Tag: Music

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Music, by Ricky

I like music. I like music from before the 30’s, 40’s, 50’s, and 60’s. I like certain pieces of popular music after the 50’s. I haven’t heard any thing DJ’s play from the 90’s and beyond that sounds like music; all I hear is yelling, screeching, and eardrum shattering noise. I recently learned to appreciate opera although I’ve enjoyed classical and Baroque music for decades. I’ve always enjoyed many types of music from my earliest days; here’s why.

When I was about 3 or 4 years old living in Redondo Beach, CA (a bedroom community west of Los Angeles), my parents bought me my own record-player for children. It was about 10-inches wide by 8-inches long, 6-inches tall with the lid closed, and weighed about 7 pounds. The lid was white and the base was bright red. The player only played 78’s. My parents also supplied me with 18 double-sided children size records, thus giving me 36 songs or stories to listen to and sing the songs while the record was playing.

While visiting my brother and sister at Lake Tahoe this past summer, I found my old record album containing a few of my childhood records. I am passing it around so you not only can see the music that started my enjoyment but also to perhaps stimulate some “ancient” memories of your childhood. I had not seen these in over 55-years so it was quite a memory shock to see, hold, and listen to them all again scratchy and juvenile as they are. Many happy hours in that album.

At the age of 5 my parents enrolled me in accordion lessons. They even got me a “loaner” child size accordion and later bought me a much larger adolescent size one. I chose to play the accordion because of watching Myron Florin play one every week on the Lawrence Welk TV show. Naturally, I had to learn to read music but my inherent laziness kicked in and I found all available opportunities not to practice. I had to be fairly sneaky about not practicing because getting caught always resulted in a spanking. I guess my parents didn’t like the idea of paying for lessons that were not being productive enough; how perfectly parental that was.

At 6-years old I started 1st grade, attending the Hawthorne Christian School, I somehow ended up in a band class part of each day. They did not teach accordion there, so I switched to learning how to play the trumpet. The best I could do was making real musical type notes come out and not the amplified breathless “ppppppptttt” sounds that novice beginners make. The accordion had actual keys, one for each note, while the trumpet had three valves that had to be open or closed in cahoots with one another to make the proper note. I never did really get the hang of it so I was very grateful when the trumpet had to be returned to its rightful owner.

When I was seven, the first song by the Chipmunks came out and soon thereafter (or maybe before) came Andy Griffith’s, What It Was, Football and I learned I liked humorous songs and stories on the radio.

Only a few days before my 8th birthday, I was sent to live with my grandparents on their farm in central Minnesota. My musical preferences expanded as the birth of rock-n-roll previously had taken place. On the farm also lived my 3 ½ year older than me uncle. About 6-months after my arrival, he purchased and brought home a 45-rpm record with a song by Jimmie Rogers titled Honeycomb (my first rock song and I remember it to this day). Enamored by the song, I kept pestering my uncle to let me play it. I have no idea what song was on the flip side. Soon after, the DJ’s of the day began playing Johnny Horton’s Sink the Bismarck and The Battle of New Orleans and I was hooked on those styles of music.

In my school at Minnesota, 3rd and 4th grade classes had to (I mean got to) take music lessons. (We also got to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, which set me up for patriotism.) The whole class learned to play the Flute-a-Phone (now called a Recorder). We would practice different pieces of music and every year at Christmas time; all the classes sat together in the auditorium and at the appropriate place in the program, played the same piece of music, Flute-a-Phones on Parade. Do any of you remember the sound a recorder makes? A sort of high-pitched teakettle whistle which changes pitch according to which holes are covered or uncovered by the player. Back then, it sounded nice to me, but in recent performances, I have been to, it just sounded like wounded teakettles sounding off, each with a slightly different pitch and definitely without harmony, but I clapped and applauded anyway—not so much to reward the children, but because I was glad, it was finished. I guess the performance was a type of payback for what I put my grandparents through when I played.

The Christmas holiday period always filled the air and airwaves with beautiful carols and holiday music. The idea of receiving gifts of toys and other fun things (not clothes, socks, or underwear) made it easy to like the music that emphasized that Christmas Eve and day were near; using the same principle of “guilty by association”, Christmas holiday is good therefore holiday music is good. I was in a restaurant last Friday night and I began to tear-up and had a warm-fuzzy feeling all over when two of my favorite carols began to play; one was Oh Holy Night and I do not recall the other.

