Tag: Ray S

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School, by Ray S

     Stories like this have been told endlessly by endless numbers of people just like you and me. But my story is unique because it is my very own.
     I don’t know if the Riverside Central School still stands as I remember it. Then it seemed a monumental structure in the late 19th Century style known as Richardson Romanesque. A flight of wide stairs led up to what seemed like a huge semicircular arched doorway. The spaces within were dedicated to 4th and 5th grades and the auditorium where they held Friday all-school assemblies. 
     A later date addition housed the primary grades and the most wondrous fantasy world (depending on your age; I was 5) called “Kindergarten”. 
     We lived just up the block, but I imagine I was accompanied by my mother to get to school, for as many times to get my confidence established enough so that I could make the morning journeys on my own. Armed with my half pint of orange juice in a little canvas bag lovingly sewn by mother we walked. She even put my name in cross stitch embroidery on the tote bag. 
     Kindergarten was truly a marvelous adventure for everyone. There were two nice ladies there to help us find the right things to play/work with. I later learned that they had the titles of teacher. If there was any sort of rudimentary instruction going on, I cannot recall because I was having too much fun.
     The real learning experience was the process of what is now called “socialization”. Put 14 or 20 four to five year olds together and there’s got to be some kicking, screaming, and tears as well as happy laughter.
     Mid-morning was orange juice time and a short lie down quiet period.
     Then it was back to activities of one sort or another. When I discovered oversized wooden building blocks, I was well on the road to becoming an architect. This was so wonderful until the teacher introduced us to the make-believe grocery store. So much for an introduction to our capitalist consumer centered economy. (Get them started early!)
     There probably is a lot more to tell you about my kindergarten days, but honestly I’ve let you take a peek at the best part and I can’t remember any more anyway. Besides all of this transpired some 85 or 86 year ago and we have to allow as how foggy nostalgia can be given to time, source, and age of that tiny tot with his little canvas orange juice bag.

© 21 August 2017

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Shades of Winter, by Ray S

During the past thirty years archaeologists have
reconstructed important areas of the city of Ephesus in what was Asia Minor,
now western Turkey. Although ranked a secondary discovery by comparison to the
major art work, the so called Winter Shades have an importantly obscure
presence to a small group of art historians. These scholars are referred to by
their academic name of Winterous Shaditis.
This small group of long-buried paintings and mosaics
are remarkable due to their very limited palette of neutral to very dark
colors. There is little evidence of any warm hues. Theory has it that it is the
celebration of the pagan Autumnal Equinox. A very cool time of the year.
Beside the almost colorless landscapes there is
pictured a series of erotic celebrants surrounding a large fire pit—only
instead of red hot flames there appears an ethereal cloud against a pale blue
sky. The flesh tones of the nude women and men stand out against the soft gray
and blue shades. Thus, the name Shadites.
Since this discovery, the temple of Winter Shades has
become a very popular tourist attraction, to rival the other majestic remains
of the city Ephesus, especially at the Autumnal Equinox when hotels and other
accommodations are fully booked by new celebrants of the “Winter Shades of the Goddess
Artemis”. There are many smoking pots now and luxurious warming rooms
segregated for all persuasions. The holiday lasts for about ten days and then
the ethereal clouds subside and collapse from exhaustion.
Make your reservations at least a year ahead for the
Shadite lecture series to be followed by the circle celebration.
Temple
of Artemis, Ephesus, 6th Century BCE
This concludes my Winter Shades lecture; but review
your notes and do further research as there will be an exam next week.
Anyone interested in a practice circle may attend rehearsal
on next Saturday at the university gym, 8 to 12 pm. Clothing not optional.
© 13 March 2017 
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The Recliner, by Ray S

The
weekly ritual would begin, by necessity, of dragging two dining room chairs
into the little TV room so there was room for the four of us to watch one of
our host’s DVDs.
As
a rule the wall opposite the big screen sported a slim Modern Danish lounge
chair and ottoman next to a broken-down somewhat ponderous in scale leather
recliner. When its occupant seated himself, it was necessary to force the
chair-back until it slammed the wall in back in order to attain a suitable
viewing position. Mechanically the chair didn’t do what you wanted it to do.
Instead it grabbed you and wouldn’t separate from one without a struggle. Note: nobody sat in this chair but its
owner-victim.
When
we inquired about why the owner and the handicapped recliner had spent so long
tolerating the chair’s posture misadventures, the reply was that the two had
just grown old together.
At
this point our conspiracy bloomed to a planned visit to a Recliner Emporium
when we all paraded through a forest of overstuffed but functioning mechanical
chairs that were guaranteed to obey their masters.
After
some deliberation, a new brown leather model was approved. There was one
remaining question: the tariff that would find a new home for the chair in
question.
Our
“little movie theatre” owner allowed as how he had gone along with our
dream-charade, but was truly not even considering replacing the chair someone
had given him and his partner years ago. It hadn’t crippled him yet.
End
of story? Not quite. We three decided to surprise our friendly movie-mogul on
the occasion of his birthday with the new and approved recliner. It wasn’t
until we had unpacked the new chair on the sidewalk of his home and pushed the
doorbell that he discovered the new arrival. Once the decrepit old chair was
relegated to the alley and the new recliner in place “the show must go on.”
Today
this is all a memory, a happy one at that, but sadly to say our fourth friend
and host (and for all we know) have moved on to some old and maybe some new
movies in the heavenly beyond. A life well lived and many stories well told.
In memory of Stephen F. Krause
© 6 Feb 2017 
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Workout, by Ray S

