Tag: One Summer Afternoon

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One Summer Afternoon, by Ray S

[Editor’s Note. This story was previously published in this blog. It is a reminder that this weekend is Pridefest Denver!]

“What are you doing, father?” It isn’t quite summer, but almost. And this afternoon the question was voiced by one of a couple of gay revelers passing by as I waited for the next #10 bus.

“Waiting,” I replied and then quickly added, “for the next bus.” Then it struck me, the title by which I had been addressed and then my prompt reply.

First, I am a father and today is the national holiday honoring fathers. Just coincidently Denver’s Gay Pride Sunday. There certainly are statistics establishing how many gay fathers there are. Guess this is our special day as well. One never knows who will turn up a father; do you?

Second, I thought after the boys passed by that the word “waiting” looms either ominously or in joyful anticipation for all of us, and in my case—for what or whatever the future may hold.

Besides the initial carnival character of the setting at Civic Center and then the Pride Parade, I was aware of the general ages of the celebrants. Don’t gay men grow beyond downy-faced Peter Pans that will never grow up or full-blown bronzed Adonises with such an abundance of self confidence and arrogance? This question was haunting and even more so after countless hours of observing the beautiful, bizarre, minimally-attired populous. Was this whole charade dedicated to the Fountain of Youth and the exciting discovery of carnality? Here is a parody of the song. “Old Soldiers never die,” etc. that goes “Old Trolls never die, they just fly away.” Is there nothing to look forward to besides a good book, getting fat from countless dinner parties, recounting lost opportunities with other disappointed brethren, indulging in the occasional gay porn DVD in the lone comfort of your bed, and on and on, so be it?

Then like the first blush of the sunrise my eyes were opened wonderfully to the real world of beautiful, crazy, happy, gay attendees of this huge street party celebrating many other positive aspects of the right to be who we are and equal to all the rest of the seemingly God’s chosen.

The exterior physicality has a way of transforming. The ultimate result is the chance for a real inner beauty to emerge, if it hasn’t been there already. The value of friendship, companionship and love beyond the flesh core. The truly life-sustaining elements of all GLBT relationships. And of course human nature will see to the sometimes overarching flesh thing.

Waiting one summer afternoon. Well just relax, breathe deeply, look around you, see the beauty and love in all of us, and eventually that bus will come.

© June 2013

About the Author



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One Summer Afternoon, by Ricky