When the school would allow boys and girls out an hour early, IF they were going to sing in the local Lutheran Church’s Christmas Pageant, I went to sing there. That’s were I really learned to like Christmas songs. Of course, I already knew Frosty the Snowman and Rudolph the Red-nose Reindeer and Jingle Bells, but they were not the songs on the program, so I fell in love with all the religious carols. During practice sessions though, we were allowed to sing the fun songs they just were not on the program.

Just as I turned 10, my mother and new stepfather came to Minnesota and retrieved me. We went to live in California at South Lake Tahoe. Because I spent the majority of my time babysitting my brother and sister, I increased my reading of books to soften the boredom. Once I found my mother’s record collection, and had some spending money to buy my own albums, my taste in music further expanded. My mother had a multiple record Nat King Cole album and a multiple record Bing Crosby album of Christmas songs; both were 78-rpm “platters.” My favorite was White Christmas, the song that nearly did not get sung in the movie Holiday Inn because the producers did not think it worthy but, they needed a little “filler” so, in it went and the rest is history. That particular song by Bing always brings tears to my eyes now as I look back across the years into my past.

When not reading books and magazines or playing outside with my siblings, I would be playing music. Mother had some classical stuff I liked to listen to because it was so beautiful, melodic, and organized. I also bought Vaughn Meader’s First Family albums, both 1 and 2. Other favorites were Johnny Horton’s greatest hits album and my patriotic nirvana music; an album of John Phillip Sousa marches of which Stars and Stripes Forever is my favorite. If you ever see me playing it, you would also see me conducting it, even if I am walking down the street listening to it on my iPod. More albums I had: The Planets, The Nutcracker, Pictures at an Exhibition, Goldfinger, Thunderball, Songs of the North & South, The War of 1812, Handel’s Messiah, and one with the overture to William Tell.

Living at Lake Tahoe kept me in a sheltered environment musically speaking. The one radio station only played non-rock-n-roll music; show tunes from performers at the casinos, or movie soundtracks, or music by Bing Crosby, Pat Boone, Doris Day, Dean Martin, and the like; so, no Beatles music for me. My wife grew up a military brat so she was in love with Beatles music and owned all of their albums. I only learned to enjoy and like a limited number of their songs after we married AND as music deteriorated into the present cacophony of noise. I still like certain pieces beyond the 50’s like the long version of Inna-Gadda-da-Vida and nearly all of the Beach Boys with Johnny Cash, Marty Robbins, The Righteous Brothers, and Simon & Garfunkel thrown into the mix.

As time progressed and music deteriorated, I realized that much of the 60’s and 70’s music I hated began to sound pretty good after all. In any case, that is how and why I ended up enjoying music of different types and quality.

© 16 May 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

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The Choir, by Phillip hoyle

For most of my life, choirs were my life. They were the musical thrills of my childhood and much of my adulthood. They were the place I felt most at home. They were the groups I most enjoyed being with. They were the main medium of my musical life. They were the focus of my extra time. They were the preoccupation of my auditory mind. They were the organizations I most effectively led. They were my access to a sense of worship. They were the most fulfilling aspect of thirty years of my ministry in the church. Choirs made everything else tolerable. They were the artistic center of my life.

I got my first choir when I was eighteen years old, a small group of volunteer singers who rehearsed one hour on Sunday evenings in preparation for the very simple needs of the First Baptist Church, Wamego, Kansas. But my relationship with choirs reached back to my first weeks of life, for I am sure I was present at church the first Sunday after my birth. Surely mom sat with me cradled in her arms in the second pew on the west side of the sanctuary while Dad played the organ for the service and my two older sisters sang the hymns. I’m sure I heard the choir sing and wonder if the harmonies were fixed in my ear from that first weekend’s experience. I wouldn’t be surprised for I could hardly contain my excitement when I joined the junior choir at that same church some years later. Although I was a good all-around student, my favorite times in school related to music class. There I learned songs. There I sang. There I played rhythm instruments. There I learned my first solo and when I had finished singing it for the PTA members, turned around and conducted the rhythm band in a Saint Patrick’s Day repeat of “McNamara’s Band.” My first solo, my first effort at conducting; I was so pleased.

