Tag: Nicholas

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LGBT Hopes, by Nicholas

According to my records, with this piece, I am starting my
seventh year of coming to tell and listen to stories on Monday afternoon.
It seems odd to think about hope in this grim start to what
may be a long and grim year of frustration, setbacks and bad news. This is not
a very hopeful time we live in. But maybe this is when we most need to remind
ourselves that hope is possible, hope is what keeps us going, hope is what gets
us out of bed each morning. And hope, no matter how irrational, is good to
have.
So, my hope for the lesbian, gay and trans community is that
we learn to turn to each other more for joy and less out of necessity. I know
that fearsome problems still haunt our world and community. Violence and
bullying is a daily fact for many of our youth. Discrimination still runs
rampant in many areas. Determined gay-haters, like the soon to be
vice-president of the United States, persist in their work to undo the dignity
and security of LGBT lives and generate hostility toward us. There is still
plenty of inequality and prejudice out there.
But in many ways, our world is getting less frightening and
our grasp on basic rights is growing more secure. It is no longer acceptable to
openly degrade gay people—which is why our enemies have to resort to ever
greater subterfuges to try to harass us. They’ve lost the sanctity of marriage
so now they are reduced to fighting for the sanctity of toilets and who shall
be allowed to do their business in which ones.
We still have battles to fight, but my hope is that we will seek
out each other’s company less out of a sense of a need for protection, less out
of desperation, and more because we just want to be around other L, G, B and T
people. We come together not so much because we need to seek shelter in a
hostile world but more because we can best express ourselves with each other.
I have many non-gay friends and love them dearly. It’s not
that I sense any barriers between us. Yet, there is still more I sense in sharing
with queer folk. We share experiences that we’ve all known and don’t have to
explain. We share a humor derived from being outsiders. We share
spiritualities, arts and a sharp sense of just what community is—or is not. We
have been forced to make up our own culture and so we have. We are different
and we should relish opportunities to engage those differences.
Most of us come out of a time when lesbians and gays could
never take anything for granted. And we shouldn’t. Above all, we shouldn’t take
each other for granted. You can find very fulfilling relationships with non-gay
people but I do believe that there is one thing we can find only with our own
kind—happiness. I do hope that organizations such as the community center we
are in continue to thrive—not out of fear and self-defense but from joy. We
still need to find each other. I hope that we continue to come here because we
want to, not because we have to.
Even in a world more tolerant and open, there is still that
special depth of connection that we get to see only in each other. Call it love
or desire or a magical ability to coordinate colors and a flare for decorating,
you won’t find it outside. You may be welcome to watch football games with
legions of Broncos fans, but you won’t get much of a response by commenting
that Eli Manning is so much better looking than his brother Peyton. They just
don’t get it.
© 8 Jan 2017 
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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I Used to … but Now I … by Nicholas

I used to ride 50 miles in a day on my bicycle. Now I do it in a week—most weeks.

I used to use a telephone like a telephone to talk to people. Now I send text messages and check email. Sometimes I’m even hoping that no one answers my call so I can just leave a message and not actually have to talk, as in carry on a conversation, with a human being.

I used to love working in my garden and I still do but my back says, get real, or I’ll hurt you.

I used to wonder what to call Jamie. Now he’s my husband. I agree, we need some new terminology to avoid all the baggage of husband and wife.

I used to think that I had nothing in common with my parents and would live a much better life because I just knew more about how to live a better life. Now, I think of them as my role models for aging well, knowing when to quit it and when to hit it.

I used to think I was brilliant and would go far in this world. Now, I don’t think I’m so brilliant but I have gone far in this world, to many places I never dreamed of, and I’m still pretty smart.

I used to be closeted, confused and alone. Now I’m not. Well, maybe still confused.

I used to try to keep up with national and world events and politics and give excellent opinions on important matters. Now, it’s all beyond me. If I had a prescription for all the world’s ills, or even any one of them, I would not hesitate to send it out to all concerned parties. But I don’t.

I used to read newspapers regularly. Now there aren’t any.

I used to feel free to have second helpings of dessert. Not anymore.

I used to ask God for help, for strength, for forgiveness. Now I’d just ask for an apology.

I used to seek more freedom. Now, I guess I have it.

