Tag: Will Stanton

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Leaving, by Will Stanton / A Memorial

[This is the last posting submitted by Will Stanton.  He passed into history and memories on 1 January 2017.  He is missed. — Editor] 

Leaving

He was diagnosed with
lung cancer in 1991.  We knew the
inevitable end; we just did not know when. 
Each passing day, each passing year, was, in its own way, leaving.  We both understood that.  Some acquaintances told me, “Why don’t you
leave him?”  I would not, not that
way.  I stayed.
I did not cry as a
child.  My mother told me that, and we
both pondered my difference from other children.  Of course, I felt emotion, but nothing seemed
to drive me to tears.  That changed later.  A special someone came into my life who truly
mattered – – – and then left.  It was the
leaving that changed me.  As the famous
19th-century, authoress George Eliot stated,  “Only in the agony of parting do we look into
the depths of love.”
I always have been
sensitive to others, perhaps unusually empathetic and caring.  That increased significantly after his
leaving, both with people whom I knew, and also even fictional characters in
movies.  If, in viewing well presented
stories,  I become particularly attached
to characters who have deep bonds with each other, I apparently identify with
them, at least subconsciously; for, if they part from each other, either in
having to leave or, perhaps, in dying, emotion wells up within me.  Such deep emotion comes suddenly and
unbidden.  When a good person dies,
leaving the loved-ones behind, the emotion catches within my gut.  When loving, deeply bonded people part ways,
never to see each other again, that, too, deeply moves me.  Again, quoting George Eliot: “In every
parting, there is an image of death.”
I admit it: I never have
come fully to terms with reality, with mortality.  And, I’m not like so many who choose to hold
deep-seated beliefs that this world is merely a stepping-stone to a so-called
“better world,” beliefs based upon common indoctrination and, perhaps, upon
fear and hope,  Oh, I don’t mind so much
the afflictions and death of inhuman humans, those whose cruelty and dire deeds
harm others.  But, it is the good people,
the loving people, people who have contributed so much to the betterment of
humankind, whose leaving distresses me. 
I would be so much more content if they (dare I say, “we”?) did not have
to leave.
I understand and feel the
passionate, poetic lines of Dylan Thomas:
“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

So, with these thoughts
of mine being presented close to All Souls Day (or in German, “Allerseelen”),
with the cold days of December soon upon us, I prefer my thoughts to dwell,
instead, upon our happier memories of May, our younger days, as expressed in
the final lines of Hermann von Gilm poem, “Allerseelen”, “— Spend on my heart again those lovely
hours, like once in May.”
© 23 July 2016 
About the Author 
I
have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories.  I also realize that, although my own life has
not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy
experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
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Limericks, by Will Stanton

There once was a possimum.
T’was said he had no guts inum.
On the highway one day
He got in the way.
Keep superlative remarks to a minimum.

There once was a sea-sick lama
On a ferry to Rama.
A hippo near by
Got it on the fly.
Oh! The resulting drama!

There once was a hip’podimi
Who loved raspberry pie.
He’d roar and roar
Until he got more.
He was the only purple one I seen.

There once was a purple papoose
Who lived with a Manhatten moose.
For dinner one day
A bale of hay
Was picked from the moose’s toothes.

Here he lies dead
With a tombstone at his head.
But at his feet
A lily sweet?
No—-broccoli instead.

A burly baboon
From deep in Rangoon
Swam in a race with a schooner.
He took out a spoon
And whipped up a typhoon
And got to the finish the sooner.

There once was an old dinosaur
Who loved a wrinkled condor.
He gave her a ring
And jumped on her wing
And neither’s been seen any more.

© 1962 by Will Stanton

About the Author

Will Stanton had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. He also realized that, although his own life had not brought him particular fame or fortune, he too had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. In the SAGE Story Time group, he derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. He always put thought and effort into his stories hoping his readers would find them interesting.

Monitor’s note: These poems from Will’s papers were submitted in his memory by Ricky .

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Leaving / Rejoice, by Will Stanton


[This is the last posting submitted by Will Stanton. — Editor] 

Leaving
He
was diagnosed with lung cancer in 1991. 
We knew the inevitable end; we just did not know when.  Each passing day, each passing year, was, in
its own way, leaving.  We both understood
that.  Some acquaintances told me, “Why don’t
you leave him?”  I would not, not that
way.  I stayed.
I
did not cry as a child.  My mother told
me that, and we both pondered my difference from other children.  Of course, I felt emotion, but nothing seemed
to drive me to tears.  That changed later.  A special someone came into my life who truly
mattered – – – and then left.  It was the
leaving that changed me.  As the famous
19th-century, authoress George Eliot stated,  “Only in the agony of parting do we look into
the depths of love.”
I
always have been sensitive to others, perhaps unusually empathetic and
caring.  That increased significantly
after his leaving, both with people whom I knew, and also even fictional
characters in movies.  If, in viewing
well presented stories,  I become
particularly attached to characters who have deep bonds with each other, I
apparently identify with them, at least subconsciously; for, if they part from
each other, either in having to leave or, perhaps, in dying, emotion wells up
within me.  Such deep emotion comes
suddenly and unbidden.  When a good
person dies, leaving the loved-ones behind, the emotion catches within my
gut.  When loving, deeply bonded people
part ways, never to see each other again, that, too, deeply moves me.  Again, quoting George Eliot: “In every
parting, there is an image of death.”
I
admit it: I never have come fully to terms with reality, with mortality.  And, I’m not like so many who choose to hold
deep-seated beliefs that this world is merely a stepping-stone to a so-called
“better world,” beliefs based upon common indoctrination and, perhaps, upon
fear and hope,  Oh, I don’t mind so much
the afflictions and death of inhuman humans, those whose cruelty and dire deeds
harm others.  But, it is the good people,
the loving people, people who have contributed so much to the betterment of
humankind, whose leaving distresses me. 
I would be so much more content if they (dare I say, “we”?) did not have
to leave.
I
understand and feel the passionate, poetic lines of Dylan Thomas:
“Do not go gentle into that good
night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

