Mud, by Ricky

It is 11pm as I begin typing this and I am tired and sleepy. As a result, my mind is all muddled up. My eyelids are very heavy. Apparently, the Sand Man is using mud in my eyes instead of sand. This makes me feel muddy all over. Now I know what Stephen means when he says he feels, “Fair to muddling.”

I know a man who thinks he “knows it all”. I know a man who was awarded a non-medical PhD and likes people to call him by the title “Doctor”. I know a man who when he begins to talk will monopolize the conversation. I know a man who will tell you everything he knows about a subject without giving anyone else a chance to speak about the topic. I know a man who is so careless in speech that he insults people over the phone and then gets upset when they hang-up on him. I know a man who denies facts that contradict his closely held political beliefs. I know a man who believes it is perfectly okay for the wealthy to use their political contributions to buy access to politicians in order to corrupt the democratic form of government and gain more personal wealth. I know a man who believes it is okay for the poor to be poor, because, he says, “Jesus said the poor will always be with you.” I know a man who thinks Rush Limpbrain is a soothsayer. — I know a Republican. — His name is Mud.

I also know a Republican who is very caring, sensitive, generous with his money, handsome, and intelligent. — His name is Mud-lite.

© 4 October 2015

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

Mud, by Ray S

Today we are gathered here, my
friends, for the singular reason to address another seemingly obtuse subject,
Mud. I propose to tell you my thoughts relative to the subject as clearly as
possible. The why and how you all have gotten to this tumescent and turgid
matter is the goal.
So, here is a story:
It is a sunny autumn day; the
chartered motor coach was waiting for its cargo of special LGBT
travelers—special because of specific age requirements for membership in the
group—75 and older. See, there’s even stratification in SAGE.
Once the walkers and wheelchairs
were stowed away and the passengers secured, we were off on our gay merry way
to a very secretive and exclusive geriatric resort and playground. Upon arrival
the once subdued disposition of the passengers had been dispatched by the means
of a well-stocked happy-hour drinks cart.
When settled into their respective
wigwams, couples accommodated separately from singles (“never the twain shall
meet, maybe) it was time now. There was a rigid schedule for the compulsory Spa
Programs, and to begin, a check in with the medical staff. Then off to the
steam rooms, saunas, and massage tables, and then a relaxing rest period in the
main lodge’s social room, appropriately named the “Big Tepee in the Sky.” By
this time a rollicking atmosphere pervaded.
With the sound of rather heavenly
chimes playing the old melody “You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby” signaling
everyone, now clothed only in their 100% Egyptian cotton designer spa sheets,
to assemble at the entry to the Sylvan Piney Pathway for the climax of this
wonderful day.
By this time, due to the strenuous
spa program, healthful cuisine and libations, the walkers and wheelchairs were
forgotten. There had been much merriment amongst the campers as they became
better acquainted. Everyone had found it necessary to shelve their
inhabitations. (That is not hard even for 75er GLBTs.)
So tripping off on the Sylvan Piney
Pathway, aforementioned, some Egyptian cotton “wagging their tails behind them”
as the old nursery rhyme goes, the gathering was verging on a love fest. My,
such energy! There were even several lesbian ladies seen to be in the clutches
of bear hugs with gay boys all expressing their oneness with the spirit of the
day and GLBTness.
Straight, I should say directly,
ahead everyone stopped in their tracks by the view of the lovely, smooth
surface of the aspen and pine tree surrounded lake.
“We are here,” everyone shouted.
“Drop your sheets and wade in—ladies first, then queens or whatever.” It began
to look like a group baptism, but John didn’t come to this party. And like
little lemmings headed over the cliff, some hand in hand, they all immersed
themselves. The lake being only about four feet deep it took little time for
the 75ers to emerge on the other shore where the spa attendants awaited with a
battery of warm showers and soft bath towels. Then they were gently hosed down
revealing a countenance of 75 years or more, less 50 years each.
A miracle if you wish, or figment
of the imagination, but for the Happy Campers it was their annual pilgrimage to
the Little Piney Mud Lake. Take a friend to a mud bath and think young or happy
or why not both?
© 5 October 2015 
About the Author 

Clear as Mud, by Betsy and Gillian

(Betsy)

This past summer while strolling through downtown Denver with some visiting relatives, we came upon a sign that read,

RESTROOMS ARE LOCKED

TO PROVIDE CLEAN FACILITIES

FOR OUR CUSTOMERS.

The sign caught our attention especially because we had been searching for a restroom for quite some time and were more than ready to find one. “If they are locked how do we get in?” the three of us said almost in unison. The sign was not posted on the door of any particular store, rather on a door from a walkway into a hall leading to nowhere except the two restrooms. We were not customers then, but neither was anyone else. The walkway belonged to the entire pavilion which housed many stores. “Do we have to buy something to get a key from one of the stores?” I queried to myself. How long will that take. There are no stores immediately handy.

Fortunately in a most timely fashion, a woman came out of the walkway door and informed us that she had been given the secret code to open the restroom by the previous user and she would gladly pass it on to us. It turns out that we did the same for the next person in need. It seems the only way for this restroom to be used at all is to have a constant stream of users passing on the code. Otherwise the facilities would most surely stay clean forever. A good way to keep your facility clean: lock it.

