists in many languages: 24 to be precise. The English
adaptation was done by Rod McKuen and, sadly, to me, is a mere hint of the
beauty and power of the original French.
That was
when I began actually listening to the English lyrics of If You Go Away.
That phrase is undeniably poignant, but repeating it in sets of three several
times, in retrospect, seems a slight overkill. My life is going to be turned
upside down if you go away …… if you go away …… OK, I get
it. Somehow there seemed something slightly irritating about that conditional;
that if. It made me feel like grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking
him. Alright already! Apparently, it’s not yet a done deal so stop whimpering
in the corner and get up and fight! Do something about it!
There is a
middle passage of the song which turns hopeful.
But if you stay
I’ll make you a day
Like no day has been
Or will be again
………..
But …
really? Is that it? If I stay with you, I get one wonderful day. That’s it? No
more? Business as usual? Hardly a compelling argument. If I’m dying, if that’s why
I might go away, perhaps the offer might inspire me to the strength to hang on
just one more day. But to be realistic, it’s hardly likely to be the wonderful
one on offer, and even if it were I probably could not delay my leaving for
more than just one day.
No, the
English lyrics do not stand up to too much examination.
But the
French. Oh, the original French. What power. What tragedy. What pathos. We lost
everything when we translated the simple, ever-powerful, ne me quitte pas,
don’t leave me, into the somewhat insipid if you go away. (Of
course, I should not even use the word translate. If I had translated don’t
leave me into if you go away in my high school French exams, I’d
have flunked for sure. Poetic license can be a dangerous thing.)
Today it’s
easy to find an English translation of the original lyrics of Ne Me Quitte
Pas, as opposed to our English adaptation from the ’60’s. In the early
’80’s when I first discovered the original French version, my command of the
language was insufficient for me to gain more than a loose understanding of
most of the meaning. Now I know that the original, for instance of I’ll make
you a day etc, was –
I will offer you
Pearls made of rain
Coming from countries
Where it never rains
……….
Slightly
more imaginative. But what did it matter? All you really need is that
gut-wrenching repeated phrase: ne me quitte pas, ne me quitte pas, don’t
leave me, don’t leave me.
My favorite
version** is by the inimitable Nina Simone,
American singer, songwriter, and political activist. Her throaty, almost
tear-filled, voice, is almost enough to make me cry without benefit of words.
The song haunts me. It leaps into my head each time one more friend or loved
one leaves this earth, which sadly happens more frequently as we age.
To stick
with French, it is a cri de coeur, a cry from the heart.
Ne me quite pas. Don’t leave me.
Although
sung in almost a whisper, it is a howl from the depth of the soul.
Ne me quitte pas. Don’t leave me.
It is a beg for mercy.
Ne me quitte pas. Don’t leave me.
Finally the words sink to their knees in
despair.
Ne  me  quitte 
pas.
Don’t   leave    me.
* https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=52B7ZWfJNHE
** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Q7w7gk1JhQ
© January 2017 
About the Author 
 I was born and
raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S.
and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder
area since 1965, working for 30-years at IBM. I married, raised four
stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself
as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years.
We have been married since 2013.
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Igpay Atinlay, by Ricky