Choirs took me to more than PTA and church. They took me to music festivals, to competitions, on tours, and they introduced me to many people. Choirs gave me opportunities to sing a wide variety of music: age-old classics, modern jazz arrangements, long works with orchestra, anthems with organs, motets unaccompanied, folk song arrangements, and unusual hymns. They introduced me to the musicianship and leadership of many choral directors from around the United States.

Leading choirs balanced my work needs. In my ministerial career I always had many more responsibilities in addition to the music. I looked after hospitalized folk, planned educational activities for groups of all ages, organized Sunday schools, trained teachers and leaders, encouraged youth workers, met with the staff of several congregations, supported the work of Senior ministers, directed residential summer camps, developed curriculum plans and wrote the resources, listened to people’s problems, handed out food to the needy, on and on. As an associate minister, I often administrated programs that were more related to other people’s ideas and visions rather than my own. The choir gave me a mid-week balance, for during rehearsals I could tell people to sit up, stand up, sit down, turn to page two, start singing at measure 36, modify their vowels, make lots of noise, sing softly, or completely shut up. Whatever needs I had to do things my way got satisfied during those mid-week rehearsals. I worked with the singers’ pitch, rhythm, sense of meter, phrasing, and general understanding of the music we performed. I elicited musicianship and artistic satisfaction from people who often didn’t have that much to offer. I sought always to make my singers better musicians. I helped them understand the needs of liturgy in a non-liturgical church. And I had fun. We had fun as artists together. Working with musical ensembles—whether made up of children, youth, adult, or seniors, whether signers or bell ringers, or the musical cast of a drama, or duets, trios, or quartets—brought me deep joy.

They also became my personal monitor. I had enjoyed a long, joyous, creative ministry in churches but knew it was time to quit when I started not wanting to go to my choir rehearsals, when I was no longer satisfied with those two or three in-tune measures or phrases, when I was no longer thrilled at the stumbling attempts of my earnest singers, when I was worn out rather than wafted on the wings of a dove. I continued working hard for a few months more, making music up to the last minute, then left.

I didn’t know what my life would be when I quit just before my fifty-first birthday, but I moved away from church music. I still like the sounds. I still can feel some kind of inspiration when hearing choral music, organ voluntaries, and massed choruses with orchestras. I still float along well turned phrases and salivate over delicious mellismas. I have the feelings; I just don’t need the work. Choirs still move me though now I rarely hear them perform. It’s the result of a change in life, but one I don’t regret. The choral spirit still abides in me, so much so that if this reading were the end of yet another choir rehearsal, we’d stand, sing an Amen, and go home.

Denver © 2013

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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Singing, by Lewis

Everybody, it seems, loves music. Now that technology has made it possible to take one’s music with them wherever they go, ear buds have become ubiquitous and conversation passé. Throw in a smart phone and Twitter or text messaging and we may be approaching the end of the era wherein no man (or woman) is an island unto themself.

I have a photo taken of me when I was five-years-old, dressed head-to-foot in cowboy gear, playing 7” records on my portable 78-rpm record player. Even though I wasn’t reading yet, I knew every record’s title by heart. As an adult, it was my wont to make cassette recordings of all types of music, from opera to jazz, from borrowed sources, meticulously transcribing the titles, artists, and recording data onto the tiny cardboard inserts. I still have them—close to 900 of them—and, contrary to expectations back in their day, they still sound fine after nearly 30 years.

All this was prologue in that small boy’s head to a career in music. To be a singer in the tradition of Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Peggy Lee, Vic Damone, Tennessee Ernie Ford, Lena Horne, Nat King Cole, Vaughan Monroe, Marty Robbins, Doris Day, Johnny Mathis, and Perry Como was my fondest dream. Much later, I realized that it would be even cooler to be a songwriter who sang his own material. So, I turned my ears toward artists like Bob Dylan, Gordon Lightfoot, Cat Stevens, Joni Mitchell, The Beatles, and Don McLean.

To my extreme disappointment, as my voice matured and the guitar lessons became more demanding, I realized that I had not the talent to ever hope to find myself among the hall-of-fame singers of any genre—although I would have liked to have been in a blind audition with Bob Dylan in his early days. Instead, I would have to content myself with playing my three-necked, Hawaiian steel guitar for my great aunt—the one who was a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution–at Christmas and for grade school kids at music recitals. (It was at one such recital that the other music students with whom I was on stage lost their places or backbone and dropped out one-by-one leaving me to finish the piece as a solo.)