It was about 7:35 pm when the house lights began to
dim. From somewhere in the almost-filled theatre a voice made the usual request
to silence your electronic equipment and warned that no cameras or recording
devices are permitted.
The house was now dark and the audience settled down
in readiness for what soon was to become a 2 ½ hour long (with no intermission)
revival of the 1975 Tony Award winning musical production “A Chorus Line.”
And what a production with a capital P it was, a
marathon, a superb dancing and singing and stagecraft marathon. As the story proceeded
I could only think what a workout is was for the entire company. Truly I was in
awe of what I watched and heard going on that stage. There is something that
gets under your skin when the score beings to punctuate your every breath, and
you imagine that you might be up there on the stage with that dancing crew.
That imagination is pretty powerful when it comes to erasing 70 or 80 years.
The storyline follows the tryouts each applicant who has
come to the theatre to maybe get a job in an upcoming Broadway musical.
As they are put through their dancing workouts some of
them let you in on who they are, where they came from, and why they want to
dance. Of course, the major reason being they want a job!
But, beyond that the interviews reveal other parts and
secrets of their lives. They are like all of us humans with unrealistic wishes,
happy and sad baggage that comes to the surface at different and strongly
unwanted times. Somewhere, one of the boy dancers steps out to tell a very
moving coming out story which brought tears to my eyes and thunderous applause
from the house. The scene was a show stopper.
So, I and they just keep on doing what we know best
how to do—just keep on dancing.
As the show comes to its climax the audience (that
includes me) is rewarded with a dazzling finale that makes everyone feel
good—but that’s show business folks. You gotta experience it.
© 11 Sep 2017 
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Men and Women, by Ray S

In our heritage tradition leans heavily on the Judean folk lore of Adam and Eve and how they got in trouble fooling around under the apple tree resulting in a long list of don’ts and do’s.

However, as time went by and the rational thought showed its head a number of us became “thinkers” and “questioners.” The idea of who came first, Eve or Adam was not as relevant as who is at the top of their game, and likewise.

The convenient arrangement of two sexes succeeds in the purpose of supply and demand for bodies. Many of which complete their life cycle contributing greatly to our culture, others sadly to conflict and wars. “But the beat goes on” as the song says.

The miracle of birth is that with each new being there are no two alike, physically and emotionally. Our discovery of who we are and what we can contribute to our lot is the ultimate goal of womankind and mankind.

I am reminded of the Yin and Yang—how they fit together so perfectly and yet within those two identical forms there lies myriads of different individuals bringing so very many things to the table, and there’s room for all of us at this table.

© 1 May 2017

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The Eyes of Love, by Ray

She was standing nearby, and I couldn’t stop looking at her beautiful cornflower blue eyes. Having said this to you all, it could have been the conclusion of this Story Time offering, but there was no need to apologize for my surreal intrusion because a good ‘LGBTQ’ friend greeted me with a happy ‘L’ squeeze saying, “I want you to meet my partner.” Guess Who? The pretty young thing with those beautiful blue eyes! Serendipity maybe. The two of them are to be married next winter.

That afternoon at Denver Pridefest 2017 I found four eyes of love at the AIDS Quilt exhibit. Two beautiful or should I say handsome men arrived at the desk as volunteer docents. As we talked and got acquainted it wasn’t difficult to sense they were partners, it was so evident in the way they looked at each other. To me, it said not only love but also respect for each other. What a beautiful thing to experience; and how wonderful to know and witness and enjoy these testimonies of lesbian and gay love.

