Tag: Love

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Family, by Ricky

Families are forever. When we look back down our family tree through our parents’ linage, the roots dig the soil descending to the dawn of prehistory. Looking forward, the branches will produce the leaves of our posterity, assuming that nothing awful happens to prevent our offspring from reproducing. My personal family tree shows periods of good fertilization, cross pollination, reseeding, decay, and pruning. It is very interesting to me as the information I’ve been able to collect turns my roots into very real people with all the hopes, dreams, foibles, vices, and courage to risk all for a better future; and not just a list of names.

According to my side of the family, my great grandfather, John Charles Nelson, at the age of 15, immigrated from Sweden to the US by stowing away on a ship leaving Denmark for the US (or possibly Canada) to live with his older brother in Minnesota. Upon arrival, he probably worked in odd jobs, but in the summer, he was a “migrant” farm worker on various farmsteads. In his twenties, he married Bertha Nordin (pronounced nor-dean) and produced several children by her of which the oldest one was my grandfather, John Leonard Nelson. When John Leonard was 9 years old, his father died in a farming accident but no one recalls how. Bertha’s photograph shows her posing in the style of the mid 1800’s; sitting, wearing a dark full-length dress, hair held tightly up in a “bun”, and with a very stern or “no nonsense young man, thank you” look on her rather plain and unadorned face; no painted hussy this lady.

According to my great uncle’s side of the family, John Charles did indeed emigrate to the US but not from Sweden, but Denmark as they were citizens of Denmark. The only other difference in the story is they report that John Charles died in Cummings, North Dakota, of exposure (hypothermia) during an alcoholic stupor. Many civil records in Cummings were destroyed in a courthouse fire in the early 1900’s. Unfortunately, the local newspaper accounts of the day were also destroyed in another fire around the same time. I have not been able to prove either version correct, yet.

As a rather amusing aside to this story, I was in Bismarck, North Dakota, trying to find an obituary for John Charles as Bertha was living there about the time of his death. While reading an old newspaper, I stumbled across (how does one “stumble across” something while sitting down reading anyway?) a “letter to the editor” containing a complaint directly related to today’s society.

The letter was written by a male shopkeeper, in about 1896, who was walking home after leaving the shop for the day. He wrote he was walking down the sidewalk and decided to take a shortcut through an alley. As he turned the corner into the alley, he noticed several boys, ages running from 6 thru 12, further down the alley. The older boys were paring up the younger boys and having them fight each other with the winner given a cigarette to smoke. He then wrote, “Now I don’t have anything against boys fighting; it’s a healthy form of exercise, but we have laws about tobacco being in the possession of minors and their not being enforced.” In over 100 years our society can’t seem to keep tobacco out of the hands of children. The more things progress, the more they stay the same.

I am sure all my immigrant forefather and foremothers (is that really a word?) were elated to arrive in America and begin building a better life for themselves and their eventual offspring. The result for John Charles, Bertha, and their children was rather tragic whether he died in an accident or due to alcoholism. That event greatly impacted future generations.

I once saw an old black and white photograph of my grandfather, John Leonard, when he looked about 9 years old, standing in snow in front of a farm style shed. He was wearing a parka, pants, and ¾ length boots. When I first glanced at it while searching a box of family photos, I thought it was a picture of me at age 9 on my mother’s father’s farm where I was living at that age. I did a double-take and looked at the photo and realized it wasn’t me or my dad or my uncle. I finally figured it out that it was my grandfather (his features closely resembled his adult photographs). I first thought it was me because the expression on his face looked like I imagined my face looked when my dad told me about the divorce and then left the next morning; a total depressed look of internal sadness.

John Leonard grew up supporting is mother and siblings, also by working odd jobs and as a farm worker. In due time, he married the rather pretty Emma Sophia Unger and fathered 7 children; five boys and two girls. The oldest boy, born on June 13th 1914, is my father, John Archie Nelson. In another tragic event, my grandfather died when my father was 9 years old. I never asked how he died or if I did, I don’t remember. When I was in my teens, I did ask my father if he worried about dying as I turned 9 years old. He said that he did indeed. Fortunately (or perhaps not considering later events involving me), he lived into his 70’s.

My father had to support his mother and siblings with only an 8th grade education acquired in a one-room schoolhouse. He went to school in the daytime and worked odd jobs, one of which was as a “house boy” (according to the US Census), until he was old enough to stop schooling and work on farms as a laborer.