During 1956 and 57, I
spent my summer mornings and afternoons riding with my grandfather on his
tractor as he worked the farm.  During
the harvest season, I would ride on the hay wagon and help stack bales of hay
as they came off the baler until the stacks became too high for me to lift;
usually two bales high was all that I could handle.  If I wasn’t on the wagon, I would walk along
the hay baler figuring out what all the different moving parts did to make the
bales.  I certainly got lots of exercise.
One summer afternoon in 1963, my
scout troop participated in a scout-show event in Placerville, the seat of
government for El Dorado County, California. 
That particular year, President Kennedy had honored the Marine Corps’
achievement of hiking 50-miles in 24-hours. 
He then challenged the youth of the country to get physically fit.  Since “Physically Strong” is part of the
Scout Oath, our troop chose the theme of “physical fitness” for the event. We
conducted a few fitness events at the show. 
Among them were scaling a wall-like barrier and fitness competitions
such as push-ups and sit-ups, et cetera.
Naturally, in the months
prior to the scout-show all scouts participated in physical fitness efforts so
we could perform better than those other scouts who would accept the challenges
of the tests.  With the help of our adult
leaders, we also had to build the wall-like barrier and then practicing to
become strong enough to get over it.
Now this bit of wall was
made using 2×4’s for the frame and its supports, which were designed to make
the barrier stable and not fall over when scouts were attempting to climb over
the top.   Attached to the frame were a
mix of 4-inch and 6-inch wide by ½-inch thick planks.  One of the planks was of the
tongue-and-groove type, which resulted in a very thin “lip” or overhang between
the two adjoining planks about 3-feet up from the bottom of the wall.  The whole apparatus was about 6-feet wide and
7-feet tall.  The wall’s design required
the younger (meaning shorter) scouts to jump high and grab the top of the wall
and then pull themselves up and swing their legs over the top and drop down the
other side, thus building leg and upper body strength.  We provided a small ramp for the really short
scouts to use until their leg muscles improved in strength.  On the back side we also placed a 4-inch
thick mattress on the ground to cushion the landings or falls from the top of
the wall. 
Once the wall was
finished, we all gathered outside to test ourselves against the wall.  Scouts would repeatedly take turns scaling
the wall, while I stood at the side of the landing area to assist in breaking
the fall of anyone who had trouble. 
Eventually, someone noticed that I was not taking a turn.  In all truthfulness, I had planned not to go
over the wall and display just how weak my upper body really was.  Not only was I the Senior Patrol Leader, but
also the oldest boy in the troop and I was very self-conscious.  However, once it was noticed, they all
insisted I also go over the wall.
Consequently, I did some
quick thinking and decided to give my arms a break.  So, I moved back from the wall and ran
towards it gaining momentum and then jumped up and forward, placing my right
foot on that little “lip” of space on the plank and lifting myself upwards with
my leg only, grabbing the wall top with both hands while swinging my legs over
the top, thus clearing the wall sideways by several inches, when my momentum
promptly pulled my hands from the top and I fell to the mattress landing hard
on my hands and knees.  No one was on
that side of the wall and when I did not reappear immediately, the scoutmaster
and several boys came around to see why. 
Even with the bad landing I was okay; just a bit stunned.  Once they saw I was okay, everyone expressed
their enjoyment of my “flying” over the wall and then they all tried to do
it.  I felt that I had proven that I
could do it, so I never did it again. 
(That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.)  Now back to the scout-show.
The sit-up area was one
of our most popular events and many scouts from other troops took-up the
challenge to see how many they could do. 
In the end, Lyle Radtke from our troop took top honors.  Late in the morning, he came to the booth and
accomplished 100 sit-ups, the most up to that time.  Lyle returned about an hour later and saw
that some other scout had done 150.  This
did not sit well with him, so he decided to “raise the bar” so high that no one
else could cross it.  In about
20-minutes, Lyle completed another 300 sit-ups. 
These were no bent-knee sit-ups, but full prone, hands behind your head
and sit up and bending until your elbows touched your knees style sit-ups.  I watched him accomplish this feat.  It was like watching a pendulum.  He would flip forward and then flop back,
flip, flop, flip, flop, flip, flop a complete cycle taking about
two-seconds.  He only began to slow down
the pace as he approached the 290 count. 
After he reached 300, he got up and walked away while we wrote his name
and count on the butcher-paper display. 
When I saw him in school the next day, he could not stand up straight as
his abdominal muscles kept him bent over more than just slightly.
Also in 1963, the Lake
Tahoe basin was experiencing a strong Indian Summer phenomena.  That year it did not snow or even get cold
until well into January of 1964.  In
fact, I have a photograph of our family standing in front of the tree in our
backyard on Christmas day while wearing cutoffs and t-shirts.  In any case, this particular day changed
everything for me.  It was November 22nd
and I was in high school biology class taking an exam when another teacher, Al
Hildinger, opened the door and yelled out that President Kennedy had been
shot.  It was an hour or so later when we
heard that he was dead.  The biology
teacher made us all retake a different test the next day because according to
him we all did extremely poorly on the first one the day before.
Some of my favorite
summer afternoons were going to local parks, children’s museums, swimming
pools, and touristy places like Disney World with my family.  All those memories are special to me and all
are equally my favorite although perhaps each for slightly different reasons.
I suppose that since this
group is about how we developed into the persons we are today and it also is
about our sexual orientation, I should include something about sex as the
weekly topic title just screams out for writing about those delicious summer days
when romance developed.  So here is a bit
of a teaser.  One summer afternoon, my
wife and I were traveling from Lake Tahoe towards the coast when we decided to
pull off the highway and take a small, dirt, forest road into the trees, lay
out a blanket and get busy.  Once
decided, we actually did it.
This past week, I had
three wonderful days celebrating my new status of being old enough to be a senior
citizen on every restaurant menu.  I am
very grateful for those three days. 
© 17 June 2013 
About the Author 
 I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale
and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I was sent to live with my grandparents on their
farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents
divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
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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One Summer Afternoon by Lewis

When I was a child, my parents didn’t take a “family vacation” some summers. Instead, they sent me off to summer camp, which was enough vacation for them, I guess. On one such occasion, they sent me off for an interminable ten days to a YMCA camp called “Camp Wood”. I was about nine years old and an only child. I was introverted and a non-swimmer. For me, swimming was, to quote Bill Cosby, “staying alive in the water”. I had allergies and my sinuses were constantly inflamed. If chlorinated water got up my nose, it felt like someone had set my snot on fire. Therefore, if I was in water more than four feet deep, out came my nose plugs. It was swimming that kept me from getting beyond a “Star” rank in Boy Scouts.