          In the summer of 1964, I turned
16.  My father and I drove north to visit
my uncle.  When we arrived, my aunt and
uncle were not home; dad went to visit with them while they were at a mutual
friend’s home elsewhere in the city. 
This left my two cousins (ages 14 and 12) and me, home alone for several
hours.
          Being mischievous and mean spirited, my
older cousin decided to lock his brother out of the house.  I actually helped him to do it, but he wanted
it to last for a while.  In any case, the
younger cousin left to ride his bike to a friend’s house, so my conscience was
mostly clear.
          At this point, my older cousin chose
to use the bathroom.  After what seemed
like 10-minutes, or at least plenty of time to finish his business, I knocked
on the door and asked how much longer he would be in there.  He said, “Not long.”  I then suspected that he might be doing more
than what is customary in a bathroom; not an unreasonable supposition
considering that we had sex play each time I had visited before.
          I found the “junk drawer” in the
kitchen and found a small screwdriver and I inserted it into the bathroom
doorknob to “pop” the lock into the unlock position.  It did so with a very loud “pop” sound.  My cousin immediately shouted, “Don’t come in!”  I rattled the knob, but did not go in.  About a minute later he said, “Okay, you can
come in now.”  Not knowing what to
expect, I entered.
          My cousin asked me if I wanted to play
as if we were the Gestapo torturing prisoners for information.  I said okay and asked, “What are the
rules?”  He explained that the prisoner
would stand in the bathtub with his hands holding the shower curtain rod and
could not let go; as if he were tied up. 
The other person would pretend to torture the prisoner any way he wanted
as long as it was pretend and not painful. 
He even volunteered to be the first prisoner.  How could I say no?  I began to play torture him, which did not
take too long evolving into sex play.  We
eventually traded places, so I had my turn also as the prisoner.
          As soon as we finished and exited the
bathroom, there was a knock on the door. 
We thought it was the younger cousin returning home.  It was not. 
Instead, it was a 12-year old friend of my younger cousin.  We let him in and introductions followed.  He and I were chatting away about nothing
important while sitting at the kitchen table. 
He asked me if I spoke Pig Latin.
          When I was in elementary school, some
of us kids did dabble in it for a week or so, but it was not very interesting
to us so we dropped it; so I told him, “No. 
I don’t speak it.”  He promptly
turned to my cousin and said, “Owhay igbay isway ishay ickday?”  My cousin held up his hands about 7-inches
apart.  I then said, “No it’s not.  It’s about this big,” holding up my hands to
indicate the size.  The friend of my
cousin then said, “I thought you said you didn’t speak Pig Latin.”  I told him that I don’t speak it, but I never
said I didn’t understand it.
          The boy wanted to see me naked right
then, but my cousin told him to wait until that night.  As it turned out, that night my two cousins,
the boy, his 16-year old brother, and I had a sleepover in the family’s steam
bath outbuilding.  There was a lot more
sex play, which started out by playing a game of Strip Go Fish.
          Oh what a day, the night was even
better.
© 24 Sep 2012  
About the Author  
I was born in June of
1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I was
sent to live with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for
two years during which time my parents divorced.  
When united with my
mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and
then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in
1966.  After three tours of duty with the
Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four
children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days
after the 9-11-2001 terrorist attack.
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Group Grief, by Phillip Hoyle

Group grief again. I am not looking forward to our grief while I also anticipate receiving support from the SAGE Telling Your Story group. That’s an enigma, one I can live with.
Randy Wren felt close to the church, somehow to his faith. He liked the Episcopalian Church although in him I sensed little religious doctrinal fervor. In his telling, that church was the “A List” of non-Roman Catholic organizations. I say this only as a description. Randy’s life was lived; his stories of that life were actions and various relationships. He shared them without shame, fear, or regret, and in this, he was my teacher. He seemed to like the way words sounded together rather than how such combinations might reveal a philosophical truth. He didn’t seem to worry, not even when he thought he was having a heart attack. Some kind of enthusiasm seemed always to be bubbling inside him, and each bubble led him immediately to a recalled similarity whether a person, address, relationship, or experience. He wove webs out of these materials as he freely shared his story. While he cavorted with the rich and famous as it were, he never projected disdain for the plain and simple. He was too full of life for that. I liked Randy Wren and I appreciated what he brought to this group. He told me often that Monday afternoon was the best time of his week.
Thanks, Randy Wren. We’re missing you.
© 17 July 2017 
About the Author  
Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general, he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com 
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True Colors, by Lewis Thompson

My favorite color has always been green.  Not chartreuse or pea or celery but dark metallic as in British racing green.  My second car was a 1958 Ford Fairlane 500 convertible.

It was 1964 and I was a senior in high school and anxious to make a good impression on my classmates.  Mine was light yellow with a black-and-white vinyl interior.  The car had been in a wreck and had been lovingly restored to “like new” condition.
I hadn’t had the car a year when another driver ran a stop sign and swiped the front end.  Since the car would have to be repainted anyway, I could choose my color.  Naturally, I chose British racing green—a color that seemed outside the experience of the fellow at the body shop.  He showed me the color chart and I found one that looked pretty close to BRG.  When the car was ready for pickup, to my horror, I saw that the color was way too dark—almost metallic black.  Well, there wasn’t much I could do about it and–with a new white convertible top–didn’t look at all bad.  Of course, I would never have allowed Graham Hill or Jimmy Clark see me in anything but true British Racing Green.
Graham Hill

Jimmy Clark
© 28 Feb 2016  
About the Author  
I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. 
Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s hometown. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.
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Flowers, by Gillian