© 2014

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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True Colors, by Nicholas

Take a Walk in the Grove

I want to tell a story today that involves one of our own, a member of this group. It’s about a group of people who showed their true colors in their loyalty to one friend and created a unique space for our entire community. Along the South Platte River on the edge of downtown Denver, is an area of Commons Park designated as a spot to remember those who have died of HIV/AIDS and their caregivers. It’s called The Grove and it is one of only two AIDS memorial gardens in this country—the other is in San Francisco. Our own Randy Wren was part of that group that labored for seven years to make it happen.

The Grove started with one man’s vision. Doug McNeil knew of the memorial grove in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco and asked, literally as his dying wish, why can’t Denver create such a spot. Doug died of AIDS in 1993, a time when the LGBT community was focused more on the battle to undo the infamous Amendment 2 than on the AIDS epidemic. Amendment 2, passed by Colorado voters in 1992, prohibited any government or government agency in this state from enacting any provisions to ban discrimination against lesbian and gay people. (There’s an excellent exhibition on that history outside this door in The Center’s lobby.) And it was a time of still rampant AIDS phobia.

A small group of Doug’s friends vowed to carry out his dream for The Grove. They weren’t the usual gaggle of community activists and politicos. They included socialites, arts community supporters, an attorney, and an Episcopal priest. Most were not gay. They organized a non-profit group called The Grove Project, got 501c3 IRS status so they could collect funds, and began the long process of taking on the bureaucracy of the city’s Parks Department.

The Parks Department never openly rejected the idea but negotiations dragged on for years. At first, the area in front of the performing arts complex on Speer Blvd was proposed. The city objected that theatre and concert goers wouldn’t want to be reminded of the awfulness of AIDS on their nights out on the town. Another location in a park in southeast Denver was suggested but that would have left the memorial far from the Capitol Hill neighborhood that was most affected by AIDS.

At some point, the riverfront came into the discussion. At that time, the area was just beginning to be developed. There was a quiet, somewhat out of the way spot in a new park—Commons Park—that the city was planning. That fit the criteria of being visible, centrally located and quiet enough to promote the atmosphere desired.

The Grove was envisioned to be a natural area for contemplation. It was landscaped very simply with trees, natural grasses and shrubs, and some rocks. A simple inscription reads: “Dedicated to the remembrance of those who have lost their lives to AIDS and to their loving caregivers who helped them live out those lives with dignity.”

The Grove was dedicated in a simple ceremony in August 2000. Doug McNeil’s loyal and persistent friends accomplished his dream after seven years of work.

Now, The Grove sits largely ignored and sort of neglected in a recessed corner of Commons Park, near 15th Street and Little Raven Street. It is surrounded by high priced condos and apartments but it is still a quiet and attractive area.

Recently, a movement got underway to renew the spot, clean it up, refresh the landscaping and, most importantly, make the community aware that this historical and spiritual resource exists. In recalling all the individuals who battled, and continue to battle AIDS, we remember how our community grew from that experience. We remember those we’ve lost. We remember when being gay changed from just giving the most fabulous parties to a truly mature community of caregivers and advocates. We remember our past and that we have a history. A history that is the root of our present and future.

I encourage everyone to seek out The Grove and spend a few quiet moments there remembering. And maybe you can help in its renewal. You too can show your true colors.

© 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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The Recliner, by Nicholas


Last week I mentioned that my heroes include my parents, whom I strive to emulate in many ways. One of those ways is napping.


When I was a kid, my mother worked so I and my sisters had chores to do in getting dinner ready like cooking a pot of potatoes and setting the table. Mom would come home and put the finishing touches on dinner. We would all gather and share dinner and then Mom would put things away as I or my sisters washed the dishes.


Then Mom would go upstairs and change out of her work clothes and into a nice warm caftan and her slippers for an evening of relaxing.


If it wasn’t my night to wash dishes, right after dinner I’d head to the big recliner in the living room, put my feet up using the wood crank on the side to lift the footrest and read or watch TV. I knew it was my only chance to get into that chair because it was Mom’s chair. She only needed to walk over to the chair, look at whoever was occupying it, and you knew your time was up. My father knew never even to try but we kids would steal a few minutes now and then. We might pretend to resist but just a glance from Mom was enough to enforce her prior right to the recliner. Objections were made only in jest. I would, in grumpy kid fashion, of course yield, put down my feet, slowly rise from the chair, and find somewhere else to sit. She would joke how I’d warmed it up nicely for her.