He related to me the following story while driving us across a bridge he helped build during the years of Roosevelt’s “New Deal” (or perhaps after WW2). The bridge was along US Hwy 101 near the California border with Oregon. It crossed a river in a not too deep but wide ravine. To construct such a structure a cofferdam had to be built first to divert the river around the foundation construction site so the concrete pillars could be made secure in large holes below the river’s bottom. One day as he was getting into the “elevator” to be lowered into the hole with the rest of the work crew, the foreman called him out and replaced him with another worker. He was then sent to work on a different area above ground. Later that morning the cofferdam failed and all the men in the pit were drowned. Lucky break for him and indirectly, me.

As WW2 progressed, he was working as a civilian construction worker at Dutch Harbor, Alaska, when the Japanese air force attacked to provide a diversion for their main attack on Midway Island. At the time, he was driving a truck in a sort of convoy along a road by the harbor. The truck three places in front of his was hit by a bomb with the normally expected results. So, once again we were lucky.

Sometime after that incident, he joined the army where he was sent to the European Theater of war. Once there, he was assigned to escort/guard German Prisoners of War (POW) on their voyage to the POW camps in the US. Once the war was over the prisoners by and large did not want to go back to Germany, he said, but they were returned anyway. Finally, he was sent to a base in Texas to await discharge. While waiting for his turn to get out of the army, he had time to obtain a civilian pilot’s license. After discharge, he returned to Minnesota to resume his civilian life. After marriage he worked as some type of factory worker and then as a postal worker and eventually retired from there very gruntled and not disgruntled.

My mother, Shirley Mae Pearson, married him in the Lutheran church in Cambridge, Minnesota, during November 1947. I was born to them 8 months later. That’s right I attended their wedding, but out of sight. Mother was born in her mother and father’s farmhouse in May of 1927 (the same year the first color television transmission was sent and received). She also was educated in a one-room schoolhouse thru the 8th grade and then attended high school in Cambridge. She was “confirmed” into the local Lutheran Church (the same one married in) and kept her faith although not practicing it openly; usually reading the Bible in private. She met my father in Minneapolis where she was working as a (I forget). For obvious reasons, after the wedding, they moved to Lawndale, California, a suburb of Los Angeles.

Mother had a job working for a company that made glues and foam rubber products. In fact, I still use the same pillow she made for me as a child. It has new ticking but still has the original shredded foam rubber inside. I think the company may have been a division of 3M. Anyway, the company’s claim to fame at the time mother worked for them was they made an artificial fluke and the glue to attach it on a whale that lost one off her tail. The whale was named Minnie and ended up living at Marine Land. The slogan was, “Minnie the whale with the detachable tail.”

Tragically, for me, if not for them, they divorced when I was young. During the process, I was sent to live with my mother’s parents on their farm in Isanti County in east-central Minnesota, just a few miles east of Cambridge.

Mother died in her 40’s while my twin half-brother and sister were only 14 (another tragedy) from the effects of liver cancer caused by smoking. I was married by then.

The lesson to be learned from all this; family trees can be blasted by life’s lightning, stressed by heavy winds, damaged in tragic fires, and wounded by lack of water; but still continue to live and prosper when nourished by frequent periods of love.

© 1 January 2011

About the Author

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Two Good Movies, by Nicholas