I was going to begin with the words, my mother loved flowers. But love is such an overused elasticated word that we are never sure just what it means, so I’ll simply say, flowers were among the most important things in my mother’s life. She rejoiced in the look, feel, and smell of them; the art and science of them. She caressed them with her fingers, her eyes and nose, and her mouth as she whispered their names to them. Not only could she identify any flower with its English name, but for many, she also knew the Botanical. As she read endlessly and traveled more she began eagerly to learn their names in French, German, Spanish, or alternate identities assigned to them in other English-speaking countries.
Take just one example; the simple buttercup. Being water-loving plants, these thrive in Britain. Where we lived they grew like weeds but that did nothing to diminish Mum’s appreciation both of and for them.
The morning sun shone on a cluster of the creeping variety, highlighting their soft golden glow still brightened by the dew.
‘Well, good morning my Beautiful Buttercups,’ she might greet them, whispering so as not to disturb them, very gently caressing the velvet gold petals with the tip of her little finger.
‘How are my favorite little Ranunculi this morning? My Ranunculus repens?’
Then perhaps she would slip into an attempt at a French accent.
‘My bouton d’Or.’
‘Coyote’s eyes’, she might add, in dreadfully Humphrey Bogart American.
She had read, somewhere, that in parts of the Pacific Northwest of the United States buttercups are called “Coyote’s eyes” by the native peoples. According to legend, an apparently very foolish coyote was tossing his eyes up in the air and catching them again when an eagle snatched them. Unable to see, the foolish, but evidently extremely creative coyote, made eyes from buttercups.
She would even offer up poems. In the case of the buttercups, all I remember was one by A.A. Milne, famously the author of the Winnie the Pooh stories, which Mum quoted as –
Head above the buttercups,
Walking by the stream,
Down among the buttercups,
Lost in a dream.
Having just this moment looked up the poem for the purposes of this story, I see that she was misquoting. The original begins –
Where is Anne?
Head above the buttercups,
Walking by the stream,
Down among the buttercups.
Where is Anne?
Walking with her man,
Lost in a dream.
How typical of my mother, I think now, that she should leave out the part about a man. Had there been mention of a child, she probably would have suppressed that, too. For her, I see through the magic of hindsight, love of flowers was a way to forget all humans and the pain that relationships with them can bring. She was safe with flowers. I used to witness the look in her eyes when she caressed them, and ache inside. She never looked at me like that. She didn’t caress me like that. Looking back now, I wonder if my dad ever wondered why she never treated him to such adoration either.
My father was the absolute opposite of my mother when it came to flowers, as was the case with most things. To him, they all belonged in a few very simple generic categories. A red flower was a rose, a blue one a bluebell, a white one a daisy, and a yellow one a dandelion. I think he really did have a genuine disinterest in flowers, quite typical of men of his time and place. Vegetables were a man’s plants. Flowers were women’s work. What good were they? You couldn’t eat them. They were simply a waste of valuable space. They harrumphed at their beauty and trampled their delicacy. Dad didn’t want to destroy them, he simply had no interest in them. But I do think his extreme disinterest and feigned ignorance was at least to some extent simply to tease my mother. Referring to a beautiful bed of dancing daffodils, Mum’s precious narcissus, jonquil, daffadowndilly, as dandelions, or the papery translucent lily as a daisy, was inevitable met with a very irritated, ‘Oh, Edward!’ from Mum and a broad wink from my father to me. Did he persist in this as much when I was not there? I have to wonder now.
Whatever the human dynamics, flowers were a source of much joy to my mother throughout her life. My example of the buttercup was played out with practically every flower she ever encountered, whether nurtured in the garden or wild in the woods. The last time I saw her I arrived at the nursing home with an armful of lilacs from a friend’s garden. She reached out her arms; not to embrace me but to gather the flowers to her.
‘Oh, Syringa!’ she whispered: burying her face in the blossoms, burying her nose in the delicious fragrance. A young girl just bringing in the tea looked at me in puzzlement. She was the daughter of someone I went to school with and new my name perfectly well. She scuttled out as fast as she could when Mum broke into –
When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,
And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
She had a remarkable memory. I do not. I had to look this up from what little of it I could remember, eventually tracking it down in a poem by Walt Whitman.
The second verse reads –
Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.
I had to laugh, even after all these years. Of course, it would be the first verse she quoted, ignoring the second where humans inserted themselves, again unwanted.
It’s OK Mum, I tell her now. We all hope to find whatever gets us through the night. And what could anyone find, in their hour of need, offering more uplift for the spirit, more peace for the soul, than flowers?
© February 2017 
About the Author 
I was born and
raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S.
and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder
area since 1965, working for 30-years at IBM. I married, raised four
stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself
as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years.
We have been married since 2013.
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I Don’t Know, by Phillip Hoyle