So,
with these thoughts of mine being presented close to All Souls Day (or in
German, “Allerseelen”), with the cold days of December soon upon us, I prefer
my thoughts to dwell, instead, upon our happier memories of May, our younger
days, as expressed in the final lines of Hermann von Gilm poem, “Allerseelen”, “— Spend on my
heart again those lovely hours, like once in May.”
© 23 July 2016  
Rejoice
This presentation of mine
today is very personal, and the first important comments are very blunt.  So, hang on, I appreciate your patience in my
telling.  It deals with my medical
condition over the last several years and my current frame of mind, which has
developed, and perhaps even improved over time.
Among other conditions, my
three major problems — mega-killer immune system killing off all my clotting
blood platelets down to zero, large granular-T-cell leukemia, and the great
possibility of developing blood-clots in any organ, brain, or in the
circulatory system, — could kill me at any moment.  So little is understood about these
conditions, and especially in my extreme case, that the medical staff are
writing papers about me.  I consider that
a dubious honor.
Yet, here is where I
rejoice.  My attitude to all of this has
changed markedly over the last few years. 
When I first was diagnosed with these major problems, I was, of course,
surprised, shocked, and dismayed.  Yet, a
whole team of oncology doctors and nurses went to great, extended effort to
treat me.  For a short time, it seemed to
work.
Then a couple of years ago,
I suffered a truly major event when it seemed that no treatment would ever
help.  With each episode, the efficacy seems
to diminish.  Many people might totally
despair and wish to suffer no more.  I
did not quite despair, but I was profoundly disappointed and felt resigned to
my fate.  So yes, I did think about
simply driving up to the mountains some cold night, park on some high point,
and gaze at the mountain scenery until I fell asleep.  Of course, I never did.  I still have some pleasures and satisfactions
in my life.
Well here again is where I
rejoice.  Despite my circumstances, my
whole mind-set has changed and improved. 
I do what I need to do with St. Joseph’s Hospital the various Kaiser
clinics, and all the doctors and nurses. 
But, it is what I do and think and feel outside of all of that which is
actually making me happy.
For one, just in a week of
being out of the hospital and being able to go home on October 28th
(mind you, with some misgivings of the medical staff), I accumulated as much as
fifty hours of accomplishing important tasks that, otherwise, would have been
neglected and not gotten done.  In addition
to being able to take care of bills and other daily obligations, I was here to
go through the five days of repeated efforts to repair my broken furnace (thank
God, the Denver temperature was unusually warm), the six days to deal
frustratingly with Comcast to get my email back working so that I could
communicate with family and friends, and to have one other repair done.  Now, if you understand, I felt satisfaction
and actually rejoiced that I was able to complete those tasks.
Secondly, I have spent much
of my home-time going back through some of my older, more interesting essays
and stories for Telling My Story, carefully editing, and (most fun of all)
locating and inserting delightful, augmenting images within the text.  I print them for myself, house them in
plastic sleeves, and file them in several notebooks, separated by subject.  Yes, I do find great pleasure in this.
Third, at home, I have the
pleasures of my fine piano, my TV, my computer, and all the comforts at
home.  And on Sundays, I am able to go
with my friends, whom I call “the usual suspects,” to a particularly good
Perkins restaurant, have a particularly delicious breakfast, and then play the
card-game called “Samba,” a form of canasta at my dining-room table.  That simple ritual is a welcome pleasure and
provides me with comfort more than people may realize.  I, especially, have the pleasure of sharing
that with my friends.
Good friends, kind friends,
are the most important of all these factors. 
I am truly appreciative and perhaps even ecstatic to have these
warm-hearted encounters with my friends, more than they may realize.
And, that brings me to what
finally makes me rejoice.  At this
advanced age, with this, yet another, bout of terrible affliction, I finally
have accepted my situation, doing what I need to do but not fighting the
reality of it.  I have developed over
time a more relaxed, philosophical feeling and attitude that “what will be will
be.”  I am very thankful that, despite my
condition, I feel little pain, very much unlike so many other unfortunate
people.  I rejoice in my cheerful,
positive, interactions with people, medical staff and very good friends.  My positive, uplifting connection to very
good friends is, perhaps, my most powerful treatment, my greatest joy.
Thank you, all my kind
friends.
© 15 Nov
2016 
[This is the
last story (his “Good Bye”) Will Stanton read to the Telling Your Story group
on 21 Nov 2016.  Sadly, he passed into
history and memories on 1 January 2017. 
He is sorely missed. — Editor]
About the Author 
25 Apr 1945 – 1 Jan 2017
I have had a life-long fascination with
people and their life stories.  I also
realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or
fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual
ones.  Since I joined this Story Time
group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
Posted on