I remember seeing a cartoon one day
in The New Yorker magazine, a
publication famous for its topical cartoons. It showed two men, presumably gay,
walking out of a movie theatre that was showing some male-female romantic
movie. One man says to the other: “I’m tired of extrapolating.”
He meant, of course, he was tired of
seeing great loves and the truths of great romances, their trials,
tribulations, joys and triumphs, played out on the big screen by hetero couples
from whom we could all learn about love by pretend-identifying with one or both
of the individuals. Sort of, love in the abstract. Love is universal and I
shouldn’t be concerned that the people shown don’t really look or act like me
and my lovers. I should “extrapolate,” imagine myself and my dilemmas and joys
through them.
That is, of course, a bunch of crap.
And fortunately, we don’t have to put up with that so much anymore.
This past weekend Jamie and I saw two
movies at the Q Cinema film festival at the Denver Film Society not far from
our house. On Friday we saw a dramatic film called Lazy Eye. It might soon show up in commercial release and I highly
recommend seeing it. The story is a fairly ordinary one of two men who briefly
had a passionate connection years back when both were young. They are in their
middle-age 40’s now. There’s been no contact between them for years until one
finds the other and we’re off and running. They reconnect and the passion
soars. Problem is, one has gone on to another relationship and even married
another man. Of course, despite old yearnings, it does not work out. How they
get to that point of finally separating is the beauty of the story and the
film.
Someone remarked that the story could
have been any couple, not necessarily a gay couple. It could have been told
that way. But it wasn’t. It was told by, for and about gay relationships. I
didn’t have to extrapolate. Straight viewers seeing this move could do the
extrapolating now.
Moreover, the story involved two men
comfortably and completely out. Being gay was not the issue. No angst about
anybody’s sexual identity. At this point in my life, I have to say I am totally
over coming out stories. I don’t think the words gay or homosexual are even
mentioned in the movie. We are seeing the fully realized story of two men who
were in love long ago and maybe could be now if it weren’t for the fact of
other choices being made since.
It was a joy to see people who are
gay working out their lives without any specter of closets and prejudices
hanging over them. The story was our story, my story.
The other movie we saw was a documentary
called Political Animals and tells
the stories of the first four lesbians elected to the California state
legislature in the 1990s and later. It’s notable that the first gays elected to
that legislature were women. Gay men in the 1990s were too busy caring for ill
friends and lovers. One of the women—Carole Migden who made an appearance at
the showing—I know personally and we got to reminisce about lesbian and gay
movement days in San Francisco. I was a journalist then and covered politics.
These four brave pioneering women
politicians accomplished a lot like protections for queer youth in schools and
the first statewide domestic partnership recognition. The vile things they had
to hear said about them and all gay people in legislative debates is an
astonishing history lesson. They were brilliant political strategists. It’s
moving to hear their stories about how their politics was not about abstract
ideas and policies but about their own personal lives. It was their story, our
story, my story.
I recommend both these movies.
© July
2016 
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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A Defining Word, by Ray S

Words are wondrous. They can say very much or they will tell
nothing. For instance:
Perhaps
Maybe
No or yes
Why, when and where
Radical and conservative
Gay and straight
Bi- and trans
Black and white
Under the heading of often used four-letter words:

Love
Lust
The “F word,” short for fornication,
sin or fun
The “S word,” short for natural
fertilizer
Did you ever wonder about the people locked up in windowless
padded cells that invent the pretentious words to the different brands of
automobiles? What is a lexus, elantra, exterra, ultima, infinity, passat,
tourage, cayenne, cayman, etc., etc.
What about all of those wonder drugs?

Cealis or Viagra
All the antacid remedies
Sleeping pills with names that are unpronounceable along with all their side effects
Call your doctor if it lasts longer than four hours or
doesn’t solve your distress in four hours.
I have fallen in love with that good looking everyone’s, man
or woman, hotel bedroom partner especially when the sponsor’s name flashes on
the TV screen.  No, it isn’t Viagra, but
something else like Chivgro??? Never mind, the sponsor’s name; just see if we
can get the number of that vitally mature handsome senior citizen.
This list could go on forever, but I’m afraid there is far
too much for me to define for you, so when you’re completely out of anything
better to do, you can take my place and define whatever you may choose to, and
“Happy trails” oops that has eleven letters. Better try “ciao,” (definition, good
bye.)
© 22
February 2016 
About the Author 
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Teacher by Betsy

Whether she wants to be or not, a mother IS a teacher. By virtue of being present from the moment her child enters the world a mother, which is a mother who IS present, has to be the greatest influence in a child’s life. Later on a child may want to break away from this overwhelming influence. After all, to become an independent adult a child has to break away. But the influence will always be there. 