Mom took to her recliner like it was her nightly throne. Putting her legs up on the raised footrest, she would read the newspaper or watch some TV. Many times she would pull out her favorite rosary and say her prayers, a habit she continued from her mother who prayed many rosaries every day.


Pretty soon, however, the recliner triumphed. Mom’s head would droop forward or to the side, her eyes closed, rosary beads lying still in her hands. After a bit of a snooze, she would awake all refreshed and act like nothing had happened. She joined in any conversation going on and then continued her prayers or watching TV. I marveled at how watching TV did not seem to interfere with her prayers nor vice versa.


I don’t own a recliner but I do have a Morris chair in my living room which can be adjusted to almost recliner levels. After dinner, while Jamie cleans up, I stretch out in my chair. Rarely do I have to chase Jamie out of it. He knows whose chair this is. I don’t say rosaries and there is no TV to watch but I do sometimes wrap myself in a cozy, light wool blanket on a cold evening as I settle in to do some reading. I read until the book starts to droop along with my eyelids which eventually shut as I doze off. After a short time, the book clatters to the floor, rudely waking me up. And then I’m good for a few more chapters.


© January 2017

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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Marking the Seasons, by Nicholas

I find flowers amazing. They appear delicate but yet can be strong and resilient. Their shapes and colors vary wildly from the palest shades to the brightest hews. I have tulips in my yard that are pure white and some that are so deep a purple as to appear black.

I trace the progress of the season through flowers, what’s in bloom, what is preparing flowers stalks and buds, and what has finished. Already I have spotted tiny leaves breaking through the ground in my yard. Within weeks flowers will appear.

When I lived in San Francisco, I marked the beginning of spring with appearance in late February of the plum tree blossoms in Golden Gate Park. Any day now, their pale pink flowers will appear breaking the dreary coastal winter with their delicate brightness.

Here in Colorado, at the lower elevations, it is the brilliant yellow of the forsythia that dares to announce Spring. Even though we have many more weeks of winter, maybe even the worst of winter, ahead, these tiny flowers will soon appear. I have two forsythia bushes in my yard. The early one will show blossoms by the first of March. The other one is later by about a month.

Around St. Patrick’s Day, I will uncover the planter boxes on the porch and plant pansies with their delightful array of purples, yellows, oranges, burgundies and splashes of white to brighten those late winter days. Pansies love the cold and are beautiful in the snow. It’s the summer heat that will kill them off.

Then some early daffodils will appear, starting what I call their annual “death march.” I don’t know why this variety shows up so early only to face hard freezes and heavy snow. But they persist and eventually bloom in time for a spring snow to crush them. The snow won’t kill them, just bury them. Fortunately, I also have later varieties with the good sense to wait until the weather is more favorable.

Tulips are beginning to show up but they seem more patient and wait out the winter weather to bloom later. A little bit of snow heightens the brilliance of the colors in bloom. But it doesn’t take much to push them all to the ground.

When it is safe to come out in late spring, the cherry tree will overnight burst into white blossoms. And then the iris will show up. When I was a kid, we called them flags because they bloomed around Memorial Day. Maybe because of climate change, my iris seem to be almost finished by the end of May.

Soon the roses will appear and the first bloom is always the best. My favorite is the bright red rose near the back door.

When the warmth of spring begins to turn into the heat of summer, the hawthorn trees flower. The white flowers are pretty but they, frankly, stink. For two weeks, my backyard will smell of rotten fruit. However, the bees love these malodorous blooms and the yard will hum with the buzzing of thousands of bees harvesting what must be rich nectar.

All summer, my garden will be full of bees attracted to the flowers on the herbs I grow. I use the oregano, sage, chives and thyme from the garden but I think the bees get more use of my herbs. The little yellow arugula flowers seem to be especial favorites.

I think climate change has altered the flowering time for the lilies. They used to be a late summer flower with their oranges and yellows. But now, it seems that they bloom by early July and are finished before August. Maybe it’s the dry heat of Colorado, but late summer sees a lull in flowers. And then in September, some come back to life—like the hot pinks and reds of the impatiens—and bloom again before the cold returns.

Fall brings its own colors as the plumbago produces its cobalt blue flowers along the front walk. And I know what time of year it is by the shade of the sedum. Early summer, its flowers are white. Gradually, the color turns to a pale pink. And in the fall, they deepen to a dark red and then rust. It’s amazing to watch this one flower change color over time.