Culture Shock, by Will Stanton

The day was sunny and fairly warm for
November, so I took a stroll through the park, occasionally having a seat on
one of the many benches to soak up the sunshine and to watch the hundreds of
geese on the lake.  The benches came in
handy, considering that it has been a very long time since I was able to take
twenty-mile, mountain hikes.  My hips
were speaking to me, so I sought out another bench to rest.
The only bench close by me at that
moment already was occupied by one older woman. 
I correctly guessed that she was babushka,
a grandmother from Russia.  She appeared
to be friendly, so I asked if could join her. 
She seemed glad to have the company and someone to talk to.  With her heavy Russian accent, the
conversation was more “talk to” than “talk with,” for she did the majority of
the talking.  That was OK with me because
everything she had to say was quite interesting.
It turns out that she is seventy-six,
although she could pass for fifty.  She
lived most of her life in Yekaterinburg, the fourth largest city in Russia with
quite a history.   Situated in the Urals
on the border of Europe and Asia, it perhaps is best known as the location
where, tragically, Czar Nicolas II, his wife, and all his children were
murdered and then buried in the forests nearby.
Yekaterinburg also is known to be a
highly cultural city with ample opportunities to engage in the arts.  In addition to all of its educational
facilities, it has more than thirty museums, plus several theaters, concert
halls, and opera houses.  Several
world-famous operas singers got their start in Yekaterinburg. 
This loquacious babushka explained that society there just assumes that good
culture should be part of everyone’s life. 
Consequently, children are brought up to appreciate and to participate
in music and the arts and to be familiar with great literature.  As it turns out, these pursuits are not just
simple hobbies; the families take them seriously.  Before she acquired a degree in architectural
engineering, she first acquired a degree in classical piano performance.  Now that is dedication! 
She went on to talk about her family:
her husband, her daughters, and her grown granddaughters.  Yes, her daughters also acquired degrees in
music before pursuing degrees in their chosen professions.  Now her granddaughters just have completed
their music degrees in Boulder.
Babushka says
that she very much misses her home and all the cultural opportunities left
behind, but she came to America because of her family.  Her husband was offered a good
job-opportunity as an environmental planner here in America.  He accepted it and moved here by
himself.  His wife chose to remain behind
at home.  Eventually, their daughters
joined their father in America, and Babushka
was left alone.  Family is most important
to her, so finally she joined the family here.
There are many things that she likes
about America; however, she has noticed a major difference in culture
here.  There are some of the same
cultural advantages here as in her homeland, but at a very reduced scale and
with fewer and fewer people who truly are interested.  There appears not to be the same society-wide
appreciation of the arts among the population or understanding that incorporating
arts and music into one’s life not only enriches human life but also, as proved
by several psychological / educational research-studies, enhances the ability
to learn other disciplines, a concept apparently lost upon school districts
that eliminate the arts first from their school programs as “non-essential.”
I understood what she was talking
about.  Since my childhood, the vast
majority of classical music radio stations in America have been disbanded
because of rapidly dwindling listenership and advertising income.  Throughout America over the last generation,
the country has lost dozens of symphonies, theaters, opera companies, ballets
companies, and school arts and music programs.
A few years ago, the Denver Symphony
could not afford to keep going and was disbanded.  Apparently, Denverites will pay hundreds or
even thousands of dollars to go to football games and rock concerts, but many
far-less pricey symphony tickets were left half-unsold.  World-famous musicians would arrive on stage
to the embarrassing view of oceans of empty seats.  The failed symphony finally was replaced with
the Colorado Symphony.  Then just last
year, most of the board left out of frustration, and the symphony again came
close to closing.  It is keeping barely
alive by cutting the number of concerts, minimizing salaries, and traveling to
other venues with small groups of musicians to perform for a handful of
listeners. 
Other societies have a far different
view from America.  For example, Germany
funds their national arts programs at a rate of dozens of times higher per
capita in contrast to America.  They give
government funding to symphonies at a rate of 25 times that of America and
opera companies at 28 times.  In
contrast, Mit Romney (when running for President) said that he would eliminate
all government support for the arts in this country, and he’s not the only one
to say that.  Like many politicians the
past thirty years, he believes in so-called “small government” – – except of
course in the cases of increasing military spending, intruding into people’s
private lives, dictating women’s health choices, pushing religious beliefs into
school science programs, gutting the workers’ unions, and suppressing the right
to vote.  Within the total military
expenditures for each year, a tiny fraction of goes to supporting military
marching bands; yet that amount of money is so huge in contrast to what is
provided currently to the National Endowment for the Arts that this sum could
resurrect and support twenty full-time symphony orchestras at $20 million apiece
plus give 80,000 musicians, artists, and sculptors an annual salary of
$50,000.  But, the “cut-the-budget”
power-brokers in Congress never would do that. 
During World War II, Britain’s
finance minister recommended to Winston Churchill that they cut arts funding to
better fund the war effort.  Churchill’s
response was, “Then what are we fighting for?” 
There are numerous sociological and psychological articles written and
available for reading about the essential need for the arts to develop and
maintain a civilized nation with civilized people.
Another example of how culture has
declined in America can be seen in what recordings the majority of Americans
choose to buy.  Just ten years ago, the
local Barnes and Noble on Colorado Boulevard carried, in a large percentage of
the media room, hundreds of classical recordings on CDs and DVDs; and their
staff were graduate students from the Denver University Graduate School of
Music.  That large display-area
continually shrank until only one small area by the back wall contained
classical music, and the only clerk was a high-school graduate who admitted
that she had no background in music at all. 
With the recent renovation of the store and the reduction of the media
area to a minor space off to the far side, the stock has been minimized to
virtually nothing. 
Then I recently stopped in Target
just to check out their DVDs.  They had
only about a half-dozen of real quality and interest to me, five of which I
already had, and absolutely no classical CD section at all among the rap,
heavy-metal, hip-hop, country-western, pop, rock, and TV soundtracks.  That is what sells in America with
recordings, live concerts, radio, and TV, and even the music chosen for
background noise even in so-called good restaurants. 
Many fine grand-piano stores,
including the two major ones in my area, have gone bankrupt and closed because
so few people now are interested in classical music and learning how to play
the piano.  An article in the New York
Times described how many pianos now are taken to the dump because they often cannot
even be given away.  The correspondent
spoke about watching as a bulldozer ran over and crushed a Knabe baby-brand
piano.
Quite obviously, our country has
developed different priorities and values from that of many other advanced
nations.  I recently finished watching
the BBC production of John Carré’s “Tinker, Taylor…”  One particular quotation caught my attention.  In questioning one of the characters in his
story as to why he was so unhappy with America, the man replied, “Do you know
what the problem is…?  Greed, and
constipation…morally, politically, aesthetically.”  If that statement seems extreme, the sad fact
is that many people hold the same feelings. 
Unfortunately, since the book was written around forty years ago, a
similar view of America has persisted among many foreign nations in
particular.  This cultural difference
between the grandmother’s home and what America has become has not been lost
upon her, either.
So, the grandmother, obviously proud
of her family and all their accomplishments, laments the culture shock that she
has experienced.  She appreciates her
chance to come to America and to be reunited with her family.  Yet at the same time, she speaks with
fondness and nostalgia of her once having lived in an environment of great
cultural opportunity. 
Bosendorfer Grand Piano
I was sure that she had much more to
talk about,  and I would have been glad to have heard more; however, the sun was
going down, and the air quickly was becoming chilly.  Even my personal, extra insulation was not
enough to stave off the growing cold. 
So, I thanked her for her conversation, bid her farewell, and headed
home, all the time weighing the possible social and personal implications of
her reported culture shock.
© 28 Sep 2016 
About the Author 
 I have had a life-long fascination with
people and their life stories.  I also
realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or
fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual
ones.  Since I joined this Story Time
group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
Posted on

