Tag: Road Trip

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Clear as Mud, by Betsy and Gillian

(Betsy)

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

RESTROOMS ARE LOCKED

TO PROVIDE CLEAN FACILITIES

FOR OUR CUSTOMERS.

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

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

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

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

(Gillian)

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

CONSTRUCTION VEHICLE

DO NOT FOLLOW

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

(Betsy) 

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

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

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


WELCOME TO ACCIDENT

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

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

(Gillian) 

At a gas station a sign in the window read,

BE A GOOD ROLE MODEL!

DISAPPROVE OF UNDERAGE DRINKING

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

(Betsy) 

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

(Gillian) 

Next to this gas station was a big sign,

Arby’s

DO NOT ENTER

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

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

(Gillian) 

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

NOBODY HAS THE RIGHT TO TAKE A LIFE

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

IT’S YOUR RIGHT

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

(Betsy) 

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

0 FATALITIES 0 TOLERANCE 2015

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

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

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

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

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

(Gillian) 

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

© October 2015

About the Authors

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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

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Road Trip by Gillian

I came honestly by my
addiction to road trips. I was introduced to them by my mum and dad. In Britain
during, and for years after, World War Two, private cars were relatively rare;
gas was severely rationed. But as we staggered into the fifties, our world
became a little brighter and Dad took his old car down off the blocks where it
had rested for a decade. He worked lovingly on it for some time, then lo and
behold suddenly one Sunday afternoon we were off to the Welsh mountains. Before
long the afternoon jaunts graduated to day excursions and thence to a week in
Cornwall and two weeks in Scotland. There was never any discussion of camping,
not a very attractive prospect in the wet cold British weather, but we were on
a low budget and stayed in small back-street B & B’s. These were nothing like their upscale
modern U.S. namesakes, but simply a spare room in a very modest house, usually
sharing the bathroom and breakfast with the owners. In this style we went to
many different parts of the country and met many interesting people.
Perhaps, had I not been
an only child, I would have hated these vacations and even the day trips the
way many modern kids hate spending hours in the car. But I had the luxury of
the back seat to myself, without noisy squabbling siblings to dig elbows in my
ribs or squash me against the door handle and demand the windows be open; or
closed. I never once recall asking, even silently in my own head, “Are we there
yet?” I think it was a safe and warm haven to me, shut away in this metal box,
just the three of us.
But it was my mother
who turned it from an OK activity to something I truly loved. Mum kept up
something of a running commentary as we passed through the farms and towns. She
loved history and regaled Dad and me, though he never responded except
occasionally to glance back at me in the rear-view mirror and wink, with
fascinating tidbits about different places; not boring things like dates but
little anecdotes. At the time I believed it all to be true, though looking back
I’m not completely
convinced, though she certainly was a very knowledgeable woman. Apart from
history, she would make up silly stories about a farm we just passed, or the
vicar of a village church, or the family in a car we met going the other way.
There were still not many cars on the roads then, so seeing one was just an
invitation to Mom’s
imagination. Most of all, she loved to laugh, and if there was nothing too
immediately amusing in the vicinity, she would create something. She made
herself giggle with some of her imagined stories, and she paid great attention
to license plates, making them into acronyms or rhymes.
My mother leaps up in
my memory quite often, and usually it’s
when something comes up that I know would have made her giggle. During football
games, for instance, not that I can imagine Mum ever enjoying football, but how
she would giggle at some of the commentary, when they say things like, “He wasn’t doing much when he was an Eagle, but
as a Panther he’s
really come into his own.” When she stopped her giggles she would then, I know,
weave some wonderful fairy story around this failed eagle which somehow morphed
into a more successful big cat.
Anyway, having made a
short story long, that was my introduction to road trips; followed, inevitable
by a hiatus of decades given over to work and family. Then, in celebration of a
new millennium, Betsy and I bought our VW camper van and embarked on our own
series of road trips. I haven’t
had time to count them up, but they must number around twenty-five for a total
time of maybe a year, though we rarely are away for more than three or four
weeks at a time.
We have been many
places from the Mexican border to, and into, Canada; and from coast to coast.
We have visited every one of the lower forty-eight states, and camped in most
of them.
We have seen sights we
had always wanted to see but not had the chance, and chanced upon things we had
no idea of. Unlike taking a plane, when the best you can possibly hope for is a
journey that is uneventful, road trips are never uneventful; nor do you want
them to be, though it’s
good when the wonderful surprises well outnumber the bad ones. We have of
course had our share of those less positive – flat tires both on the road and
in campgrounds, loading up in the morning all ready to go and the van won’t start; freeway accidents only narrowly
averted and near misses with tornadoes, hail storms, and forest fires.
I understand that one
day in the not too distant future one of us is going to reach the age where
camping road trips are not such an attractive option. It’s unclear at this time which of us will
reach that stage first, Betsy or me or Brunhilda as we call the van, mostly
though not always, with great affection. That will be a sad day, whatever the
reason. But one of the blessings of aging seems to be the ability to accept
with relative ease that the good times of the moment will inevitably come to an
end, but only to be replaced by other, different, good times. We can love
taking out our favorite memories and dusting them off for further enjoyment,
but at the same time always creating new ones while continuing, with luck, to
live without regrets. And I suspect that my most frequently re-visited
memories, as long as I’m
privileged to have memories, will be of oh those many road trips.
© 15 August 2014 
About
the Author 
I
was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to
the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the
Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised
four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting
myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25
years.
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So Many Roads: A Great Performance by Pat Gourley