“I don’t know.” What a topic, so open. It reminds me of doubt, the inability to choose, even loss of memory. Not knowing was a common experience for me as a kid. I recall looking at souvenirs in an Estes Park shop one summer afternoon. I had money and wanted to buy something with it. I looked at animal figurines wondering which one to select. I didn’t know. Finally, I bought a bear. As an adult, I reasoned I did so because of its connection to Native American life and lore. I never regretted that choice and the bear turned out to be an interesting animal and somewhat a symbol for me.
I am quite aware of the problem of choice for late teens who may have vocational interests, talents, and potential. I certainly was one of those. Having been recruited for ministry, I watched that world carefully. I had many other interests as well but finally went with the church work. That choice was much more important than deciding between kinds of candy or cookies or figurines. I didn’t regret my ministerial choice or career even though I eventually left it. At age 50 I chose to get out of it having tired of the incessant meetings. I knew when to leave.
In other ways, I said, “I don’t know,” but when I did, I believe saying so might have been a dodge, a frustration, or sometimes the truth. Still, I think about it; I have to make decisions. When I choose, I try to stick with the program, and I am a pretty good sticker: witness 29 years with my wife, 32 years in church work, many years directing vocal ensembles, 20 years developing curriculum resources, years of work on several manuscripts, 15 years with Jim and Ruth, quite a few years with SAGE’s Telling Your Story, almost as many years the SAGE blog, on and on. I feel I just don’t know so often, yet I do know. My doing is related to a belief fostered by Mother who led Girl Scout troops, reared five children, presided over the PTA, taught leadership skills to adults and youth, and organized in the community. She said, “You set your mind to the task and do it. You can do it.” So that’s what I have done. I may know that I don’t know. I certainly didn’t know anything about blogs, but now I have two of them. Too often when I turn on my computer I can’t get into the program. I don’t know, but I think it through overcoming my frustration and eventually complete the task at hand.
Ninety-five-year-old Ruth often says to me, “I don’t know.” While we are working on our jigsaw puzzles—we’re in our fifteenth year—I ask about her past, her ideas, her kids. In answer to many questions, she simply says, “I don’t know.” I envy her. If at age seventy I said “I don’t know” as often as she does, they’d hurry me off for a brain scan and some therapy. But at 95 you can say what you want. Nobody will argue. I told Ruth our topic for today and said I wanted to tell a story about her. She scrunched up her face in distaste. “But, Ruth,” I said, “the group loves when I include you in my stories.” I made no promises to her. You see, for me “I don’t know” is the best line from a 95-year-old who looking me straight in the face said, “You’d better not.” Apparently, I didn‘t know how to be scared of her.
© 10 July 2017  
About the Author  
Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his
time writing, painting, and socializing. In general, he keeps busy with groups
of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen
in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He
volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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Pushing the Buttons, by Lewis Thompson

When I took Drivers’ Ed
back in 1960, we did our on-the-road learning in a 1957 Mercury Monterey with
push-button automatic transmission controls mounted to the left of the steering
column on the lower instrument panel.  (Most
people over 60, like me, associate push-button shifting with Chrysler
Corporation vehicles.)  Mercury went back
to column-mounted shifting a year or two later. 
I assume that a few too many of their customers were downshifting or
upshifting when they meant to change the radio station from WLS in Chicago to
KOMA in Oklahoma City.
On some very recent car
models, pushing a button is how you start the motor, either gasoline or
electric.  Many of us will remember when
you would push a button to lock the car doors. 
Later models often lock the doors for you when the vehicle reaches a
certain speed.  One operation that hasn’t
changed much is the need to push a button to release the lap/shoulder
belt.  Many telephones still require the
manual dexterity to push a button to dial or take a call but they are rapidly
being phased out by phones that require only a soft, tactile touch to a screen.
I can remember push-button
operated door bells, light switches, tape recorders, adding machines,
typewriters, office phones, air conditioners, electric mixers, car radios,
switch blade knives, and pagers.  Some
household items still use pushbuttons today. 
For example, pop machines, cell phones, elevators, pedestrian crossing
signals, car key fobs, and apartment lobby call boxes.  Almost everything else has converted to a
modus operandi that does not involve buttons. 
Soon people will be
letting their fingernails grow so long that they can no longer push a button
without breaking a nail.  Broken nails
used to be a problem for women who wore nylon stockings.  However, since woman don’t wear nylon
stockings anymore–they went out of style concurrently with buttons–broken
nails are no longer an issue unless they make it hard to make the desired
selection on a touch screen or micro-switch. 
I don’t know if this is a problem since I still have many possessions
with a button.  Therefore, pushing buttons
is a push-over for me.
© 23 Jun 2014  
About
the Author  
 I came to the
beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the
state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the
Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly
realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as
our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger.
Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my
path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.
Soon after, I
retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13
blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to
fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE
Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.
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I Did It My Way_How Else? by Ricky