Smoking, by Will Stanton

James died of lung cancer. They took out part of his lung. Then, it spread to his brain, and they had to operate on his brain. It spread more throughout his remaining lungs. He suffered for six years. I cared for him. He struggled hard the whole time. I understand that he struggled so hard because he did not want to leave me alone. He felt leaving was a betrayal. He said so as he lay dying.

When he was very young, a long time ago, his father (who always addressed James by his middle name) warned him, “Howard, never take up smoking.” His father was a terribly poor Georgian and did not know how to read; but, in his own way, he was very wise. And, this was long before the tobacco companies finally were forced to admit that smoking kills. Sociopaths as they were, those tobacco-men made billions of dollars over many years, selling an addictive poison. And, poor James fell for it. After all, everyone in the movies was smoking. Everyone smoked on the streets, in the shops, and in the work-places where James went.

Later in San Antonio, James was eagerly accepted into the classy social crowd, which is not surprising. James was exceedingly handsome, intelligent, and charismatic. Everybody wanted James to come to their parties. Of course, there always was lots of booze, and it was regarded as the smart thing to smoke. Everyone else was, so James started smoking, too. With so much influence from all his good friends, why would he heed his father’s early warning?

I can’t say that I was much wiser. I never bothered to take up smoking and, as a consequence, did not really know much about it. This was still before the cigarette drug-dealers admitted that smoking could cause cancer.

When I met James, his affect was that of a very educated, elegant gentleman. When he smoked, that was just part of his persona. For him, of course, it was a deep-seated addiction.

So, for his birthday, I gave him a gold Tiffany cigarette lighter and a gold cigarette case. In my ignorance, I became an enabler.

Several years went by, and James developed a chronic cough. He went to see a doctor, who told him, “I don’t like the architecture of your lungs.” I shall never forget those words. James had developed chronic bronchitis and was ordered to stop smoking. Within just a few days, James’ face no longer looked so gray, but the damage was done.

In 1991, James came home from the doctor and told me the news: he had lung cancer. He cried. All I could do then, and for the rest of his life, was to stand by him, to help him in every way I could. Some acquaintances actually asked me, “Why don’t you leave him?” I was shocked. How could I? I took care of him for six years and was with him when he drew his last breath.

Those final days happened already two decades ago; yet, in some ways, it seems like just yesterday. The years have gone by; I have grown older. When I think back, we had some good years together, fourteen out of twenty. But I keep wondering, “What would it have been like to have continued together to this very day in good health?”