It was July 9th 1995 at Soldier Field in Chicago, a Grateful Dead concert. The second of two sold out shows with over 60,000 in attendance each night. It was the end of that summer’s concert run for the Dead and the whole tour had been plagued by troubles – too many kids wanting to see the band, too few tickets, tension between the oldsters and the youngsters and very often too much too fast for way too many. The whole scene was truly turning weird. The draw for these shows though for me was simply too strong and the chance to see family back in the Chicago-land area to good to pass up, so I snapped up tickets the minute the went on sale through Grateful Dead mail order, a service available to the truly faithful. They were reserved floor seats, now mind you the shows were in a football stadium so I guess “good seats” was rather relative.

I had come from Denver without my partner David for the shows but did take Brian my blind bother to the second show. David was not well and stayed back home. I would have been able a few years prior to get him to two shows of a run without much cajoling, getting him to see four in a row though never happened.

These were the darkest days of the AIDS epidemic with protease inhibitors still a year or so away from general availability and use. The deaths did seem to have slowed down mostly because the most affected generation had already been decimated; many of those infected in the late 1970’s and early 1980’s were already gone.

I remember little about the first show on the 8th except that the band was not at their best for sure. Garcia in particular looked bloated, tired and at times almost listless. But you know congestive heart failure, a rather significant heroin addiction and uncontrolled diabetes tends to take the wind out of your sails.

There are several memories though about the shows I recall. One was the hassle of finding parking which for both shows was available only it seemed in public lots south of the stadium in a quite dicey neighborhood. The long walk back to the car the second night in particular was quite a trip in its own, a mugging I am sure was averted thanks in part due to having a blind guy with a cane on my arm. I have always been thankful for Brian coming to that show with me. Also there was a great fireworks display after the second show and the several big screens set up for the folks in the back made the show a bit more accessible.

The music or rather the musicianship both nights was quite forgettable. My LSD days were many years behind me so if the band didn’t come though at any particular show it could be a bust but more often than not the crowd would provide me with endless entertainment. Most of the time though the band would come through for at least one good or even great set, if not both.

That night there was in fact only one song that stuck with me and that was the version of So Many Roads in the second set. It was a relatively new song having only been in the rotation since 1992 and I had heard it only once before that I could recall. It was one of a long line of soulful ballads that were almost always Garcia tunes and played usually middle to late in the second set. The thought that this would be the last time the Grateful Dead would perform with Garcia never of course entered my mind.

Despite people’s impressions, who are unfamiliar with the Dead, they were, Garcia especially, remarkably good at a soulful ballad that at times I suppose might described by some as a dirge. And the Dead were sensitive to play these longer and slower tunes later in the second set when the drugs had perhaps peaked even though they often ended their shows with a rousing couple of numbers. The encores were again often slow tunes to take the edge off before sending the masses into the night in a mellow frame of mind and almost always a single tune. They did a very rare second encore song that night, an old gem called A Box of Rain.