When I was a toddler, my parents wanted me to do things their-way. While potty-training, my dad demonstrated how to pee standing up. As I did not like to wear wet diapers and the fact it was fun to “aim” at different spots in (or at least near) the toilet I adapted quickly; although my mom probably wished my “aim” was a lot more accurate. No one ever demonstrated how to go “number 2”. They only verbally explained the “procedure” and the expected “outcome”. At this time “Houston we have a problem” became my-way’s “game of choice”.

Their-way involved them standing there watching me sit on the juvenile-throne expecting me to do my business. My-way involved them leaving me alone in the room. Now, I had never had an issue with mom or dad watching me pee standing up or sitting down, but for some reason I didn’t like them watching me for “operation number 2”. It was either that, or I took some kind of sadistic pleasure waiting for them to release me and then going outside and squatting, filling my training pants with the material I’d been holding back. Besides the sadistic streak, I probably enjoyed their cleaning my private (or to them my public) parts after I’d made the mess. The warm or cold water washcloths rubbing and scrubbing those sensitive genital regions undoubtedly felt as terrific back then as it does now.

Finally arriving at the terrible part of being 2 which came with the twin concepts of “I have choices” and “the-others-keep-asking-me-if-I-want-something-and-offering-me-things-as-they-ask-the-question”, it became inevitable that my growing self-awareness finally made the connection with the fact that I could say, “NO!”. At that point their-way became, “their-way-or-else”. The “not-their-way” always had unpleasant consequences. Did I ever mention that I got lots of spankings? Apparently, I was either a slow learner, just plain willful, headstrong, or addicted to “my-way”.

Anyway, many months and spankings later, I finally arrived at age 4. By this period, I realized that their-way was less painful, but I kept to my-way when not being closely monitored. However, outright lying was not yet something available to me due to insufficient brain development and lack of an example I could recognize. Nonetheless, my developing self-awareness allowed me to understand that their-way involving eat-everything-on-your-plate did not fit into my budding comprehension of what my taste buds and throat muscles were trying to communicate to me. There was a serious mismatch between their-way (eat-everything) and my-way (eat-everything if it tastes good or doesn’t cause gagging). With lots of “prompting” on their part, I really tried to do it their-way, but ultimately, it was the “second-coming” of my dinner that finally convinced them that my-way was best.

At the age of 5, their-way still involved expectations of strict and swift obedience; as in “go to your room and change all your clothes”. I was perfectly willing to do just that, but there was another “Houston we’ve got a problem” moment. In 1953 ADD had not yet been invented, if it had I could have been a poster-child. I only have a mild case but it was combined with a well-developed sense of 5-year old scientific curiosity. So, my-way manifested as, when I was naked changing clothes the scientist part of me wanted to learn all about the hard little “spiky-thing” attached to me. Thus, changing clothes became a secondary pursuit and exploring the unknown phenomena briefly became my primary concern, just before the exploration was interrupted by yet another spanking of which I’ve written about before. My-way for several types of scientific self-exploration which followed also included the catch phrase, “explore in private” or in other words, my “don’t-get-caught-way”.

At age 10 their-way was effectively my step-father’s-way. In the summer of 1958 I was his deckhand on his tour boat. I readily agreed that his-way was the only-right-way. It was a fun time that summer and I didn’t want to screw it up. I couldn’t swim so I didn’t want to risk either falling overboard or, worse, being thrown overboard. I didn’t know him very well at that point.