As both a child and an adult, I have sung in church choirs but that is the limit of my public exposure. Recently, a persistent post nasal drip has caused my vocal chords to completely shut down after a couple of stanzas, putting a premature end to any illusions I may still have about bringing a crowd to its feet in ecstasy. I don’t even sing in the shower any more. (The vinyl curtain just doesn’t have the same effect as a glass one.) However, I still take great pleasure in hearing a beautiful tune sung well. Nothing else in the art world has as much effect on me. Visual arts can be stunning and beautiful but often need some background to give them meaning. Prose and poetry illuminate and entertain. But for me, nothing can inspire so much as poetry set to music. You can frame and hang a painting or tapestry and I can look at it and appreciate the talent behind it. But it doesn’t grab me by the heartstrings and wrap them around my throat. To combine the talents of a vocal artist with a brilliant writer of songs is to give flight to both art and audience.

7 April 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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Spiritual Journey by Will Stanton

I regard myself as a highly spiritual person. I’m not quite sure why that is. If so, it has come about naturally. I never was raised in a church, temple, or mosque. Many Americans regard religion as the one and only means to achieve spiritual development. I have heard some people, like Bill O’Reilly, even claim that spiritual development outside of church is impossible. I have had no formal religious teaching in Christian, Jewish, Muslim, or Zoroastrian dogma. I don’t pray to Zeus, although I do admire his selection of cup-bearer.

Yet, I instinctively always have been concerned with listening to “the better angels of our nature” and trying to develop a relationship with others and the world that is positive and commendable. I prefer to treat others as I would have them treat me, a precept similar to the instructions expressed in most religions. I feel that my instincts have lead me in the right direction on my spiritual journey.

Throughout my life, however, I have encountered, or been made aware of, a large percentage of people who do not think nor feel as I do. My positive values, my being sensitive to others’ needs and feelings, often have been regarded as being “too sensitive, too selfless, too impractical.” I also abhor all forms of violence and mistreatment of others. My heightened sense of what is most precious and beautiful in the world apparently is not shared by the majority of people. The more of the world I have seen around me, the more I feel that I am a member of that minority of humans living in a world full of troglodytes. Could one of the factors contributing to this increased sensitivity and spirituality be natural orientation?

There does seem to be a sense that those persons most interested in spiritual development have greater sensitivity than many others. People may think that priests and ministers may be more sensitive, more empathetic, and perhaps even sexually suspect. That may be a stereotype, but there also may be some truth in it. Certainly, many gay men go into the church. Pope John-Paul II (now “Saint John-Paul II”) once estimated that half the Catholic clergy were gay. (Or, was it the former Hitler-Youth pope who said that?) The previous Archbishop of Canterbury at the time also estimated that seventy percent of the clergy in the Anglican Church were homosexual. Did their orientation lead them to greater spirtual exploration?

I have been aware over the years that I feel deeply the spirituality in the most sublime music, such as Mozart’s “Ave verum corpus.” I know that greater understanding and feeling for sublime music is partly the result of one of the several heightened levels of secondary intelligences; yet possibly orientation does, too.

I often have seen men, who regard themselves as quite macho, raise an eyebrow in suspicion of anyone who has a passion for the arts or chooses a profession that is regarded as un-macho. This stereotypical attitude is not limited to modern American men. For several hundred years, the aristocratic men of Europe were convinced than any man who spent too much time involved with music or the arts would deplete his masculinity and become more feminized. It may be true that a devoté of art and music might devote too many hours to his passion to permit him to, for example, conduct a war in Iraq, or work twelve hours per day to become a multi-billionaire, or slander all political opponents to gain a seat in Congress. I am certain that, if I were to spend my life around such troglodytes in any form, I would be committing spiritual suicide. I prefer to associate with friends who possess an admirable spirituality about them. In my working years, my own sensitivity and empathy enhanced my ability to help others with their problems. It has been, however, in my passion for sublime music and art that I personally have found the greatest spiritual fulfillment, finding within such creations intrinsic value, a value that I enjoy sharing with others who are like-minded.