I remember breaking away from my mother, but by the time I was 18 I had become human again in my behavior. Now in my dotage my mother is the first person who comes to mind when presented with the topic “teacher.”
I imagine most of a parent’s lessons are conveyed indirectly by way of example. I can think of a thousand things my mother taught me without ever uttering a word about it. 
GRACE: My mother was the most graceful and gracious creature alive. She moved with grace, she ran the household with grace. I can honestly say, I never heard my mother raise her voice. (This could be why I have trouble doing this myself!) There were times she was angry, but always kept her cool. 
COMMITMENT AND RESPONSIBILITY: She never spoke of commitment and responsibility directly, but I know I learned this from her. Actions truly do speak louder than words. However certain words have a way of sticking. One particular incident comes to mind: Where we lived I became eligible to get a driver’s license when I turned 15. In Louisiana at the time, it did not matter if you knew how to drive. On your fifteenth birthday you go down with your birth certificate and get your license. My mother prepared me for this day by taking me out for practice runs in the family car. As far as she was concerned birthday or no, I would get my license when she was satisfied that I could drive SAFELY. I can still hear her voice guiding me down the road. “Don’t ever forget, Betsy. The car is a KILLER.” This obviously made a big impression on me since I remember these words to this day–60 years later. 
COURAGE: I would never have thought of my mother as courageous–until she was torn from her roots, forced to leave her comfortable home surrounded by familiarity and family members. She had to endure relocating to a new environment and new culture. At the time I had no idea that this would be a difficult adjustment for anyone. When you are young you can move anywhere many times with ease. But this had to be an awful change of environment for her. I never heard one word of complaint. It was only a few years later that she became terminally ill. Her youngest child, my little sister, had to be sent away to boarding school because mom could not take care of her or the household or anyone else, herself included. Through a painful illness, surgeries, weakness, inability to eat, numerous hospitalizations my mother never complained. This takes courage.
STEADFASTNESS: My mother and I used to argue a lot when I was growing up. When I did grow up I stopped the nonsense. But as I was trying to assert my independence we often argued. She did have some very traditional ideas about things and I was a raging radical, like most teen agers. We did not raise our voices but would banter about with our conflicting ideas. At the end of the discussion she would always say, “I may not agree with you about this, but you stick to your guns.”
CONSIDERATION FOR OTHERS. Another very powerful lesson my mother taught me was to have consideration for others. “Even if you cannot thank Grandmother for that gift you do not want,” she said, “you MUST acknowledge her generosity and thoughtfulness in sending it.” This concept seems to be dying out altogether. I wonder if the problem is that I do not have texting capability. Those of my generation can always hope that when the youngsters have their own Facebook page, they will post acknowledgments on our walls. I really don’t care. Send a carrier pigeon! Let me hear from you even if you didn’t want that gift. I know my mom–my grandchildren’s great grandmother–would approve of any of these methods of communication, as would I. These valuable lessons so well taught should not be lost!
LOVE: I do believe my mother along with my father was instrumental in teaching me how to love another. Now, how do you teach something as important and powerful as loving another? I knew my mother loved me and I believe that is what it takes to teach this greatest lesson of all.


© November 2011

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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Little Things that Mean A Lot by Will Stanton

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About the Author

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

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A Letter to My Younger Self by Betsy

1952

My Dear Betsy,

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

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

© 10 July 2013

About the Author 

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

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My Wife and Six Husbands by Phillip Hoyle

When the issue of same-sex marriage made a headline some six years ago, my partner Jim asked if I’d want to marry should such a law be enacted. I flippantly replied, “Oh, I already did that for thirty years. I guess not.” I thought of marriage as being a non-issue in my relationship with this Taurus-signed man who holds such a different take on ownership than do I as a laid-back Cancerian. I have almost no need for possessions and derive little joy from the fact that I own anything. And early on in our wooing I remember clearly stating this warning: “I can’t be owned.” In my response that day I forgot to ask him if he wanted me to marry him because I couldn’t conceive that he’d want to cede half of everything he owned to me or anyone else.

Then last month, my partner and I were invited to join another male couple who were celebrating their 25th anniversary. They got married officially under New York State law about a year ago, but for them, this May date was their real anniversary celebrating when they first got together as a couple.

Relationships without societal rules make their own sense of things. Surely this simple perception and constant insistence signals something important about marriage, about all things called marriage whether under civil law or religious tradition. When it comes to plain and simple language, marriage, wedding, and union are synonyms. It’s that simple; but of course, it’s never that simple. Nothing is that simple. In so declaring, I realize I have branded myself a liberal, an educated, sophisticated snob, and an ivory-tower thinker—one of those people who tries to confuse meanings in order to destroy the sureties of common life. Well, so be it, but I tell you I learned this way of thinking at a Bible college, a small enclave of rather conservative thinking, yet one dedicated to revisiting ancient documents (particularly the Bible) from the point of view of John Locke’s philosophy (firmly settled within the views of the Enlightenment). This task of finding ancient truth within newer structures of thinking opened a door in my imagination. Eventually I progressed beyond 18th century views opting for more contemporary ones that would present whatever truths could be gleaned from ancient traditions to inform and enrich current expressions of human life and meaning.