When I got to Camp Wood, I soon discovered that it was organized a little like a country club. The lake had two beaches–the shallow one with the kiddy swings for the non-swimmers and the cool beach with the deeper water and the water slide for the swimmers. I was a few years older than almost all the kids on the kiddy beach and was going to make myself absolutely miserable unless I could graduate to the older boys’ beach. To do that meant that I would have to swim from the edge of the kiddy beach out to a floating dock about 50 yards out into the lake. From where I stood on the edge of the water at the kiddy beach, the dock looked to me to be only one or two strokes closer than hell itself. Not only that, but there would be kids and adults nearby watching me. Who knows if they were rooting for me to make it or were hoping to see something their parents would be most interested hearing about?

There was a lifeguard standing on the dock. He looked to me to be a young man of about 17. I’m not very good at judging these things, as I never had an older brother or even a male relative under 21. I suspect that it was only the prospect of that young man coming to my rescue that gave me the courage needed to attempt to swim toward the raft.

I would give anything to see a home movie of my valiant effort to look graceful while flailing all four skinny limbs in a desperate attempt to keep from consuming too much of the lake. By the time I reached the dock, I was totally exhausted, a fact that I’m sure was obvious to the young man looking worriedly down at me. Nevertheless, one got no credit for merely reaching the dock. No. One had to swim back to the shore from whence I had come.

I’m sure the lifeguard offered me his hand. But I was too embarrassed and determined to pass the test, so I turned back toward shore hoping against hope that I would find the strength somehow to make it all the way. Well, I only made it a few yards before I started to flounder. The lifeguard was on me in a couple of seconds, lifting me up and putting me under his arm to sweep me back to the safety of the dock.

“This must be what it feels like to be Sleeping Beauty,” I thought. No, not really. But it did feel pretty sweet, though humiliating.

None of the other campers ever mentioned my fiasco, nor did I ever tell my parents about it. Camp ended on a much higher note, when I placed first in the broad jump in the track meet on the last morning of camp. Somehow, solid ground just seems to suit me better.

© 17 June 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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One Summer Afternoon by Lewis

When I was a child, my parents didn’t take a “family vacation” some summers. Instead, they sent me off to summer camp, which was enough vacation for them, I guess. On one such occasion, they sent me off for an interminable ten days to a YMCA camp called “Camp Wood”. I was about nine years old and an only child. I was introverted and a non-swimmer. For me, swimming was, to quote Bill Cosby, “staying alive in the water”. I had allergies and my sinuses were constantly inflamed. If chlorinated water got up my nose, it felt like someone had set my snot on fire. Therefore, if I was in water more than four feet deep, out came my nose plugs. It was swimming that kept me from getting beyond a “Star” rank in Boy Scouts.

When I got to Camp Wood, I soon discovered that it was organized a little like a country club. The lake had two beaches–the shallow one with the kiddy swings for the non-swimmers and the cool beach with the deeper water and the water slide for the swimmers. I was a few years older than almost all the kids on the kiddy beach and was going to make myself absolutely miserable unless I could graduate to the older boys’ beach. To do that meant that I would have to swim from the edge of the kiddy beach out to a floating dock about 50 yards out into the lake. From where I stood on the edge of the water at the kiddy beach, the dock looked to me to be only one or two strokes closer than hell itself. Not only that, but there would be kids and adults nearby watching me. Who knows if they were rooting for me to make it or were hoping to see something their parents would be most interested hearing about?

There was a lifeguard standing on the dock. He looked to me to be a young man of about 17. I’m not very good at judging these things, as I never had an older brother or even a male relative under 21. I suspect that it was only the prospect of that young man coming to my rescue that gave me the courage needed to attempt to swim toward the raft.

I would give anything to see a home movie of my valiant effort to look graceful while flailing all four skinny limbs in a desperate attempt to keep from consuming too much of the lake. By the time I reached the dock, I was totally exhausted, a fact that I’m sure was obvious to the young man looking worriedly down at me. Nevertheless, one got no credit for merely reaching the dock. No. One had to swim back to the shore from whence I had come.