© 6 July 2016

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

Posted on

Help, by Will Stanton

I could use some help – right now. Actually, I could have used some help most of my life. Maybe we mere mortals are not supposed to know how to make our way through this confusing world and deal with all the unexpected trials and tribulations that befall us poor souls. Maybe we are supposed to just muck along unless someone, somehow, has been endowed with special talent and/or has mentors to assist along the way. I never really did. I have found the world generally confusing. I could have used some help, probably a lot.

Ironically, people with a little more awareness and circumspection find dealing with the world more troublesome than apparently more blasé people who are generally concerned primarily with money, food, sex, and the next ballgame. Frankly, those who appear most mindless often seem to be the happiest and content. Not me. I was blessed, or cursed, with ample awareness and, consequently am perhaps too aware of what really is going on in the world, and too often, what is behind it. That can make a person feel depressed and impotent. I really could use some help.

Occasionally, friends have attempted to help me. I’m not sure this has been particularly successful. I have one friend, Kathy C., who has an I.Q. of 160, is constantly doing research through books and on-line, thinks at the speed of light, and, consequently, is exceptionally aware of the real world and what is behind what happens. She has tried for years, on many websites, to inform and straighten out the thinking of a lot of intellectual Neanderthals. The trouble is, of course, that the majority of readers and responders are dumber than a bag of hammers and choose merely to become angry with her. They even have criticized her for being too intelligent and too well informed. Despite hate-filled responses, she keeps trying. I admire her, but her efforts to try to improve rational thinking appear to me to be fruitless. I have concluded that nothing short of a miracle or magic could make significant progress.

Perhaps, Kathy has engaged in magical thinking regarding me, for she had a Harry Potter magic wand sent to me. That was a surprise. I have had no improvements in either health or situation. Perhaps, that’s because I haven’t even given it a wave. I suppose that I am too much of a “Doubting Thomas,” for I have yet to attempt using it to improve the world, or just my own situation, for that matter. And, if that were not enough, some recent, mysterious benefactor had a Professor Dumbledore magic wand sent to me. Apparently, someone else has reached the same conclusion about me as has Kathy. No, I haven’t waved that one around, either. It still sits in its wand-box. It would be nice if those two magic wands actually worked. I first, however, would have to be shown how to use them. I would need some help.

© 6 September 2016

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

Posted on

My Happiest Day, by Will Stanton

I don’t know what my happiest day was, assuming that it was some time in my past. How can I remember every moment over seven decades? If I recall some happy moments, how do I compare or contrast them? Was a happy moment of true significance, or was it some minor experience that, even so, made me very happy? Life is complex and often difficult to qualify. Which brings me to my mantra, “You know, I just don’t know, you know.”

Many of my happy moments I already have written about, some extensively. Perhaps the most significant moments were with special people who were important in my life. I also have derived much happiness from fine music, beautiful voices, instrumental performances. I have bathed in the sounds and visions of nature, describing in detail my many treks through the wooded hills near my home, communing with Mother Nature. I have experienced many happy moments watching movies or reading books that strike a personal chord within me. A recent Story-Time topic was “Fond Memories.” I listed many happy moments in that piece, too, albeit none could be described at my “happiest day.”

So, in my case, I cannot think of just one very special day that I could call “my happiest day,” especially considering that my deepest hopes and dreams never have been fulfilled. In which case, I guess I will have to conclude that I hope that my happiest day has yet to come; and I hope it comes very soon.