But back in the old days, my young adult days, I used to define marriage in this way: go to bed with one other person and you’ll wake up married. I guess back then I thought of marriage as a relationship blending sex and metaphysics. I was never very ceremonial in my approach to life. My casual take on things was almost as simple as a caveman bonking someone on the head and dragging them home to serve as a mate. For me, the issue is neither as tradition-bound with ceremonial oaths spoken before a judge or altar nor as clear cut as many folk would hope to think. Remember, I matured and married in the 1960s where ‘casual’ reigned. Now rather than argue any issues, I will simply tell my story, a story of marriages of several sorts.

At the ripe old age of twenty-one, I married a fine woman. Our personalities meshed. We were both dedicated to life and ministries within the church, which for us was a small denomination that refused to think of itself as a denomination, a non-sectarian, non-creedal collection of churches in which we both were reared. We were excited about the increasing self-revelations our marriage would entail and saved ourselves, as it were, for the marriage bed. (Of course, I had an introduction to sex years earlier from another boy with whom I had practiced kissing and intercrural bliss.) The marriage with Myrna provided satisfying experiences and opened us both to a wide range of interesting people and cultural activities. We loved one another and lived together a life rich in relationships.

Eventually I provided myself a dietary supplement to that marriage in the form of a long-standing affair with another man. I use this expression supplement because my vocabulary didn’t go beyond monogamy, bigamy, and polyandry. I didn’t have words for what I experienced. No one did. I didn’t take formal vows with my man partner but would have had they been available. I did assume responsibility in this new relationship. I deeply loved this man. I already realized what I wanted in life, what I had in my life with Myrna and my children, and honored what he seemed to want by way of a family. I kept our relationship warm but with some important distance. I soon enough realized I didn’t want to live with him. That would have been economically a disaster to say nothing of the costs to our careers, families, and dreams. Still I wanted a deep friendship with erotic communication. So I lived a kind of love that wasn’t simplistic, not love and marriage going together like a horse and carriage. What I wanted was love from him, and persisted nurturing it with him. That love has endured although its nature has changed over the years. All marriages experience such changes.

I didn’t explain all this to my wife who I judged would have found it just too odd. While open to life, she was a bit more traditional than I. Still, we had many levels of commitment to one another. When we moved too many miles distant from my husband, I realized I needed another one, actually several others. A man, who was a friend of my wife, assisted me with a deeply significant introduction into gay sex. We had fun. I had already told him I loved him (I’m sure it came across as simply the statement of a friend), but when he warned me we could play together but there had to be no feelings involved, I happily accepted his rules. Our dalliance would work better that way. I had no thought to leave my wife.

When that affair cooled down, I wondered whether he was beginning to experience too much feeling on his part or if he had already got from me what he had come for. Then another man presented himself. We developed an intensely emotional attachment, one I recognized and initially resisted. My wife noticed this affair with great trepidation. She and I weathered the brief relationship but not without a sense of loss within our marriage. My wife and I moved away to another community; my third husband got a new partner. Emotionally Myrna and I entered a time of uncertainty. We had plenty of work to keep us occupied. I did not find another man to love or play with. Sadly, we couldn’t solve the problems my affairs had raised. Eventually there was a separation. It took me a couple of months to gather my wits enough to schedule my removal from a career of thirty-two years, but that decision led to me having a short fling with a Baby Bear in Tulsa, a man I didn’t intend to get involved with. Now who was playing the games? I never felt the love in this relationship although I did assume some temporary heavy-duty responsibilities.

I escaped to Denver to become a gay man. I was inventing something new for myself although I was still legally yoked to my wife and emotionally connected to at least three other men and had one who felt emotionally and hopefully connected to me. (I was learning that the gay life could be rather complicated, but I’d always thrived on complications.) Eventually I met another man who took an interest in me. Our mutual delight helped domesticate me again. We enjoyed living together, exploring intimacy and playing house. I loved this man; he loved me. We never talked of marriage; we just lived it. He was ill and essentially owned nothing; I didn’t particularly need taking care of. I did take care of him as he died and mourned his passing with deep feeling.