So, that’s the year in flowers in my yard.

© February 2017

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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New Year Hopes for the Community, by Nicholas

According to my records, with this piece, I am starting my seventh year of coming to tell and listen to stories on Monday afternoon.

It seems odd to think about hope in this grim start to what may be a long and grim year of frustration, setbacks and bad news. This is not a very hopeful time we live in. But maybe this is when we most need to remind ourselves that hope is possible, hope is what keeps us going, hope is what gets us out of bed each morning. And hope, no matter how irrational, is good to have.

So, my hope for the lesbian, gay and trans community is that we learn to turn to each other more for joy and less out of necessity. I know that fearsome problems still haunt our world and community. Violence and bullying is a daily fact for many of our youth. Discrimination still runs rampant in many areas. Determined gay-haters, like the soon to be vice-president of the United States, persist in their work to undo the dignity and security of LGBT lives and generate hostility toward us. There is still plenty of inequality and prejudice out there.

But in many ways, our world is getting less frightening and our grasp on basic rights is growing more secure. It is no longer acceptable to openly degrade gay people—which is why our enemies have to resort to ever greater subterfuges to try to harass us. They’ve lost the sanctity of marriage so now they are reduced to fighting for the sanctity of toilets and who shall be allowed to do their business in which ones.

We still have battles to fight, but my hope is that we will seek out each other’s company less out of a sense of a need for protection, less out of desperation, and more because we just want to be around other L, G, B and T people. We come together not so much because we need to seek shelter in a hostile world but more because we can best express ourselves with each other.

I have many non-gay friends and love them dearly. It’s not that I sense any barriers between us. Yet, there is still more I sense in sharing with queer folk. We share experiences that we’ve all known and don’t have to explain. We share a humor derived from being outsiders. We share spiritualities, arts and a sharp sense of just what community is—or is not. We have been forced to make up our own culture and so we have. We are different and we should relish opportunities to engage those differences.

Most of us come out of a time when lesbians and gays could never take anything for granted. And we shouldn’t. Above all, we shouldn’t take each other for granted. You can find very fulfilling relationships with non-gay people but I do believe that there is one thing we can find only with our own kind—happiness. I do hope that organizations such as the community center we are in continue to thrive—not out of fear and self-defense but from joy. We still need to find each other. I hope that we continue to come here because we want to, not because we have to.

Even in a world more tolerant and open, there is still that special depth of connection that we get to see only in each other. Call it love or desire or a magical ability to coordinate colors and a flare for decorating, you won’t find it outside. You may be welcome to watch football games with legions of Broncos fans, but you won’t get much of a response by commenting that Eli Manning is so much better looking than his brother Peyton. They just don’t get it.

© January 2017

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.

Posted on

Good Hunting, Nicholas

For the last few years I have been compiling memories in the
form of memoir essays. It’s fun and interesting to recollect what I have done
with my life over the years. I do not see myself writing an autobiography, however,
but rather being selective on episodes to delve into. I do not begin at my true
beginning with my childhood which, to me, seems as uninteresting now as it was
then. A pretty ordinary stretch of life filled with good memories but little
drama, a time that I don’t see as worth writing about.
So, it’s not really my life story that I am filling pages
with but reflections on where life has taken me. It has taken me many
fascinating places. And I enjoy remembering where I have gone. Memory is, to
paraphrase a common saying, like drinking sea water—the more you drink, the
thirstier you get. Writing a memoir is like a quest. You might say, I am
hunting my past.
I was remembering an episode in my past last week and the
more I thought about it and wrote out the story, the more that came to me. The story
was about the day a kind, older man tempted me out of my closet. He didn’t
succeed. I was foolish enough to pass up the opportunity he offered. I thought
I had written out the story. But then, wait, something else happened back then.
He said something to me. What was it? I plied my memory until it started coming
back to me. He said something like, “You don’t have to be alone, you know.” I’d
forgotten that last part.
The tools I use in this hunt include not only my memory of
events—fond or not so fond—but also documents, old journals, and, lots of
published clips from my days as a journalist in San Francisco. I sometimes even
do some research and fact checking.
I have all the documents, for example, of the struggle with
my draft board from 1968 to 1972 that culminated in my refusing induction into
the U.S. Army. Having long had a fondness for writing, I wrote for some
underground papers in California back then and actually found copies in the San
Francisco Public Library. Some of those pieces I’m proud of and some I dismiss
as just getting carried away with the rhetoric of that era. Did I really call
the President of the United States a pig? Well, he probably deserved it.
The only time in my life that I kept a personal journal was
when I began coming out. I wrote in it faithfully almost every day for a few
years and found it a great way to see who I was and how I was changing. Some
memories are flattering and some are not. At times, I am roaring with happiness
from new found friends and experiences. Other times, I am wishing it would all
go away and I could just be normal, whatever that might mean. It helps to see
the bad with the good.
My hunt has produced results, maybe I should call them
trophies. I am seeing patterns that I like. It seems to me that my life has
been blessed with two Spring times and maybe even a third. Twice I have felt
desperate and besieged by forces beyond my control and twice I have responded
to those challenges by entering a time of creativity and change. The first time
was when I decided to drop out of college and take on the military draft. That
led to a multitude of incredible experiences. The second spring came of course
when I embraced being gay and found friendship and love, challenge and
strength, community and history.
And the third spring? Well, it seems to be right now. As I’m
growing older, I find myself again in a period of challenge and change and
great creativity at the same time. I like remembering my past, chasing it down,
writing it down. This hunt has its satisfactions in knowing the ground on which
I now stand. Where I’m headed is growing out of where I’ve been. I like being a
hunter and the hunt goes on.
© 19 Sep 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.