I’m sure the lifeguard offered me his hand. But I was too embarrassed and determined to pass the test, so I turned back toward shore hoping against hope that I would find the strength somehow to make it all the way. Well, I only made it a few yards before I started to flounder. The lifeguard was on me in a couple of seconds, lifting me up and putting me under his arm to sweep me back to the safety of the dock.

“This must be what it feels like to be Sleeping Beauty”, I thought. No, not really. But it did feel pretty sweet, though humiliating.

None of the other campers ever mentioned my fiasco, nor did I ever tell my parents about it. Camp ended on a much higher note, when I placed first in the broad jump in the track meet on the last morning of camp. Somehow, solid ground just seems to suit me better.

17 June 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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One Summer Afternoon by Nicholas

One summer afternoon I went to the Botanic Gardens to see what was in bloom and to watch the plants grow. They didn’t grow much while I was there so I sat in the Asian garden and jotted down some notes for future stories.

One summer afternoon I remembered the bike ride I took that summer morning to Washington Park going past Ray’s apartment, making a loop around the park past Steven’s house, and then back home.

One summer afternoon I took a writing class on how to put together a memoir that might interest readers. The instructor guided us through exercises on how to construct a narrative with plot, characters and dramatic tension. Just like writing a novel except you’re not supposed to make it up.

One summer afternoon I went to Cheesman Park and saw young men without shirts on running along the trails and playing volleyball. They did not seem to be having as much fun as I was.

One summer afternoon I took the bus into downtown to run some errands and hang out, read the New Yorker and have a really good coffee at Common Grounds on Wazee Street. Downtown is always full of people busy doing their things.

One summer afternoon I took a nap in our cool basement on the sofa that Jamie and I call “the couch of narcosis” because it will put you to sleep, guaranteed.

One summer afternoon I walked into the hospital to see Jamie for the umpteenth time and had a flash of familiarity as if this was just normal life. I told myself to stop that, I don’t want to think that going to the hospital is our normal life.

One summer afternoon Jamie and I stood in front of our house chatting with a neighbor about changes on the block and then some other neighbors who were walking their dog stopped by and filled us all in on some other gossip. We like our neighbors a lot.

One summer afternoon, I discovered that PrideFest is pretty irrelevant to my life. It seems that the crowning achievement of lesbian and gay liberation is skinny hairless young boys walking around in public in their underpants beneath the colorful logos of many huge corporations that want to sell them those underpants and other things.

One summer afternoon I picked fresh arugula from my garden for dinner that night.

One summer afternoon I cut the grass. Don’t mow your lawn in the afternoon; it is too damn hot.

One summer afternoon Jamie and I just fell into bed—and we weren’t sleepy at all.

One summer afternoon I flew into San Francisco International Airport, got on a train into the city, and spent a week of summer afternoons and evenings visiting friends and family, feasting on fabulous meals, going to museums, walking along the ocean, breathing fresh sea air, and eating chocolate cake.

One summer afternoon I went to the shopping mall not to do any shopping but just to wander through a cool environment on a hot day.

On this summer afternoon—and on many summer afternoons and in other seasons as well—I am sitting in a small room to hear what other people do with their summer afternoons.

© 17 June 2013


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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One Summer Afternoon by Gillian

Betsy and I sat on our patio sipping our afternoon tea. It was an idyllic afternoon. The sun shone from a clear Colorado blue sky and the late summer flowers glowed gold in its reflection, while a few late hummingbirds buzzed the feeder. It was very quiet, with little traffic and few people about. It was one of those times the poet Robert Browning must have had in mind when he wrote that God is in His Heaven, and all’s right with the world.

It was September the 11th, 2001. Sitting on the peaceful, peace-filled, patio, we couldn’t seem to come to grips with the reality of what had happened, was happening, in New York. We, like everyone else, had been glued to the TV, watching in horror as events unfolded. Then we switched it off and it simply went away. And we sat outside, in our silent oasis, and tried to believe, or not to believe, what we had just seen. We wanted to go back in, turn on the TV, and see cheerful mindless commercials followed by the credits rolling as the awful movie we had been watching came to an end. But that was not to be.