Then there was another man, the one I met at a bus stop, the one who thrilled me, the one who seemed so thrilled with me. We felt deeply important to one another: he the revealer of emotions I’d never experienced, I the provider of a stable love he had never found. He was the homebuilder insisting that my apartment was my office; his apartment our home. We loved one another and built a relationship of great satisfaction. I helped him meet his death and mourned his passing. I felt adrift although I knew I would be okay.

Into the vacuum created by these losses entered my current partner, a really nice man about my age who already had a life and knew how to manage his money, who had worked for many years in his career as a salesman and did own property. He offered a kind of stability for me, the over-tired caregiver. He’s the one who asked the question about marriage. I’m the one who flung away the idea as if it wasn’t important. I’d already had a marriage, a successful one with a most interesting person. I’d already had a separation with all its decision-making and drama. I’d already had a divorce, which was amicable and uncontested (the advantage of owning very little). I had warned this nice man I had no money; I also told him I had no debt. Since he rarely comments on much, I never knew what he thought of these revelations but felt pretty sure both were important to him. We haven’t married. He’s never again brought up the subject. Perhaps living with me all these years warned him away from the idea, or perhaps he was only making rare conversation the day he did mention the topic.

Marriage? I doubt I’ll ever enter into it again formally even though this story already defines the relationship with Jim as a marriage. But in general, I’ve decided marriage seems too much like love. The word never means the same thing to the two people professing it. And the images they pursue are rarely-discussed assumptions that eventually sour the prospects of the happiness they envision. People in a marriage don’t experience the same thing either, yet they persist in thinking they are supposed to or that they want to. It’s all become too complicated for this old man.

© 25 November 2012

About
the Author

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot

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Feeling Loved by Lewis

[Let me preface my remarks by saying that I am not a psychological expert. What follows are the opinions of a lay person with 67 years of living experience.]

For a person to feel loved, I think there are three prerequisites, three questions that they or I have to answer in all candor:

The first question is: Do I love myself?

The second question is: Am I capable of recognizing and accepting without question the love of others?

The third question is: Am I capable of loving others?

I will deal with the three questions in order—

1. Do I love myself?

If I feel unworthy of love personally, then I have a very real problem in believing that others could love me. In fact, I might even feel anger toward them for having such poor taste. It is quite common to hear of men who abuse or even murder their lovers or spouses. I suspect that such men feel so badly about themselves that they blame those closest to them for not understanding that they are unworthy of love. Because they feel victimized and worthless, they feel justified in taking out their frustration on those closest to them, after which they can penalize themselves further.

To feel loved, I must feel that I am worthy of love and that I am able to give love in return. I must be able to see what love is, what it looks like in all its forms, which brings me to the second question.


2. Am I capable of recognizing and accepting without question the love of others?

A person may be able to love themselves but not perceive love from others directed toward them. They need not have disordered personalities but may have been so without compassion and love as children that they tend to distrust the motives of those who do demonstrate love toward them. They may feel that they are being set up for disappointment later or they may not even recognize love in some of its multitudinous forms.

If I am sitting on a stool in a gay bar and a man puts his hand on my knee, is that a sign of love? If he looks into my eyes with passion, is that love? What does it mean if he buys me expensive gifts? What if he offers to water my plants while I am on vacation? Or to give me a free back rub? Or to buy me a drink? My 35-year-old son tells me that I should call him every time because I am the father. Is paternal love a one-way street? These are hard questions for anyone to answer.


3. Am I capable of loving others?

Sociopaths and narcissists are incapable of empathy. They are so disassociated from the feelings of others that they are unable to perceive the need for love in others and have no love left to give away. They are not capable of perceiving love when it is shown to them because they think it is their “due”. They cannot give love to others because they think it will diminish themselves. They can “feel love” only so much as it reinforces their already ingrained opinion of themselves.

In conclusion, in order to feel loved, I must feel that I have room for improvement and am flawed enough to warrant criticism. Only this quality makes it possible to appreciate those whose love is showered upon me despite my imperfections.

Unconsciously, I ask myself every day, “How much love do I need?” and “How am I going to get it?”. One way I get it is by coming here. I can feel it and it is good.

© 21 October 2013

About
the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.

Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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Feeling Loved – A Love Chronology by Betsy

I feel loved when I am being cuddled in my mommy or daddy’s arms.

I feel loved when my mommy comforts me when I am sick or unhappy.

I feel loved when my daddy reads me a story.

And when my mommy and daddy keep me safe.

I feel loved when my big brother takes my hand to help me get safely to school.