© 09 October 2016

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

Posted on

Hysteria, by Will Stanton

I
delayed writing about this subject longer than I normally do about selected
topics because I was torn between writing about a painful truth regarding my
mother or resisting it and writing something fictional and entertaining, simply
as an antidote.  I finally decided to
stick to facts but to keep it as short as possible.
First,
you have to understand my mother’s background. 
Several terrible events combined to damage her emotionally.
First,
apparently, her own mother was very fond of her first-born daughter but did not
express much love or support for my mother. 
This only enhanced my mother’s deep attachment to her father, evidently
a very caring, loving man, who also was highly admired for his many skills and
successes.  He was a professor of physics
and chemistry, kept bees, took the family on long camping trips (which included
Colorado back when it had mostly dirt roads), collected Indian arrowheads, and
played classical violin.  Unfortunately,
he was exposed to radiation from his early lab experiments and died painfully
of cancer at age forty-eight.  My mother,
at the time, was at that critical age of fifteen and deeply suffered the loss
of her father.
Next,
her mother developed the strange notion that she needed to remarry but retain
the same surname.  Consequently, she
blindly married her late husband’s uncle, until then unmarried and a whole
generation older.  It turned out that
this man became the “stepfather from Hell.”
To
start with, he decided that the family must abandoned their beloved home (once
owned by Mary Todd Lincoln’s family) and move to his home-town.  My mother packed her few prized possessions
into a trunk in anticipation of the move. 
The stepfather, however, left the trunk behind, later stating that “there
wasn’t enough room to take it.”  My
mother was very hurt and never forgot the callous loss of her possessions.
Everything
went from bad to worse.  Very quickly, my
mother and grandmother discovered that this man had a violent temper and
frequently exploded into tirades of verbal and even physical abuse, hitting
them.  When the stepfather discovered
that my mother was saving a little money during summers working as a waitress
so she could go to college, he stole all her money to pay for ill-chosen stocks
that he had bought.  He lost all the
stocks and money in the Great Depression. 
This man chose not even to keep his disdain for the family private.  He frequently spoke ill of them to friends
and neighbors, telling terrible falsehoods about them.
It
wasn’t until many years later when I was in my forties did I hear hints from my
mother that this “stepfather from hell” had gone every morning into her
bedroom.  Apparently, my grandmother
never knew or was too afraid to do anything about it.  My comprehension of this trauma became
clarified by my father, who spoke to me shortly before his passing.  He stated that, for a while after he and my
mother were married, she would wake up every morning, screaming.  I was absolutely shocked.  In retrospect, I realized that this hysteria
had been expressed in many ways during my childhood.
Throughout
my childhood and adult life, I witnessed my mother’s deep-seated fear and
anxiety.  I realize that, no matter how
hard she struggled to do the right things with her life and her family, to take
on and excel in numerous activities, she continually was plagued by those fears
and anxieties.  She feared the world; she
feared people.  Many times, I heard her
bitterly declare, “I hate men; I just hate men.”  She feared anyone whom she did not
understand.  She feared blacks and
foreigners.  She feared and disliked
homosexuals.  Once, when I was watching a
documentary on Africa, she rushed over to the TV and turned it off, stating, “I
don’t want you to watch that.  All
white-hunters are homosexuals.”
As
another consequence, she tried to control all people and the world around
her.  Anyone or anything that she could
not control upset her.  Everything had to
be just the way she thought it should be, otherwise she would worry, sometimes
even panic, and become hysterical.
An
unfortunate, known psychological phenomenon is that one way traumatized people
attempt to cope is to adopt many of the same hurtful behaviors that had caused
them harm in the first place.  This was
true with her.  When I was young, she
once said that she hoped that she never would become like her stepfather – – –
but she did.  Very often, when she feared
that she was not in control, she shouted in rage.  I recall seeing her screaming at my oldest
brother and beating him.  She hit my
father so hard that she burst his eardrum.
When
I went to university in Europe, my parents drove me to the university
campus.  It was late evening and becoming
dark.  My father took one wrong turn
where there was very little street-light and no outlet.  He had to turn around.  Simple enough; however, my mother panicked
and began screaming hysterically.  At the
time, I did not understand.  Now I do.
My
brothers and I have realized for some time that, even though we were, what
psychologists call, a “looking good family,” word got around about my
mother.  New neighbors were warned to
avoid getting to know my mother.  We
brothers and my father suffered long-term damage from that environment.  My father, early on, withdrew as much as he could
into his own world, finding every reason to go to his office, take the car for
a wash, or do some other chore that would take him away from the house.  My oldest brother adopted the same
dictatorial and controlling behaviors with his family.  He also eventually disassociated himself from
our parents and never went back to see them, even at their funerals.  My middle brother became the rebel and stayed
away from the family as much as possible, even disappearing for some years
after his marriage.  My late friend Dr.
Bob observed in me, what he said was, a rare trait of reacting to my past
experiences by instinctively developing an unusual degree of sensitivity and
empathy for other people, something that apparently helped me to be affective
in my profession.  Apparently, I was good
at taking care of other people, but not myself.
Yet,
despite the damage done to our family, I cannot but help but feel great
sympathy for my poor mother.  She
suffered greatly in her childhood, and I am not sure how much true joy or love
that she felt in her life.  As for me, I
know that, as they say, “I’ve carried a lot of baggage throughout my
life.”  It took me some years to
understand why. 
And,
now that I have told you this story, I will put it on our blog for others to read
and to think about.  But, for myself, now
that I have read this unhappy tale to you, I will dispose of it and remove it
from my computer.  It is too painful for
me to keep or to read again.
© 14 June 2016 
About the Author 
I have had a life-long fascination with
people and their life stories.  I also
realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or
fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual
ones.  Since I joined this Story Time
group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
Posted on