That day changed this country, and us, in so many ways. We gave away our rights and freedoms in exchange for promises of a security that can never be a reality. But the changes we wrought on other countries half a world away were so much more, and so much worse.

After the horrors of the 2013 Boston Marathon, an editorial in an Afghanistan newspaper said, and I’m paraphrasing to the best of my memory, here, Welcome to Our World. Welcome to the fear, and the reality, we live with every day. Where will your drones strike next, and how many innocent people will be maimed and die, and how will we try to make sense of it?

My dream for the world is that it may be filled with September Colorado afternoons rather than September New York mornings. But why is that so hard to imagine?

© June 2013

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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One Summer Afternoon By Ray S

“What are you doing, father?” It isn’t quite summer, but almost. And this afternoon the question was voiced by one of a couple of gay revelers passing by as I waited for the next #10 bus.

“Waiting,” I replied and then quickly added, “for the next bus.” Then it struck me, the title by which I had been addressed and then my prompt reply.

First, I am a father and today is the national holiday honoring fathers. Just coincidently Denver’s Gay Pride Sunday. There certainly are statistics establishing how many gay fathers there are. Guess this is our special day as well. One never knows who will turn up a father; do you?

Second, I thought after the boys passed by that the word “waiting” looms either ominously or in joyful anticipation for all of us, and in my case—for what or whatever the future may hold.

Besides the initial carnival character of the setting at Civic Center and then the Pride Parade, I was aware of the general ages of the celebrants. Don’t gay men grow beyond downy-faced Peter Pans that will never grow up or full-blown bronzed Adonis’s with such an abundance of self-confidence and arrogance? This question was haunting and even more so after countless hours of observing the beautiful, bizarre, minimally-attired populous. Was this whole charade dedicated to the Fountain of Youth and the exciting discovery of carnality? Here is a parody of the song. “Old Soldiers never die,” etc. that goes “Old Trolls never die, they just fly away.” Is there nothing to look forward to besides a good book, getting fat from countless dinner parties, recounting lost opportunities with other disappointed brethren, indulging in the occasional gay porn DVD in the lone comfort of your bed, and on and on, so be it?

Then like the first blush of the sunrise my eyes were opened wonderfully to the real world of beautiful, crazy, happy, gay attendees of this huge street party celebrating many other positive aspects of the right to be who we are and equal to all the rest of the seemingly God’s chosen.

The exterior physicality has a way of transforming. The ultimate result is the chance for a real inner beauty to emerge, if it hasn’t been there already . The value of friendship, companionship and love beyond the flesh core. The truly life-sustaining elements of all GLBT relationships. And of course human nature will see to the sometimes overarching flesh thing.

Waiting one summer afternoon. Well just relax, breathe deeply, look around you, see the beauty and love in all of us, and eventually that bus will come.

© 19 June 2013

About the Author

  
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SPECIAL EDITION: PRIDEFEST 2013

Today’s Special Edition presents stories by three authors. 

One Summer Afternoon 
by Ray S

“What are you doing, father?” It isn’t quite summer, but almost. And this afternoon the question was voiced by one of a couple of gay revelers passing by as I waited for the next #10 bus.

“Waiting,” I replied and then quickly added, “for the next bus.” Then it struck me, the title by which I had been addressed and then my prompt reply.

First, I am a father and today is the national holiday honoring fathers. Just coincidently Denver’s Gay Pride Sunday. There certainly are statistics establishing how many gay fathers there are. Guess this is our special day as well. One never knows who will turn up a father; do you?

Second, I thought after the boys passed by that the word “waiting” looms either ominously or in joyful anticipation for all of us, and in my case—for what or whatever the future may hold.

Besides the initial carnival character of the setting at Civic Center and then the Pride Parade, I was aware of the general ages of the celebrants. Don’t gay men grow beyond downy-faced Peter Pans that will never grow up or full-blown bronzed Adonises with such an abundance of self confidence and arrogance? This question was haunting and even more so after countless hours of observing the beautiful, bizarre, minimally-attired populous. Was this whole charade dedicated to the Fountain of Youth and the exciting discovery of carnality? Here is a parody of the song. “Old Soldiers never die,” etc. that goes “Old Trolls never die, they just fly away.” Is there nothing to look forward to besides a good book, getting fat from countless dinner parties, recounting lost opportunities with other disappointed brethren, indulging in the occasional gay porn DVD in the lone comfort of your bed, and on and on, so be it?