One day while driving on I 70 through eastern Colorado on our recent trip to the east coast, my mind was wandering as it does on such roads. I began thinking about the next topic we would be writing about when we returned at the end of the month. MUD, hmmm. The phrase “clear as mud” jumped into my head and reminded me of the puzzling sign I had recently seen on the door at the pavilion in downtown Denver.

It was then that Gill and I decided to make a collection of such signs on this trip.Gill would take photos of them, otherwise no one would believe we had actually seen such a sign. We would then pass on these gems of wisdom to our friends at Storytime.

(Gillian)

On one of those narrow winding backroads that are quite common in the eastern states, we got stuck behind a slow-moving truck. On the back of the truck a big red sign said,

CONSTRUCTION VEHICLE

DO NOT FOLLOW

Now, it’s not as if we were following from choice. We were simply heading down the same road without a chance to overtake. What is expected here?? Are we supposed to find an alternate route to avoid following this truck? Not so easily done in the mountains of West Virginia. Was he heading for a top-secret destination?? We’re probably on yet another CIA/FBI shit-list now.

(Betsy) 

Sometimes if we have time and we are in an area with which we are not familiar, we like to travel the back roads. It does mean a lot of stop and go, especially in the more populated parts of the country. But it presents so many opportunities to learn—and laugh.

We’ve driven through many, many small towns with very unusual names.

We had to turn around a get a picture of this one.


WELCOME TO ACCIDENT

I forget in what state the town of Accident is—it doesn’t really matter. What makes this sign memorable is the sign just beyond it directing passersby to the nearby hospital with an arrow (unfortunately we were unable to photograph the two signs together.)

Welcome to Accident—the hospital is right around the corner, it said to us. I wanted to add “for your convenience.”

(Gillian) 

At a gas station a sign in the window read,

BE A GOOD ROLE MODEL!

DISAPPROVE OF UNDERAGE DRINKING

An admirable sentiment, doubtless, but surely a little wimpy? Nobody, including all those underage drinkers, gives a toss if I disapprove. The word has no power; my disapproval has no power. Perhaps I might accomplish something by fighting underage drinking, or by not drinking with minors, or by not buying booze for them, but disapprove?? I think it is actually the first time in my life that I have been urged to disapprove of something. Ah, lots of ‘firsts’ to be found on road-trips!

(Betsy) 

What this negative message says to me is: My advise to you adults driving cars(hopefully sober) and reading this sign is as follows: model for young people how to judge others—never mind taking positive action to suggest a better behavior.

(Gillian) 

Next to this gas station was a big sign,

Arby’s

DO NOT ENTER

Of course there are these signs at the exit of all drive-throughs, but this one was big and quite threatening. Well, OK then. We had never intended to enter. We drove happily away.

(Betsy) We don’t use Arby’s really, but couldn’t help but notice the unwelcoming sign. I guess we all know what they really mean, but couldn’t they come up with a better presentation. They certainly know how to present their food—if one dares to enter.

(Gillian) 

This one is not exactly about a sign, but rather a tale of two billboards. One was positioned directly above the other. I have no photo as we zoomed past at 75mph. The upper one had the usual pitiful baby picture accompanied by the statement,
ABORTION is MURDER

NOBODY HAS THE RIGHT TO TAKE A LIFE

The lower one had a picture of a man bearing arms; and was he ever! Six-shooters in a gun-belt, cartridges slung across his manly chest, rifles over his shoulders, machine-guns at his feet. It read, simply,

IT’S YOUR RIGHT

I have no idea if the two signs were put together on purpose, but the irony is delicious.

(Betsy) 

The last day of our trip and back in our home state we were not disappointed by Colorado road signs. No one can miss the huge sign on I 70 entering Colorado. It is written in lights across the highway like a Broadway marquee.

0 FATALITIES 0 TOLERANCE 2015

Clearly because of its in-your-face presentation, this is a very important notice announcing, “ Please, all those entering the state, take heed.” We did just that. We did take heed and we definitely took note of the sign. I am still contemplating its meaning, however! Have there been no fatalities at all in 2015 in Colorado. No wonder the population is increasing at record rates. And it will continue to do so. This clearly is 

THE PLACE TO BE
—a place where one dies only of natural causes.

But then we must remember there is zero tolerance here. Does this mean all entering are on notice that the state of Colorado 

WILL NOT TOLERATE THE CURRENT RATE OF ZERO FATALITIES?
Surely that can’t be what they meant.

Maybe it means: the state of Colorado has zero tolerance for any fatalities. But when you put the phrase zero tolerance directly below the phrase zero fatalities??? I’m left scratching my head. Now if you put the sign “0 Tolerance” by itself, then one might be deterred from entering the state.

(Gillian) 

According to Colorado Department of Transportation’s own statistics, as of October 1st of this year there have been 398 highway fatalities, so the meaning of this sign completely eludes me. Apparently staying here in this state of zero tolerance will not preserve us from danger. We might as well keep on taking road trips!

© October 2015

About the Authors

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.

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.