Movies, by Will Stanton

My taste in movies is somewhat eclectic, yet I do insist
upon good quality in order for me to thoroughly enjoy them, rather than merely
tolerate them. To me, good quality means intelligent thoughtfulness and
experienced creativity in all aspects of film-making.  Among other criteria, the movie should have a
theme that is worth watching and considering. 
That usually means adult topics. 
I will clarify what I mean with a few just a few movie examples.
Already, that leaves out so many Hollywood movies of today
that are based upon comic books and their almost endless sequels, impossible
action-adventures with superheroes and villains. Apparently, the scripts are written by
Southern-California twenty-year-olds with little formal education and virtually
no cultural upbringing.  They are not
interested in making good quality movies; they just want to make lots of money,
catering to easily satisfied audiences.
I also have developed over the years a concerned sense that
such “100% good guys versus 100% bad guys” themes indoctrinate Americans, e.g.,
adolescent boys with limited rational capabilities, into believing that all
challenges in life are threatening and physical, as opposed to cerebral and
spiritual, and that we must attack and kill the enemy to solve all of our
problems.  The degree of gratuitous
violence in so many movies worries me. 
It stands to reason that this general behavior now is reflected throughout
our society, ranging from pervasive lack of civility, pervasive crime, mass-shootings,
unwarranted wars, and bad votes.
I also find even the dialogue and acting often
distasteful.  So many young American
actors regularly are supplied lines that are supposed to sound clever and cool,
reflecting affected self-assuredness, hubris, and arrogance.  Also, their facial expressions and
body-language are so affected, portraying arrogance or even physical threat to
others.  I cringe each time I hear and
see such behavior.  I prefer natural,
unaffected portrayals.
In contrast to banal films,
there have been many movies and television series that I have admired and,
consequently, often have watched more than once.  Some are from independent film-makers.  A good number of these have been British or
other foreign film-companies, writers, directors, and actors, who demonstrate a
high degree of maturity and professionalism.
For example, the superlative
1979 BBC series “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy” is one of the all-around
best-quality productions I ever have seen. 
To begin with, the superb writer of the book, David Cornwell (pen-name
“John le Carré”), has worked for both British MI5 and MI6, most likely has
continued his contacts, and obviously knows what he was talking about.  Secondly, this well-informed, highly
intelligent man writes honestly, reflecting the good, bad, and often mediocre
behavior and character of governments and human beings.  Then, the screenplay-writer also was
excellent, as well as the director and all of the crew.  For the leading role, they chose the
consummate actor Sir Alec Guinness as George Smiley.

Once word of that selection got about, the casting-director
had his choice of the very best actors in all of Britain.  In addition to their great experience and
professionalism, their appearances, voices, and mannerisms fit the roles like a
glove.  Unfortunately, a discerning
viewer must obtain the uncut, British Region-2 DVDs for the best experience and
clearest plot-development, for some crucial scenes were cut for U.S. audiences in
order to force the episodes into one-hour time-slots; and the idiots used those
shortened episodes for the American DVDs. 
Also, don’t bother to watch the more recent movie-version.  I gave it a C- rating in my review on Amazon.
For theater-movies, I admire
many aspects of New Zealand director Peter Jackson’s “Lord of the Rings.”  For the thousands of people involved over
several years in this major project, this effort was a labor of love.  So much care went into making these films that,
for example, the set for Hobbiton was constructed and planted way in advance of
filming so that the flora would have a chance to develop.  Professional sword-smiths were hired to
create masterpieces for the major characters. 
Fine-tuning the script continued to the very last minute, requiring the
London Symphony Orchestra to also 
fine-tune their  sound-track recordings.
 Even after Jackson won the Oscar with
the final episode, “Return of the King,” he had his crews continue filming to
make improvements for the DVD sets to come. 
I know of no other film-project that has done this.
American independent
film-makers and foreign film-makers have made many films over the years that
explore human nature and realistic situations, such as docudramas like the
acclaimed, German film “The Bridge.” 
Based upon a true, 1945 event in the last days of the war, schoolboys
were forced into uniforms and ordered to guard a small bridge in their own
village, the very route American tanks were approaching.  One boy was severely wounded.  All the others perished.  The western allies required Germans to view
the film to further emphasize the terrible consequences of their too easily
having let themselves be led in to a catastrophic war.  “The Bridge” is considered to be one of the
two best anti-war films made.
I also appreciate serious fiction, such as the British
“Remains of the Day” that explored the unnecessary self-denial and repressed
emotions of an all-too-traditional butler. 
I realize, as much as I appreciate these films, that many people who are
used to hyperkinetic, childish adventure-films, don’t care for mature, cerebral
films because these are regarded as “too slow, too boring.”  As a matter of fact, just such a person gave
me his copy of the “Remains” DVD because he was disappointed that it didn’t
have more action and wartime violence.
One of my all-time favorite
films is Italian director Luchino Visconti’s prize-winning “Death in Venice”
based upon, what many literary critics declare to be, “the best novella of the
twentieth century” and written by “the best novelist of the twentieth century”
Thomas Mann.  The Cannes Film Festival
awards once held a retrospective contest covering films from a quarter of a
century.  “Venice” won the grand prize
and was declared “a masterpiece.”  The
cinematography alone is a masterpiece with many scenes resembling tableau-artwork.   The lead actor Dirk Bogarde deserved  “best-actor” 
awards from all such contests. 
Most of the sublime accompanying music is by the great composer Gustav
Mahler.

Because of my interest in the remarkable voices and music
of the European Baroque era, I like the unique, Golden-Globe-winning film
“Farinelli,” loosely based upon the reputation of the acknowledged greatest
singer in history, Carlo Broschi, stage-name “Farinelli.”
As entertaining as the film
is, anyone who has bothered to learn history knows that the screenplay
accurately reflects only about 10% of the real person, 20% based upon the
reputation of other contemporary singers, 20% based upon the Baroque culture
and opera of the time, and 50% simply made up to entertain the audience.  Even so, I enjoy the film.  There is no other like it.  I recommend the music CD.
I do admit, however, that not all the films which I enjoy
are worthy of winning Cannes’ Palme d’Or, perhaps the most prestigious
film award.  Even my most sober friends
and I have enjoyed the “Harry Potter” movies. 
In addition to their being very imaginative, they seem to succeed as an
antidote to the banality of the real world, even despite the scripts’ frequent
egregious errors in diction, grammar, and style.  And, I have to admit also that I often have
watched some good quality films and DVDs simply because I am inclined to
identify with attractive characters whose attributes and lives appear more
interesting and satisfying than, too often, my own life.  I’m not sure that the practice of watching
such films is of any practical purpose, but they are a captivating distraction.  Still, some are included in my DVD
collection.
And, last of all, if I suddenly became a billionaire, I
would like to produce to perfection several films based upon topics dear to my
heart.  Of course, that is a real
fantasy.
© 31 May 2016 
About the Author 
I have had a life-long fascination with
people and their life stories.  I also
realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or
fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual
ones.  Since I joined this Story Time
group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
Posted on