Sincerely,

“None But The Lonely Heart”

© 19 June 2017

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Walls, by Ray S

It was a grey March morning in 2007, the view looking
south through my dining room window was one of frozen earth and the black
remains of last summer’s garden. The thought came to me in an instant. “No, I
can’t do this again.” “This” was in reference to the task of planting a new
garden, of battling weeds, and tending a too-large lawn. Then too, our little
1940’s spec-ranch style house had suddenly become too much house of one ageing
widower.
After engaging the service of a good family friend and
realtor, the end result was a sale that required new owner occupancy by April
first. “Goodbye” to forty-some years of suburbia and relocation to a small
ground-level apartment, replete with sufficient essential facilities and
surrounded by all white painted interior walls. It was all such a
welcome no brainer not to concern oneself with color, anything works with white
and, besides, this was the beginning of a new, colorful life.
The new life lasted until the bank chose to pursue the
condo’s owner for nonpayment of the bank’s loan. So goes the “white walls.” And
the search for more walls to hang my art stuff, memorabilia, and toothbrush. With
the miraculous touch on the computer apparatus my “darling daughter” phoned me
to say she had found a possible new home for the homeless and aged Pater.
Another phone call arranged a meeting with the owner
of a rental condo near Washington Park; all of this having been discovered by
daughter while browsing the internet and finding the listing on “Craig’s List.”
Here’s the kicker; daughter and I met the owner’s
representative at the prearranged hour. I noted that the front door key and
lock didn’t like each other, but it finally unlocked revealing an apartment
consisting of required living spaces, all six of them including a kitchen and a
bathroom replete with claw foot bath tub, and each room sported a different
color on their respective walls.
Ever since that day it has been one colorful day after
another within my painter’s “Somewhere over the Rainbow” palette walls.
© 24 January 2017 
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My Happiest Day, by Ray S

Where do I start? Looking back over many years the end
result for me is that there were just as many happiest. Sorting them for this
story was the challenge and not necessarily in any order of importance—just
Happiest days as they occurred in the life and times of one who has had the
privilege of hanging around this sphere so long.
Some fifty plus years ago the happiest days were
marked by the arrival of several of our baby son and daughter.  Certainly, those two gifts came along with the
trials and tribulations of all of us growing up together, but today the loving
rewards far outnumber those trials.
Which was the happiest day? The day was one of my
luckiest with the receipt of my army discharge, the little gold button
disparagingly christened the “ruptured duck” and the G. I. Bill, a gift of a
college education, and a whole new world to try and master.
In retrospect with diploma in hand I looked around and
asked my fellow classmate, “What do we do now?” that was happy in the guise of
wonder. We survived in spite of ourselves.
There was along the way a surreal wedding with an
unsuspecting (I think) college sweetheart, not to be confused with any happiest
day, but some did happen later and we actually survived to feast on the joy of
many Christmases, Halloweens, graduations, and holidays.
For all of the above perhaps these were
“semi-happiest”, but full of the excitement and comfortable routine of home and
family.
“My Happiest Day” happened when I sensed the feeling
of belonging to my true GLBTQ family and marching behind the color guard in my
first Pride Parade. Liberation abounded for me and since then I have surround
my body with a rainbow flag, kissing and hugging the members of my tribe and
even more members. Stop and think about it all, right now and see if you don’t
recall the heady exultation and joy of your first “outness”?
And the parade marches on!
© 31 October 2016 
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Pack Rat, by Ray S

As long as I can remember saving bits and scraps of
memories, Christmas and birthday cards, grade school report cards, birth
announcements, baby books, funeral memorials, and anything else that was too
important to discard in good conscience.
Like the bad penny, no matter how deeply buried all of
that one-time vitally important stuff comes to the surface—no pennies don’t
float, but you know what I mean.
Then there are the material things acquired over the
years. For me just about all of that stuff can tell a story and the prospect of
sentencing it to a new life at ARC or Goodwill can be like divorce or a death
in the family. So much for untold years of materialism.
Just don’t give a damn and announce an estate sale,
but be warned: what happens if no one shows. There is always the Salvation
Army. That might save the day as well as you too.
This one is a lot of work but it might work.
Label with history tags all of the stuff you’ve saved
since World War II so the recipient will know its provenance. Then gather family
and close friends for a Free-for-All.
Again, you run the risk like “Smarty, Smarty had a
party” and nobody came. No matter how hard you try to cut the “silver
cord”—like even the rest of your life, it’s been one more blinking choice you
have to chance it.
You know, trying to get rid of that self nurtured rot
leads to this solution: just get up from your easy chair, leave all of that
clutter on the floor, open the door, lock it, and go out to the bar with a
friend. Tomorrow is another life!
© 24 October 2016 
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GLBT Hopes, by Ray S

Hope springs eternal, at least I hope so. When I take stock of my many hopes, some almost transcendental and spiritual, others seemingly hopeless. Often, hopes for a loved one, here now or passed on, high hopes for desire ringing from hearing a favorite music composition, eating a gourmet meal, visiting an art gallery, or enjoying the excitement of a sporting event. And of course, the finale and climax of a lover’s encounter with Eros, the god of love.

Somewhere amongst all this our tribe has and will continue to be confronted by our hopes and actions to further equal rights for not only GLBTs but for everyone. There are as many but of different complexities as we have faced in the past.

Support the Cause, hope positively, and fight like hell! Onward and upward to Stonewall Number Two!

© 9 January 2017

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