He was a good man and never bothered me, nor I him. At age 12 I lied to him once and he caught me in it. I had to explain why I did it and he just told me to never lie to him again and I never did, nor did I need too.

During my teen years, their-way was really mom’s-way. Her-way mostly involved getting me to “promise” to do one or two chores before she got home. My-way was to promise and then do or not do as I desired. There were no consequences for not doing and I mostly procrastinated until it was too late and I needed to go to bed before school in the morning. Those were the golden-years of my-way.

School classes, Boy Scouts, and life in general did successfully teach me that some of my-ways were not as good as other-ways. In one area, child rearing, my-way was the only-way because their-way was for me to be the 18-hour/day live-in babysitter while they stayed in the bar until closing time. Under those circumstances I had no examples of good parenting to follow. The only parenting book I knew of was by Dr. Spock, but fortunately, I didn’t even try to learn his-way, because I was sure I already knew everything I needed to know about that subject. I was wrong, but it’s too late to sue me.

My enlisted time in the Air Force was good for me. My-way was to follow their-way as exactly as I could because there were very serious consequences for failure to do so. I did well.

My time in a marriage relationship was wonderful, not perfect all the time but great nonetheless. My-way was to follow her-way as often as possible. Life was simpler that-way. Once she heard of an interview given by the wife of the leader of our church. The wife was asked what was the secret of their long, loving, and happy marriage. The wife’s reply was, “If you ask your husband to move a mattress from upstairs to downstairs and he then opens a window, throws the mattress out the window, walks downstairs and drags it in to the house—you hold your tongue.” After my wife heard that interview, the stress between us lessened quite a bit—her-way now included details on how to do things her-way. This in turn resulted in discussion of the other-possible-ways and a negotiated lets-do-it-this-way was often the result.

As an Air Force officer, I had lots of leeway with the their-way vs. my-way issue. In the management of my assigned enlisted and officer co-workers I had great latitude, but no leeway with the regulations. The greatest problem with their-way involved using training situations or exercises to punish weaknesses in performance. My-way is to use training situations and exercises as a teaching tool to strengthen performance. This issue ultimately led to our parting-of-the-ways.

After years of experiences traveling the highways, one-ways, two-ways, byways, bi-ways, and waterways of life, I’ve arrived in the senior-citizen zone. Now all but one of my-ways are open to suggestion. The only-way that is not up for alteration is the one-way where I get ice cream, my-way.

Baskin Robin’s “Baseball Nut” — Hmmmm Yummy!

© 19 December 2011

About the Author

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

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9 Sep 2011 terrorist attack.

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Empathy, by Phillip Hoyle

As a college student I learned a distinction between sympathy and empathy. The contrast arises from the two different Greek words. It also is influenced by psychoanalytic theory and practice. In most discussions empathy is considered to be more finely tuned than sympathy. As a minister I was called upon to do many tasks including hospital and care-home calls on members of the church. I did this work thoughtfully and, I believe, with sympathy, and on good days a measure of empathy! People liked my visits and humor. We laughed and prayed together.

In the church work I was motivated as much by duty as by sympathy and empathy. And I was appropriately trained to be helpful with patients and shut-ins. Apparently I provided sufficient care in my communications and mainly in the fact I showed up at all. Perhaps that is the way of it when one has too many people to serve.

The caring emotion for me occurred most clearly when I was in a hospital room with someone having a difficult time. I also noticed how my empathy was amplified when I liked the person, occasions in which other emotions and feelings added to what I was experiencing, for instance, the time an elder woman introduced me to her nephew when she and I were the only persons present made me wonder at the drugs the medics had given her for pain and the need to suppress a feeling of humor at the situation. (I was fine; she got better.)

I visited a good looking single young man who had a stubborn bone infection. I know that a sexual attraction increased my sense of his pathos. It alerted me to how others might prize him emotionally and their sense of fear surrounding his illness. My empathy extended to his family and friends. He eventually did recover after receiving loads of highly potent antibiotics.

Several times I visited an elder woman, very worldly and professional, with a bright personality and deep determination to recover from a major stroke. One day several weeks into treatment she appeared to have made a turn for the better. I was excited on her behalf and expressed how much better she looked. She tempered my enthusiasm, though, by saying, “Phillip, I finally felt up to putting on my makeup.” We laughed together. I said, “You are getting better.”

My empathy was sincere in all these cases yet certainly amplified by other emotions. And in all these visits I was present because I was a minister from their church.