Then like the first blush of the sunrise my eyes were opened wonderfully to the real world of beautiful, crazy, happy, gay attendees of this huge street party celebrating many other positive aspects of the right to be who we are and equal to all the rest of the seemingly God’s chosen.

The exterior physicality has a way of transforming. The ultimate result is the chance for a real inner beauty to emerge, if it hasn’t been there already. The value of friendship, companionship and love beyond the flesh core. The truly life-sustaining elements of all GLBT relationships. And of course human nature will see to the sometimes overarching flesh thing.

Waiting one summer afternoon. Well just relax, breathe deeply, look around you, see the beauty and love in all of us, and eventually that bus will come.

© June
2013

About the Author

One Summer Afternoon
by Merlyn

Pride Sunday 2013 was the kind of summer day that will always be special. Michael and I walked in the Pride parade along with the color guard with Ray S; Cecil and Carl rode in a convertible  At the end of the parade Cecil and Carl joined us on the corner of Colfax and Broadway for awhile to watch the parade pass. We had fun looking at all of the people. Carl stood up and watched as the green Rolls Royce drove past that Cecil and he had ridden in last year.

We spent 8 hours helping out in the Prime Timers and The GLBT Center’s booths on Saturday and were planning on enjoying Sunday.

We would have to leave around 3 to go over to his daughters house for a father’s day dinner for Michael at 5pm.

After the Parade was over we had about a hour to walk around before Michael was supposed to work at his church’s booth. A storm went though with strong wind but no one cared. I was planning on checking out the four Prime Timers booths to help out if one of them needed help for a couple of hours.

Everything was under control so I decided to enjoy myself. I walked by Michaels booth he was wearing the red hat with flowers all over it, he was having a ball putting stickers on the people that went by. It was crowded and I was in the way, so I decided to walk around.

I saw a bench that was in the shade and sat down. I really enjoyed being able to sit on the bench and not do anything but watch and talk to some of the people that stopped for a break.

Two men in their 30s feel asleep in each other’s arms laying on the grass 20 feet away where I was sitting and no one cared. When I was in my 20s or 30s I could never have imagined a world where it would be OK to do the kind of things that seem so natural today.

We made it to dinner a few minutes late, had a real good time and came home around 9PM. We laid down to relax awhile before we watched the end of a movie we had started Saturday night. Both of us fell asleep, We woke up just in time to go down to and go to bed around midnight, but that’s another story about a different day.

© June 2013

About the Author

I’m a retired gay man now living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for the unusual and enjoying life each day.

One Summer Afternoon 
by Phillip Hoyle

As a dedicated people watcher, I sat alone on a coffee shop patio watching the parade go by in front of me. The East Colfax show was endless, varied, noisy, quirky, clean, stylish, unwashed and in rags. With loud sirens blaring, Denver Fire Department trucks sped by. Cars stopped to parallel park; other vehicles impatiently continued up and down the street. I watched a never ending flow of people and automobiles loving what I saw. Then I thought of the parade I’d see on the following Sunday, the Parade for Denver PrideFest 2013.

I first attended PrideFest in 1999. I wanted to go but realized I might not get to do so since my son Mike and his wife Heather and their four young kids were staying at my apartment. They were slated to leave Sunday afternoon to return to western Colorado where they lived. Early that morning one of my granddaughters asked to go to the playground she remembered from an earlier trip. “We can’t,” I explained. “The playground is closed because a parade is lining up in the park.”

“A parade,” she responded with excited eyes. “We can get candy!”

I told her I didn’t know if they’d have candy, but there would be lots of clowns. We did go down to Colfax to watch the events, and the children got much more candy than they had ever gathered at a parade. Back then few children attended the parade, so the candy givers were quite excited to see the stair step youngsters seated in a row on the curb and quite generous with their portions. So I saw my first PrideFest parade through the eyes of my grandchildren who loved not just the candy but every minute of the spectacle. Together we saw floats, dykes on bikes, bands, drag queens, politicians, dancing boys, and leather men. I thought how differently the world presented itself to my grandchildren when compared with what it showed me or my children.