At the risk of loosing my Deadhead card I must say I don’t remember that either. Sorry folks it was the gut wrenching beauty of So Many Roads that has stuck with me for nearly twenty years now. I distinctly remember turning to Brian after that song and saying “well that was worth the fucking price of admission”. I am not sure he agreed. He had quite few beers that night and taking a blind guy to the port-a-potties at a Grateful Dead show is another whole story.

I do remember leaving the show singing to myself the chorus to So Many Roads. We made it back to the car safe and sound with only one stoned Deadhead tripping on my brother’s cane. The crowd was in general very sensitive to him and his needs as I swear only Deadheads could be.

A month later Jerry was dead from a cardiac arrest in the middle of the night at a rehab center in Marin County. That I had been to the last two shows was hard to comprehend. This was of course devastating to me and I will always remember David’s loving call to me at work about Garcia’s death to make sure I was doing OK. The much bigger blow though was to come with David’s death another month later.

So many roads indeed.

April, 2014

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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Road Trip by Betsy

The most interesting thing about my road trip has been the choices that I have been presented with along the way. When the road is straight and does not branch off, die out, or deviate in any way, there are no choices for the most part and one simply follows the road until one has the opportunity to choose a different direction. On my life journey I mostly followed the main road, diligently conforming and meeting societal expectations.

A few times I have been presented with the choice to take a turn and I followed a road that goes in another direction–a road the final destination of which was unknown to me. For a person such as myself who is not a risk-taker by nature, getting off the main road can be a scary thing to do–especially when you have no map and no guide. There are no caution signs on this road. It twists and turns and there are many potholes and hazards.

On the road of life I changed direction when, you guessed it, when I came out. I dare say that was a 90 degree change in direction. And it was a choice. Oh, I know, being homosexual is not a choice, but whether or not one acts on that natural state of being, most certainly IS a choice. What one does with one’s life is a choice. Maybe within certain confines or within a certain structure, but how one behaves, acts, believes, etc. is a choice.

The road trip I took at that time was indeed an adventure. Some of the stopping off points looked beautiful and sometimes fun, but turned out to be quite disappointing. At times I felt as if I were in a foreign country, not understanding the language and certainly not the humor of the people. I actually felt quite the outsider in some of the places along the way. I persisted on that road because somehow I knew the final destination was the place I wanted to be. There were no holiday brochures, however, to tell me what this place was going to be like, but I had all my baggage with me and I had left home, so I continued.

Twenty six years ago I arrived at a spot I really liked. It was beautiful, it was comfortable, it was affordable, it was exciting, it offered all of my favorite activities. What more could a person ask. I still had all my baggage and everything I needed, I was completely satisfied, so I settled in. But that was not the end of the trip.

I do not plan to end my road trip any time soon. It’s just that now I have been traveling with my best friend, my spouse, the love of my life and we always have that beautiful, comfortable place called home to come back to.

(I still have all my baggage.)

© 24 January 2014 

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Road Trip by Pat Gourley

I actually have several memorable road trips in my past that I remember with varying degrees of fondness. My first trip west to Wyoming in my late teens is still a vivid memory. The first time I saw mountains outside of pictures, movies and T.V. was quite breathtaking. I simply had trouble grasping that they were real. The parts of northern Indiana and Illinois where I lived are really quite flat and I guess I grew up assuming the world was flat. That the world might be flat was a view of the world not uncommon among many Europeans in centuries past as I recall.

Then there were the trips to Florida in the late 1960’s with college friends. These were most remarkable for the fact that they provided my first views of the ocean. They were also noteworthy for the fact that we were frequently trailed and mildly harassed by various Florida state troopers. Being longhaired hippies we really stuck out. If it weren’t for our nearly invisible car, an old Dodge Dart slant six, we would have probably been stopped much more often. There was absolutely nothing cool about that car and a vehicle many of the frat boys going down to Ft. Lauderdale on spring break in those days would never be caught dead in but the cops largely ignored.

Probably my most memorable road trip though was one I took in the spring of 1989 with Harry Hay and John Burnside. Harry as many of you know is considered by some to be the founder of the modern American gay movement since he was instrumental in the formation of the Mattachine society in Los Angeles in 1950. Harry and John had been mentors and queer spirit guides for me personally since first meeting them in 1978 and our history together was after more than a decade quite rich really.