© 05 June 2015

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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Passion, by Betsy

Passion: an intense desire or enthusiasm for something.
Passion is energy, – feel the power that comes from focusing on
what excites you. – Oprah Winfrey
I have a passion for a few things:  First, for certain people; namely, my loved
ones—my partner, my children and grandchildren.
Second, I have a passion for music–not all music.  Mostly for the classical of the baroque, classical,
and romantic styles and a little contemporary. 
I am very limited in my ability to perform music.  I do like being a part of a choral group and
have been doing this for much of my life. 
But listening is stirring and inspiring. 
I use my iPod when exercising. 
Nothing like a Schubert or Brahms quartet to keep me moving and working
hard on the stationary bicycle, elliptical or rowing machine. Some music does
excite me and gives me energy. Often fellow exercisers ask me what I’m
listening to.  When I tell them, they
give me a very strange look as if to say, “Don’t you know about rock!  You poor thing.”
My greatest passion is for sports. That is doing, not
watching. I am a mediocre spectator fan—well, that’s probably an
exaggeration.   I don’t pay a lot of
attention to which teams are winning or losing. 
Occasionally I’ll watch a tennis match on TV or even a Broncos
game.  But given the opportunity I would
a thousand times prefer to play, compete, or do most any activity
involving  physical action, motion,
skill, and/or a desire for adventure.
I must mention one other passion I have.  Now in my later years, I have become aware
that I have a great respect – I think it qualifies as a passionate respect for
the truth.  Perhaps that is because I
spent a good portion of my adult life living a lie.
I have noticed that what may appear to be a person’s passion
turns out to be short lived and it is no time before the individual appears to
be passionate about something else.  This
is particularly manifested in children and young adults.  They jump from one interest to another, I
suppose, exploring different areas of interest until one of those areas becomes
their deepest passion.
As I was giving this subject further consideration, I came to
the conclusion that passion and obsession are very closely related.  I had this thought when I realized that I had
made a glaring grammatical error in last week’s writing and I actually read it
using the wrong part of speech and didn’t even notice.  The realization hit me in the middle of the
night the next night as I lay in bed. I thought, “Surely I didn’t write it that
way.”  So I jumped out of bed at 3:00Am
and checked my paper.  Yes, I had written
it that way and read it that way.  Very
upset with myself, I had to wake Gill up and tell her.  “I can’t believe I did that,” I said.  At that moment I realized I have a passion
for the correct usage of the English language and its rules of grammar.
Understand.  I DO NOT have a passion for
writing, but the use of the language definitely intrigues me. This goes back to
my high school days when my English teacher, who taught me for all 3 years of
high school English, exposed us to very little literature.  Mostly we studied grammar and a little
writing.  Most in the class thought the
grammar was rather boring, but I loved it. 
I guess I have the kind of mind which loves to analyze and that’s what
we did.  We analyzed sentences most of
the time and learned rules of grammar and word usage. So…..When does passion
become obsession?  At 3:00AM.  Ask Gill. Passion becomes obsession when one
becomes dis-eased over what she thinks she has a passion for.  (Oh, oh, there I go, ending a sentence with a
preposition.) 
© 22 April 2015 
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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Passion by Betsy