One inactive church member, a real sot, was driving home from the VFW on an icy night and being rather drunk, crashed his car into the west entry to the church building. I didn’t see the car but did see the damage to the steps and more. The Sr. Minister, Jack, wasn’t sure what to do. I volunteered, “I’ll go to the hospital and see how he is.” I’d never met the man and really didn’t know much about alcohol or alcoholism. I went in simply as a visiting minister. “So they sent you,” he said eyes twinkling.

“Yeah. It’s my day to make the rounds,” I said to underplay the situation. I asked how he was doing. He said, “Fine,” and seemed totally sober at that point, perhaps from the trauma. I realized he might even feel ill at ease and said, “You just rest and recover.” I shook his hand, smiled saying, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, and don’t worry about the church stuff.” I may have visited him later, I have no recollection. I never saw him outside the hospital, certainly not in church. His collision with the front steps was no conversion.

Was I sympathetic or empathetic? I have no real idea. As a massage therapist I felt empathy with most of my clients in their pains and diseases but not always in their gripes and in some of their expressed needs. I did smile often and sometimes cried. I mostly tried to deliver an effective massage and must have done that pretty well. Many of my clients came to me for over fourteen years. Perhaps I was sufficiently empathetic. And my real hope is that I was never just plain old pathetic in these contacts.

© 27 Nov 2017

About the Author

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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My First LGBT Acquaintance, by Pat Gourley

I saw that today’s topic was actually Dancing with the Stars. I am aware that this is the name of a long-standing television series of the same name that I think involves teams of contestants in competitive-dancing with often B-grade celebrities. And I must admit I have never watched a single minute of this show and I mean no offense to anyone who enjoys it. Really how can somewhat like me who is addicted to reruns of The Big Bang Theory and the Golden Girls throw shade at anyone else’s TV viewing habits?

I could I suppose make a big stretch and turn ‘dancing with the stars’ into a metaphor for one of my past particularly enjoyable LSD adventures but instead I’ll write a few lines on last week’s topic: My First GLBT Acquaintance. Let me say right out of the box I have no idea who my first real GLBT acquaintance was since like all of us of a certain age I was birthed into the stifling cauldron of a falsely presumed heterosexual universe. We were in many ways unrecognizable to one another until we demanded to be called by our real names. A nearly universal experience we all relate to was the question of whether or not we were alone asking “am I the only one who is this way”. Our first acquaintance would I hope for most of us be a glorious answer to that question.

As I was writing this and had Pandora playing in the background I was unaware of any tune until Lou Reed’s masterpiece Walk on the Wild Side just came on. Released in 1972 this opus chronicles the adventures of a cast of characters all headed to New York City and a ‘walk on the wild side’.

I would take the liberty to say that through transexuality, drug use, male prostitution and oral sex they may have all been looking for and perhaps found that first GLBT acquaintance. Holly, Candy, Little Joe, Sugar Plum Fairy and Jackie all seem to have been based on real people from Reed’s life in NYC back then. All of whom I would say were very queer people.

We were fortunate in this SAGE Story Telling Group to get a glimpse of this albeit dangerous but deliciously exciting world Reed describes in his song through the frequent writings of a dear friend who died recently. As he related to us on several occasions his walks on the wild side started in the tearooms of downtown Denver department stores but would eventually be played out most emphatically on the streets of NYC. He often honestly provided glimpses into this world, that like it or not, is an integral part of our collective and frequently personal queer history. Thank you, dear friend!

For the sake of this piece I am going to say that “acquaintance” implies a mutual recognition that we are both queer as three-dollar bills. When using this definition the task of identifying my first acquaintance is much easier. This first person I suppose also represents my own personal “walk on the wild side”. As I have written about on previous occasions this ‘acquaintance” was a man 20 years my senior who I had been passive-aggressively courting for a year. We took a real ‘walk on the wild side’ and had sex (my first!) in the biology lab of my Catholic High School festooned with crucifixes on the wall. It was Easter week and I was a soon to graduate Senior. I am eternally in debt to this man for launching in very loving fashion my great ongoing gay adventure.

If there has been one thing that our liberation efforts the past century have provided it is that many but certainly not all new ‘recruits’ to the queer world do not have to have that first acquaintance involve a ‘walk on the wild side’. The fruits of success I suppose though work remains to be done and for some us perhaps a sense of nostalgia for a long gone but often very exciting times.

© July 2017

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.