Posted on

How I Learned Some Turkey Anatomy, by Nicholas


It was our first Thanksgiving together so we invited a bunch of friends over to share a dinner. Jamie and I were to cook the turkey and other people were assigned other courses for a sumptuous meal.

We got the bird which was frozen but no problem, we knew enough to leave it in the frig for a few days to thaw out. It seemed to be doing so nicely and on Thanksgiving morning as I prepared the stuffing and prepped the turkey, things were moving along smoothly.Turkey in the oven, we were on our way to a feast.

The first sign of trouble came innocently enough when Jamie was talking to his mother about our celebration. I should point out that this Thanksgiving was a kind of late rebellion on his part. We had decided not to go to his parents for dinner, even though they were nearby, so we could have our own gathering with friends. But mothers have that knack for asking questions that can throw your plans right into the rubbish.

Bragging about our turkey in the oven, mom posed the question, “Did you get the giblets and stuff out of both ends of the turkey?”

What “both ends,” I demanded. Of course we’d pried out a bag of turkey parts from its hollow innards. But was there more in some other secret cavity? Was there something stuffed up its ass, too?

So, we hauled the bird out of the oven and poked around its backside to find out that not only was there another pouch of miscellaneous bits but that our future dinner was still, actually, frozen. Well, it did seem a little stiff when we stuffed it but now we realized we had a still frozen 12-15 pound animal and all bets were off as just when dinner would be served.

We threw the thing back into the oven and cranked up the temperature. Nothing much happened. We turned the oven up higher. Still, not much changed. It was turkey’s revenge—it would cook in its own time and never mind our plans for dinner.

Our guests started arriving and our main course was just thawing out. We had appetizers and wine and conversation while the bird began to show some sign of cooking. We reversed the order of the meal and served other courses like salad, potatoes and vegetable and more wine until at long last we pulled from the oven what we hoped was a cooked turkey. I can’t even remember what it tasted like. I guess it was good or we were all too hungry to care. Everybody ate it, nobody got sick. It was a fun time, even though a disaster.

My first venture into real cooking did not augur well for pursuing culinary delights. But, as it happens, one gets hungry and has to repeatedly do something about it. Peanut butter sandwiches as a diet are not that appealing. So, despite being shamed by a turkey, the lowest form of conscious life on this planet, I did go back into that kitchen with the intention of turning food into meals.

I am happy to report that success followed my persistence. Hunger is a good teacher and I have come since to associate the kitchen with many satisfactions and pleasures.

I love to indulge myself and what higher form of indulgence is there than food. And food grows ever more satisfying with age. Taste grows more complex and nuanced with age and taste buds, unlike other body parts, actually work better as you grow older. Kids can be finicky eaters, it has been said, because their underdeveloped taste buds aren’t working to their full capacity with just sweet and bitter dominating their little palates.

I like food. I like everything to do with food—shopping for it, growing it, picking it in the garden, preparing it, cooking it, eating and sharing it with others. I like reading about food and cooking; I like planning big meals. My favorite store in the whole world is the Savory Spice Shop down on Platte Street. Walking in their door is entering a different world full of wonderful aromas that hint of countless flavors from the dozens of herbs, spices and exotic salts on the shelves. The variations and sensations are near endless in my imagination.