Passion: an intense desire or
enthusiasm for something.
“Passion is energy, feel the  power that comes from focusing on what
excites you.” — Oprah Winfrey
I have a passion for a few things: First, for
certain people; namely, my loved ones—my partner, my children and g-children.
My second passion is for music;
namely, classical music of the baroque, classical , and romantic styles and a
little contemporary.  I am very limited
in my ability to perform music.  I do
like being a part of a choral group and have been doing this for much of my
life.  But listening is stirring and
inspiring and I usually never forget something I have heard that has touched my
soul.  I use my ipod  when exercising.  Nothing like a Schubert or Brahms quartet to
keep me moving and working hard on the stationary bicycle, elliptical or rowing
machine. I do mix in some fast-paced Abba for variety most of which I find very
energizing.  My music does excite me and
gives me energy. Often fellow exercisers ask me what I’m listening to.  When I tell them, they give me a very strange
look as if to say, “Don’t you know about rock? You poor thing.”
My greatest passion is for sports.
That is doing not watching. I am a less than mediocre spectator fan.   I don’t pay much attention to which teams
are winning or losing.  Occasionally, I’ll watch a tennis match on TV or even a football game.  But given the opportunity I would a thousand
times prefer to play, compete or do most any activity that requires physical action, motion, and either some
skill, or a desire for adventure.
My deepest passion?  I had to search my soul a bit for this.  Now in my later years, I have become aware
that I have a deep passion for the
truth.  Perhaps that is because earlier I
spent a good portion of my adult life living a lie.  After all, until I came out, that’s what I
was doing. Since we do not know the truth about most things from mundane items
that come to us through mainstream media, to metaphysical questions such as
what lies beyond this life—since we do not know the truth about these things, I
have become very conscientious about separating fact from belief.  Since this is all my brain is capable of at
this point, I leave it there.  
I would like to mention one last point
about passion in general.
As I was giving this subject further
consideration, I came to the conclusion that passion and obsession are very
closely related.  To illustrate: I DO NOT
have a passion for writing, which does not always come easily. But the use of
the English language and the application of its rules of grammar is near and
dear to my heart.  This goes back to my
high school days when my English teacher Miss Dunn who taught me for all three
years of high school English, exposed us to very little literature.  Mostly we studied grammar and a little
writing.  Most in the class thought the 3
years of grammar was rather boring, but I loved it.  I guess I have the kind of mind which loves
to analyze and that’s what we did.  We
analyzed sentences most of the time and learned rules of grammar and word
usage.  I, therefore was quite horrified
when I realized that I had made a glaring grammatical error in last week’s
writing and I actually read it using the wrong part of speech and didn’t even
notice.  The realization hit me in the
middle of the night—the night following our session here–as I lay in bed. I
thought,”Surely I didn’t write it that way.” 
So I jumped out of bed at 3:00Am and checked my paper.  Yes, I had written it that way and read it
that way.  Very upset with myself, I had
to wake Gill up and tell her.  “I can’t
believe I did that,” I said.  Later,
thinking about passion I decided I do believe I have a passion for properly
applying the  rules of  English grammar….Or is it a passion?  Some would call it an obsession.  So, where do we draw the line between passion
and obsession? I believe that passion is actually obsession when one says to
oneself, “I wish I could have let that go.” 
To put it another way.  When one
becomes dis-eased over what she THINKS she has a passion for. (Oops! Did anyone
notice that!  I just ended a sentence
with a preposition.)
© 24 Oct 2014
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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Gay Music by Gillian

What the hell is that? I don’t even know what it means! A so-called “gay movie” or “gay book” is identified as such because of it’s GLBT content; it’s characters and/or subject matter. But the vast majority of music, even most music with words, is androgynous, unisex. A couple of weeks ago our topic was, “All My Exes Live in Texas.” In my short piece I also referred to that beautiful song, “Could I Have This Dance For the Rest of My Life?” Different as those two pieces are, they can both be taken to be heterosexual or homosexual, depending on the preference of the listener, as is the case with most songs. I am wiling to bet that many of us in this room listened to those old love songs of the forties and fifties and, when performed by a singer of our own sex, turned them into songs of love directed at us. Certainly there are, these days, a few songs that are unmistakably GLBT; amusing lyrics performed by drag groups, Lady Gaga singing about coming out, more recently even a collection of songs about gay marriage, but the total of all this specifically GLBT-themed music together would not add up to a single drop in the ocean of music in it’s entirety.

Is “Gay Music,” then, that which is written and/or performed by someone of the GLBT family?

If so we could talk about Tchaikovsky and Elton John and a vast number of others in between.

But what sense would that make? We don’t call a book a “gay book,” because it’s author happens to be gay; usually we don’t even know, although that kind of information is much more readily available these days. If J.K. Rowling unexpectedly revealed that she was a lesbian, would the Harry Potter tales suddenly become lesbian books and movies? K.D Lang is openly lesbian, but I would not call her songs “lesbian music.” Many movie producers and actors are GLBT but that doesn’t make their movies “queer.” No-one refers to “A Farewell to Arms,” as a gay movie just because Rock Hudson starred in it.

Maybe because, at least until recently, we of the GLBT community had little we could call our own, we would like to claim significance to “gay music,” but personally I find it a bit of a reach.

But wait! As I typed that last sentence, with one eye on the Winter Olympics on TV, I caught a few bars of our very own National Anthem. Perhaps I’m just missing it. When we strive to hit the high notes of the “land of the free,” could we be celebrating our freedom? Well, yes, we could, but I’m afraid I’m much too cynical to accept that phrase at face value. But, now I’m trawling through National Anthems, perhaps I really have stumbled onto something. After all, how many times in the first twenty years of my life did I sing out, in the British National Anthem,

“God save our gracious Queen

Long live our noble Queen

God Save the Queen!”