Setting Up House, by Will Stanton

I am a home-body by nature, very much like a Hobbit. I feel most comfortable having a peaceful place that belongs to me, that I belong to, a comfortable haven away from the trials and tribulations of the world. My spirit is not particularly adventuresome, certainly not like the sixteen-year-old boy Robin Lee Graham who sailed around the world all by himself.

Of course, I prefer an environment that fits my personality and aesthetic sense. It doesn’t have to be a mansion placed in an exclusive gated community. But, I would like to have a pleasant neighborhood, some songbirds and green trees, a temperate climate, nearby people who have something in common with me and my interests.

Once I came to Denver, I never had a home that I could call my own. Like many people, I lived in apartments the first few years. The last one was with my new friend James. Then, having grown weary of apartments, the two of us, along with an acquaintance of James, decided that we preferred to pool our resources and rent a house. Of the three of us, I spent the most time and effort looking for rental property; however, it was the third individual who, just by chance, happened to be driving by a small house that had a rental sign placed in the kitchen window.

The little house itself was an unloved property that needed lots of work. The original owner had not been living there for some time. It had been rented to three college students; however, nine ended up in there, along with a dog, all who fairly well trashed the place. It was all that we could afford, however. It suited our purposes, we moved in, and we cleaned it up as best we could, including the basement room that had been used for storage but had flooded from foundation leakage and had ruined everything stored there. We received permission to throw everything molding in that room out.

Within two years, the third person was established in a new job, had good income, and decided to move downtown nearer to his office. That left James and me in the rental property. I initially assumed that this rental property would be a short temporary place to live, and then I would move on. I’m still here.

Within a couple of years, we received notice that the owner wished to sell the house. James and I were fairly well settled here, and we had registered with the Secretary of State a home-office at this address, so it would have been inconvenient to move. James, who also never had owned a house before, suggested that we finance and buy the house. I suspect that, by that time, James understood that I was a home-body by nature and empathetically wished to see me comfortable and secure. We arranged a thirty-year loan and began making payments.

I tried my hand at repairing much of the house and yard that I could. The original owner had been a postman with nine children, and he had turned the basement into a barracks for some of the kids. He had tried to build a bathroom with shower but did such a bad job that the interior walls were mold-covered. I had to tare it all out and rebuild it. As for décor, his wife had the gawd-awfullest taste. She had chosen cheap shag carpets in hideous colors (which a renter’s dog had pissed on), had the trim painted in turquoise, had a cheap turquoise carpet in the livingroom, and put up plastic drapes. The kitchen looked like something out of a 1940s summer cabin and had been painted screaming-yellow. Trash-trees had grown up near the foundation that had made the leaks into the basement. The fact that the concrete patio in back sloped toward the foundation did not help, either. There was no garage for off-street parking and shelter. Oh, I could go on and on, there were so many deficiencies and problems with the property; however, you get the point. But, this is what we could afford.

At the same time I held a job, I spent years working on the house and property, putting in new plumbing, a lot of electrical, a new bathroom for the basement, cable and stereo wiring throughout the house, paint with decent taste, and paneling. I dug deep holes around the yard and planted numerous trees and bushes. I rented a jack-hammer and took out the offending concrete patio. I taught myself how to do all these things from reading manuals and through common sense. As our incomes eventually permitted, we replaced the heating and cooling, the kitchen, carpets, and roof. We had a garage built and installed a sprinkler system for the yard.

I was surprised with James. He said he never had been very interested in having a home before, but now he was very motivated to spruce it up as much as possible with appropriate furniture, new drapes, kitchen appliances, attractive dinnerware, and several previously owned paintings and statues. I knew he had come to enjoy having a home, but I also knew that he did all this especially for me. That’s the kind of person he was.

Together, setting up house over the years, we turned a “sow’s ear into a silk purse.” Together, we made a home for ourselves.

“Together” could have last longer, but it didn’t. After James died of cancer, my elderly mother passed away. The family offered to me the very attractive family home in another state. I wouldn’t even have to pay the relatives their share of the home’s value. I could move there and gain the equity in my own house. This made a lot of financial sense, but it didn’t make emotional sense to me. This house, and this city, had become my home over many years. My good friends were here; I barely knew anyone still left in my hometown. Going back to my childhood town was not a choice I felt like making. As Thomas Wolfe chose for a title, “You Can’t Go Home Again.” Home is where the heart is.

So, I still am living here, alone, in the house that James and I set up. That’s not always good, living in the same house. From time to time, I see something here that reminds me of James, gone now for twenty years; and I suffer a twinge of sadness. After all, this was our house, not mine alone.

© 23 August 2016

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.