I feel loved when friends stand up for me and believe in me when others do not.

I feel loved when my husband and best friend of 25 years ever-so-gently but with profound sadness releases me to follow a different life path separate from the one we have been traveling together.

I feel loved when my son calls me on Mother’s Day to tell me he loves me.

I feel loved when my granddaughter and I go on the ski train to WP and play together in the snow.

I feel loved when my grandchildren call me to say, “I love you G’ma Betsy.”

I feel loved when my sister travels half way across the country to help me recover from surgery.

I feel loved when a daughter travels even further to be there when I am having surgery or to share a holiday.

I feel loved when a daughter travels across the country to be with me in time of need or in time of celebration.

I feel loved every night when I go to sleep next to the one I love and every morning when I wake up next to her.

I feel loved when the woman I love marries me

I feel loved when friends want to share our joy.

I feel loved when my life partner wants to grow old with me
and spend the rest of her days with me.

I feel loved when I know that love is who we are.

© 21 October 2013

About the Author

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

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The Wisdom of LGBT Identity by Ricky

Why should we expect any kind of “wisdom” from anyone who self-identifies as a member of the LGBT community, considering the extreme persecution of male homosexuals over the past few thousand years? It just does not seem very wise to risk public ridicule or hatred. Yet, over the centuries, thousands of men taken in the act of sodomy were/are punished in various ways (depending upon the society involved and the era of the occurrence). Punishments commonly used were death (by hanging, downing, decapitation, and burning), amputation of genitals, life imprisonment, pillorying, banishment, self-imposed exile to avoid prosecution, and ostracism.

It has been said, that “bisexuality” itself is but one stigmata of genius; which in itself is an interesting observation considering all the famous “genius” level homosexual men that have lived and advanced science, art, and literature over the centuries. Does it not follow then that the stigmata of non-bisexual lesbians and gays is “super genius?” Of course, many of us “geniuses” never fully develop our gifts, talents, and genius abilities, which appears to show a lack of wisdom.

In recently past centuries, homosexual men of great gifts and talents have through their poetry wrought great changes in public attitudes and social norms over time.

Shakespeare, Byron, Shelly, and others wrote tender poems of love to male youths disguised as sonnets and verse to women, and our present culture would be poorer, had they not been written even though disguised as they were. Thomas Mann’s work of Death in Venice is an example of how one can in slow stages fall in love with the natural beauty of a youth of the same sex. In all these examples, which are but a few of hundreds, the common denominator is “love.”

The slow outing of “love” between people regardless of sexual orientation is what over time has changed society’s view of gay relationships; views which ultimately forced the government out of bedrooms. England did not decriminalize homosexuality until 1967. For the one hundred years before that date, conviction of sodomy carried a life sentence and prior to that, a death sentence since 1533.

When Byron began studying the Greek classics, Plato’s writings were not available in his school. Plato’s Symposium was so full of homosexual content (labeled Greek Love) that homophobic England would not allow it taught to English schoolboys so as not to corrupt them. When other English scholars decided to translate Plato, they changed the text where they needed to, replacing male references to either female or “friend” or “servant,” etc. to hide the truth; a process called bowdlerization (a new word for me). At one point in his life, Shelly translated the “Symposium” himself, but so great was the homophobia remaining in England, that even he “toned down” the references to avoid public outrage. Sadly, after his death, the publisher and Shelly’s widow made changes that are even more egregious; the translation not published until 150 years after Shelly’s death; long after the need for “toning down the references” was necessary.

Since extreme homophobia existed in England to the point that England’s poets disguised the male object of their love poems as female and classic works of philosophy were deliberately “sanitized”, have you ever wondered if the King James Bible translation team (using original documents in Greek) altered their translation of the Bible to inflame or conform to society’s view (the king’s view) of homosexual behavior?

With extreme homophobia and persecution of the previous centuries now behind, perhaps the wisest thing about the LGBT identity is what continues to evolve from the Stonewall Riots; acceptance and recognition that love between two people is a beautiful thing and is no one else’s business or legitimate concern. Acceptance and recognition are the unanticipated consequences of bi and gay poets of past centuries openly expressing their love for another male in the only way available to them; camouflaged as love for a woman.

Sometimes, fear of negative consequences can cause one to make wise choices that still carry one’s message but generate praise.

© 3 December
2012


About the Author



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

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

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

My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.