Pridefest 2000 added a new perspective for I was in love with a man who was dying from the ravages of HIV and his anti-AIDS medications. I was dedicating much of my time to be with him for doctor appointments, chemotherapy, clinic visits, yard work, and socializing. I wrote in my morning pages on Saturday that I was going to meet Tony and Roy the next day to see the parade no matter what Michael, my partner, wanted. I wrote: “I’m going to be at Marion and Colfax and cheer on the troops.” I did see the parade all the while knowing that the two men I had been deeply in love with both wanted too much to fit in. The first one wanted to fit in with the beautiful; and this one, Michael, with the ordinary. When Michael said he was just an ordinary guy, I suggested to him that he was just an ordinary Queer! The differences these men represented helped me realize how much I was thoroughly queer and queerly individual.

I don’t recall anything particular about PrideFest 2001—perhaps I didn’t attend it due to my too-recent loss of Michael to AIDS—but in 2002 Mike and Heather and kids were back visiting and my life was once again changing drastically. The plot was that we attended Buskerfest on Saturday and PrideFest on Sunday, the former as a family, the latter accompanied by my wild friend Dianne and her boyfriend Craig. The subtext of the story was that a man I had become obsessed with but had not yet spent any time with—Rafael—was now, just that weekend, entering the main stage of my interest. The family met my good friends Roy & Richard as well as Rafael, my new flame who was setting off Roman candles in me both Saturday and Sunday nights. I left him early Sunday and Monday mornings to rush home and make breakfast for my family. I don’t know if I even slept for three days. Again I was seeing my changing life through the eyes of my children and grandchildren, and my friends. I was extremely attentive to the grandkids at PrideFest where Kalo, then nine, disappeared. I spotted him sitting on a high vantage point watching the nearly nude mob of gay guys dancing. He saw me looking at him and smiled and waved. Still he watched. Oh my, I wondered, do we have another generation of queers in the making?

The next year, 2003, Kalo was back but without his parents. He was spending a week with me in an improvised urban survival art camp. Sunday featured PrideFest. This time, with me coping with my loss of Rafael to death a few months before, Kalo and I joined Roy and Richard and Tony to view the parade. We also spent time that day with a group of body-painting lesbians. I wondered at the child’s perspective but saw him be very mature around the girls, wide eyed during a drag show, and worldly wise in the way he reported all the things to his parents. Kalo also met my next partner, who did not choose to join us at the festival.

But in 2004, I announced to him—Jim—I’m going to the parade. He accompanied me.

In 2005, I met a long-time drag queen friend of Jim’s. He’d never mentioned he’d even seen drag shows let alone knew and really liked Scottie Carlisle, a long-time drag queen, once Empress of the Royal Court.

In 2006, I met the author of the first gay novel I ever read recalling how important that book was to my development as a gay man.

I don’t recall what happened in 2007.

In 2008, I was in the Rockies on retreat where I read my short story about the parade and PrideFest adventures of Miss Shinti, a white miniature French poodle. The week before I went on retreat, I had urged my friends Roy and Richard, “Make sure Jim goes to the parade. Call him. Insist.”

“Why?” Richard asked.

“Because I don’t want his condition to become terminal.”

“Huh?”

“He has CEATTG,” I informed him. Richard looked concerned. “Chronic Embarrassment At All Things Gay,” I clarified.

The 2009 parade brought me insight into pride, politics, and church. It also introduced me to parties surrounding the festival. I made a record of all these things with my new camera. For me, the highlight of the parade that year was the stilt-walking drag queen Nuclea Waste, festooned with multi-colored long balloons, surrounded with a consort of adoring Speedo-clad dancers, each in similar fashion but decorated monochromatically.

2010, and 2011 provided more insights into my own gay life. In 2012, I loved it when the walker-toting elder brigade from SAGE made their way down the street, and I got all teary-eyed when a group of young GLBTs reminded us not to forget about AIDS.

And now in 2013 I am at yet another PrideFest. I want to know more about my world and my gay self and am delighted that what I really appreciate this time is how much the festival attracts straight folk and how, beyond the extreme costumes and hype, the most queer thing there seems not queer at all: men holding hands with men, women holding hands with women, hand holding that seems not at all self-conscious. And many children are here with their parents. How I wish my own kids and grandkids were here this time. It all seems so normal, except that I never once hold hands with my partner. Drat. What’s wrong with me?

Oh well, Happy PrideFest 2013. What a wonderful summer afternoon.

© June
2013

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com