Our personal dynamics were actually emerging from a period of stress as a result of internal and very fractious Radical Faire politics. I was at the time becoming quite immersed both personally and professionally in the exploding AIDS epidemic. I often wondered why Harry and John both did not seem to me at least more involved with the AIDS epidemic but perhaps it had something to with the fact that Harry had lived through and survived the great influenza pandemic of 1919. Perhaps this created a different worldview of the inevitability of illness and death.

At any rate they were in Denver that spring of 1989 at the invitation of a group of local Fairies I was heavily involved with called the Moonroot Circle. This was a spin off of the local collective that sponsored the second large national Radical Fairie gathering in the foothills west of town in the summer of 1980. It was group important to me not simply because of the deep friendships involved but also it helped me keep my bearings in the choppy waters of AIDS and HIV politics boiling over at the time.

Among several activities we had them participating in during this visit was a well-attended public talk we sponsored featuring both Harry and John at the local Metropolitan Community Church on Clarkson, which is still there I might add. Harry was always a riveting public speaker and had a wealth of personal experience he was willing to share that always seemed to stir the radical juices in many who would come to hear him.

They were staying with my partner David and myself in our little house on West Center Street in Denver spending their nights sleeping in the back of their ancient Datsun pickup truck with a camper shell. This was their preferred mode of travel shunning airplanes whenever possible. They had driven to Denver in this rickety bucket of bolts from Los Angeles.

They planned to return to L.A. by way of Northern New Mexico visiting old friends there and reconnecting with a part of the country they had lived in for many years in a compound nestled in the San Juan Pueblo. In the early 1980’s Harry and John had shown a group of us around the Northern New Mexico Pueblos they had come to know and love and introduced us to some of the indigenous queer folk and culture.

Photo of a Radical Faerie ceremony provided by author.

In one of the late night discussions during this Denver visit in May of 1989 the topic of Chaco Canyon came up and surprisingly despite years of living in northern New Mexico they had never been there. David and I had actually been there a few years earlier so the opportunity to travel with them and introduce them to a piece of the country they had never been to was too rich to pass up. David had work obligations and could not go with us but I volunteered to follow them in my own little Toyota pick-up and I would be their guide to Chaco Canyon.

John Burnside in addition to being one the most wondrous fey individuals I have ever know was also a master mechanic though he didn’t drive. In fact I don’t think he had a current driver’s license though I could be mistaken about that. This mechanical ability frequently came in handy since their vehicle would break down several times on nearly every road trip they took. As I recall they had had some trouble coming into Denver from L.A. so I volunteered to follow behind on our journey. Harry was the driver and believe me following behind him was always a bit harrowing. Traffic lanes, stop signs and the rules of the road in general were to Harry merely suggestions most often ignored.

And of course about an hour out of Denver on Highway 285 their water pump went out. John very astutely remembered that we had passed a Napa auto parts some miles back so after diagnosing the problem he hopped in my truck and we drove back for the needed items. Harry stayed behind. He often would go into a bit of a sullen funk especially around car problems it seemed.

The remainder of the trip to the San Juan Pueblo was uneventful. We spent the night there with friends and then proceeded the next day to Chaco Canyon. They were of course duly impressed with the ruins. It was during our walk through the ruins that my most memorable moment of the trip occurred. That moment was when we were seated together in a meditative silence in the great Kiva. Harry was tearful as I recall. I had seen him tearful before but meditative silence in the presence of the father of modern gay liberation was a totally new experience for me and one I will always cherish.

After several hours we were on our way back to San Juan though I do not remember very clearly the return trip at all. Nothing apparently broke down. I think H. and J. spent a few more days in New Mexico before retuning to L.A. I drove back to Denver the next day with the great memory of having had the opportunity to introduce Harry Hay to a part of New Mexico he and John had never visited.

A great little gift back to the men who had introduced me to so many, many different and exciting things queer. A big part of who I am today and my worldview I owe to Harry and John. I still frequently find myself invoking one of Harry’s greatest teachings and that was his frequently saying, “Now that is an unexamined assumption, isn’t it” and thereby prompting a totally different way of viewing the world!

February 2014

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.