Cooking is now part of my identity. I love to cook. Well, I just love food. Cooking is now a creative endeavor as I tend to use recipes not as instructions but for inspiration and as suggestions as to what goes well together and in what measure. Many times I simply dispense with recipes and make it up on the basis of what’s in the frig and hunches. The hunches—like adding paprika and dry mustard to a stew—usually pay off, i.e., are edible, but sometimes they do not turn out so well. Those I won’t go into.

Food has its rituals that can be likened to religious liturgies culminating with the sharing of sacrament. Food is work and joy, is nourishment and pleasure and connotes special relationships to those you share it with and to the earth it comes from.

So, let me officially launch this great season of holiday feasting—my favorite time of the year—with the words: Ladies and gentlemen, start your ovens. Let the eating begin!

[Editor’s note: This piece was first published in this blog in 2012.]
© November 2012

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.

Posted on

Setting Up House, by Nicholas

I’ve set up house a number of times. Sometimes alone and
sometimes with others. Either way, it’s a lot of work bringing order out of the
sheer chaos of boxes strewn about the new empty place. I remember when Jamie
and I packed up our things in San Francisco, hired a mover, saw all our stuff
go off down the street and hoped we’d see it again in Denver. We did. That was
in 1990. We moved into a house on East Third Avenue in which the first thing we
did—before we unpacked anything—was go buy candy to give away since it was
Halloween and we wanted to be part of our new neighborhood.
We got a bedroom set up and the bed made so we could at least
go to sleep in our new house. Next day we set about sorting and arranging our
things in the place we were to live in. For me, the kitchen is the most
important. My kitchen must have a logic to it. Pots and pans close to where
they will be used. Spices and herbs within reach of cooking. Wine and wine
glasses always handy. Less used supplies in more distant cabinets.
We stayed there three years and then moved to where we live
now. We have lived longer at our present address than either of us ever had lived
anywhere else in our lives. We do not intend to move again for some time unless
we are forced to. Forget moving and setting up a new house.
Actually, we are heading in the opposite direction. Not
setting up a house, but sort of tearing one down. Our house is big with lots of
places to stash things. We have watched the detritus pile up. Fortunately, we
have a two car garage that is just about big enough for two cars and not much
else. And we insist on using the garage as a garage, not for extra storage. So,
there are limitations. But stuff still accumulates.
We are trying to slow that accumulation. For birthdays and
anniversaries, we ask for no gifts, please. We even try to get rid of stuff. We
like to call it de-accessioning. I cleared out a shelf of flower vases, for
example, by unloading them on a nearby florist who was glad to take them and
will likely re-use them. Packing material, like those annoying popcorn things
and bubble wrap, if reasonably clean, is welcomed by packing and shipping
places. I have recycled bags full of the stuff. Jamie recently took a trunk
load of old computer bits and accessories to a recycling center. Better they
get broken down into usable parts than sit in our attic.
It takes a little work but it’s easy getting rid of stuff you
don’t like. Now we want to start getting rid of stuff we do like. I plan to
cull through books which I hate to part with but, after a time, they do only
collect dust on a shelf. Clothes too. I have too much now so, I’ve decided that
if I want to buy new clothes, I have to get rid of some of the old.
Largely as an accident, I ended up being the keeper of old
family photo albums. One day, I parceled out some of the ten albums my mother
had put together and sent some to my sisters. After all, their pictures were in
there too.
Some folks become hoarders as they age. They can’t give up
anything. Maybe, they think that’ll be the mark they leave on the world. Maybe
that’s how they establish that they have lived—show a bunch of stuff for it.
Maybe that’s how they remember all they’ve seen and done. If I leave a mark on
this world, I hope it won’t be just a pile of junk for someone else to pitch.
I’m not a hoarder. I take great delight in getting rid of
things. I love downsizing. It’s like losing weight (which is something else I
ought to look into). But while stuff is easy to pass up, ice cream is not.
If I ever set up another house, it will be with less stuff.
Of course, it will probably be smaller so I will be forced to de-accessionize
even more. Some of that may be difficult with tough choices. But really it will
be a joy. Taking apart a house is as much fun as setting one up.
© 12 Sep 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.
Posted on

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.