February, 2014

About the Author

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

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My Favorite Fantasy by Betsy

Contemplating this subject I find myself coming up with things I wish for — things I may be striving for. Then, I realize a wish is different from a fantasy. Wishing is imagining something that COULD happen, something likely or probable. Fantasizing is imagining something unlikely or improbable or impossible. That’s the dictionary’s definition. I’m going to throw in another qualification: A fantasy involves repeated imagining and something that you hope will just miraculously happen — not something toward which one slowly progresses.

There are many things I would wish for that I know will never happen — I guess that makes it a fantasy — such as, I would love to have an exceptional ability for mathematics or an exceptional talent for writing or a smidgeon of artistic ability. More than that I would love to be able to perform on a musical instrument, particularly the piano. Quite often I picture myself conducting a symphony orchestra. Mostly I dream of having an opera quality coloratura soprano voice or a powerful mezzo or alto voice and performing on the concert stage.

My fantasies at this phase of my life are different from fantasies I’ve had at other times in my life. When I first came out and before I came out, I fantasized some about sex — with a woman. Also just about being WITH a woman. I guess I would have to call this a wish by the above definition, since it turned out the reality of it happening was not impossible or even improbable.

At this stage of my life and now that I am at peace with my wishes I have to say that my favorite fantasy always involves the performance of music — as a singer, as a pianist, or as an orchestra conductor.

It seems my music fantasies are triggered when I am listening to some music or more often after I have heard some music.

Now conducting can be done anywhere, almost anytime. Sometimes if music is playing — in my head, on the car radio, or otherwise — I can’t help myself. My arms just start flying, waving in the air. I have to restrain myself when I get carried away when driving in traffic. Other drivers can mistake my gestures and think I’m flipping them off.

I have practiced conducting so much, I think I would really be good directing the Colorado Symphony Orchestra. And by the way,Marin agrees.

Back to my favorite fantasy — singing. I never sing out loud in my fantasy. That doesn’t work because out loud I can’t produce the desired sound. I always hear myself singing in my head — and I must say I sound beautiful.

Like this.

(play music)

Even in the shower.

The problem I have with reproducing Kiri Te Kanawa singing arias from the Marriage of Figaro is that I don’t have the words down. So more often I will hear myself singing like Leontyne Price.

(more music)

with easier words.

Most often I sing la, la ,la. But who cares. In my fantasy I’m the only one who can hear it.

© 11/14/13

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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Music by Betsy

I do not have the words to describe how music touches my soul. So I will not try. Suffice it to say that often when I am uninspired, unmotivated, music has inspired and motivated me to get going at whatever it is that needs to be done. Or perhaps no action is needed. I simply need or want to tap into my deepest feelings. Music is the medium through which I am able to do that. To do that I have only to empty my mind and simply listen to a work that is pleasing to me. Then I can “get away from myself.” I suppose one could call it a form of meditation. Empty the mind and then you can tap into your inner being, is how it goes, I believe. Well, I’m not sure about the emptying of the mind. I suspect breathing exercises work better, but I do know that “deep” listening can be inspiring and the right music at the right time does touch my soul.

I do wish that names, places, and times would stick in my consciousness the way music does. Sometimes my head is full of music–unfortunately, not original. Since I lack the capability to create……well, maybe in my next life I will be a composer or song writer. Some music sticks in my head for days, weeks. Over a week ago I heard on the radio in the car a particular pleasing Rossini work that I like. That music is still going on in my head today as I write this–that and Too Hot to Handel, which I have been rehearsing weekly. It is not just one line. It is the whole orchestra– and all the choral parts, which makes it very enjoyable actually, but then sometimes I have to put on some other piece to get rid of something I have been “hearing” endlessly for days on end.

Better that than the alternative which is a constant, rather loud, high pitched hissing sound coming from both sides of my head around the area of the ears. Not an uncommon condition called tinitis. I understand this malady is the result of a filter in the brain not functioning as it should. The hissing is always there. It never actually goes away. I can “turn it off” only by focusing–and the key here is focusing– on something else, such as, conversation or, yes, music either real or imaginary.

Indeed, It is for many reasons that music is one of life’s greatest gifts.

© 11/24/11

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.