Tag: Will Stanton

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One Monday Afternoon by Will Stanton

Ned and I were not that young but felt as though we were going on just sixteen. We were glad that we were old enough to drive, but I don’t think that either of us was ready to be any older. We each felt so repressed in our families that we really had not grown up; we felt more comfortable somehow as just mid-teens, to belatedly begin to explore the world and ourselves at a time when many already had several years of experience growing. I got to know him more briefly than I would have liked.

Unlike many young, more fortunate gays these days, we had little understanding of ourselves, no sense of orientation. Even had we understood ourselves, we felt in our time that we would have had to hide our orientation from the world, let alone our families. That repression wounded our sense of self-esteem and hindered our courage to explore and to take new risks like many other teenagers. So, Ned and I were alike in many ways and naturally gravitated toward each other when we met.

With me, Ned was very open and honest. One day, he sat down with me and explained very simply that he wished to be my special friend, a long-term partner. This was all new to me, and I was confused. I was not quite sure what to do. After all, every lesson that I had learned growing up told me that normal was straight, normal was eventually getting married, normal was having kids. Having another guy as your special friend was not normal. I thought carefully about it and, at least, committed to our being very good friends; but I was not sure beyond that.

We began to spend time together. We often went to the countryside to take long hikes together. We explored remote roads, driving into the countryside on sunny days or cool June evenings. We would drive out to the lake, stopping along the way to buy popsicles. Like young kids, we had our favorites, cherry and grape. Then we would walk out onto the beach, spread out our blankets, and lie in the sun, talking with each other and watching the swimmers. When the sun became too hot, we also would swim out into the lake to cool off.

Ned was romantic. It also became clear that he truly loved me. One of the most wonderful things that I remember was during one of our hikes in the hills. We paused on a high bluff and quietly stood there, looking at the valley below. I felt him gently press his chest against my back and slip his arms around my chest in a loving hug. Then he rested his head on my shoulder. We stood there for some time, content, and in peace. That simple gesture meant so much. The memory, that sense, has remained with me ever since.

In town, I would find love notes on my car windshield. He also seemed to be extraordinarily in-tune with me. If I was quietly thinking about something and then suddenly changed what I was thinking about, he would say, “What?” This happened several times. I don’t know how. He also surprised me because he claimed to have a way with inanimate objects, too. When his old car refused to start, he would stand in front of the car, giving it a stern look, and give the car a good talking-to. Then, he would get back into the car and start it. I was amused by that, but don’t ask me what got the car going.

Ned and I spent as much time together as we could. Some straight friends quickly began to see us as a pair and invited us both to their picnic. Sometimes, he would come to my house when my parents were not around, we would lie in each other’s arms, listening to the rain outside the windows. Just the closeness seemed to be enough.

Then there came that one Monday afternoon when I informed him that I would be leaving town during the summer months to work in a place too far away to drive back very often. He burst into tears, truly distraught. He said that he was afraid that he would lose me forever. He said that he could not stand being without me.

Then, I made the worst mistake that I could have made. I thought that I was being reasonable and helpful, but it did not turn out that way. I suggested to him that, in the meantime, he needed to find more friends. I did not specify what kind of friends he should associate with. It never occurred to me that I needed to say so. That has haunted me ever since.

Shortly after that, I had a long-distance phone call from Ned. One evening, lonely, and in tiny apartment in a far-away town, I was thinking of a girl that I knew back home and what it might be like to get to know her better. Maybe that was the right thing for me to do; maybe that would work. Then my phone rang; it was Ned. Despite his being at a noisy party far away, something had alerted him. Without my saying anything at all about where I was at that moment or what I was thinking, he immediately stated, “I suddenly got the feeling that you were very lonely and that I better call you. I know that you were thinking about that girl. She is not the right person for you; I don’t think that she can give you the love that you need.” How did he know? How can that be just coincidence? He really was especially sensitive and in-tune with me.

By the time I came back, I found that things had changed. The substitute friends that Ned made were heavily into drugs, and Ned followed suit. When I finally returned and saw Ned again, he was not the same person. Every bit of that remarkable sensitivity was gone, completely. He could no longer sense or do what he once could do. His whole personality had changed. He used to be bright and cheerful; he had an innocent sense of humor. All that was gone, too. Instead, he was slow and dull, seemingly uninterested in the people around him, uninterested in life. It seemed that there was no love left in him. It did not occur to him to repay the two hundred dollars that I had lent him. He no longer was Ned. He was someone else. I was shocked and dismayed.

Over the years, I occasionally have thought back to that fateful Monday afternoon and my saying to him to find other friends. He found some guys to hang out with, but they were no true friends to him. They destroyed the Ned that I knew and cared for.

© 10 February 2013



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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Tchaikovsky: Gay Music from Despair by Will Stanton

The Romantic music of Tchaikovsky is some of the most deeply emotional music ever written. Like millions of listeners spanning more than a century since his death, I have held a deep appreciation for his musical genius. More so, and ever since I was a child, I have deeply sensed the true meaning lying within his final composition, his “Pathétique” symphony. Whether or not my musical sense or Tchaikovsky’s ability to communicate is responsible for my insight, that sense now has been proven to be accurate, which I’ll explain further along.

Tchaikovsky’s music ranges from apparent joy and love to the darkest abyss of despair. Now that additional information has come to light, we at last understand that the full extent of Tchaikovsky’s musical creativity most likely never would have found expression had it not been for the fact that he was homosexual, an orientation that, at that time and place, caused him life-long torment and depression.

Pytor Ilyich Tchaikovsky, composer

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, born in Votkinsk, Russia, experienced a childhood of misery. Although his father was minor aristocracy and a civil servant, the family was poor and eventually became destitute. Already an extremely sensitive and introspective child, his mother’s unhappiness affected Tchaikovsky, especially after they moved to Moscow when he was eight. She died when he was only fourteen, a contributing factor to his depression.

He first enrolled in, what was called, the Imperial School of Jurisprudence, an all-boys school that prepared them for civil service, engineering, and the military. Here, he was exposed to much sexual experimentation among the boys, and he soon realized that this was his own preference. At that time in Russia, and especially in the capital of Moscow, clandestine homosexual acts did occur, but the terrible sin was being caught.

Tchaikovsky changed the direction of his career upon attending a performance of Mozart’s opera “Don Giovanni,” an experience that greatly impressed him and resulted in his enrolling in the Saint Petersburg Conservatory. Upon graduation, he returned to Moscow to join its conservatory. In such an environment, he found his career flourishing but, at the same time, having to live in a city that biographers have described as “violently homophobic.” Consequently, he suffered frequent bouts of self-doubt and depression, fearing exposure. He revealed to his younger brother Anatoly that his homosexual tendencies, caused “an unbridgeable gulf between the majority of people and myself. They impart to my character…a sense of alienation, fear of others, timidity, excessive shyness, mistrustfulness, which make me more and more unsociable.” Increasingly, these feelings found expression in his music.

Despite his fears of exposure, Tchaikovsky could not suppress his desires. He became deeply in love with fifteen-year-old Eduard Zak. Eduard, however, suffered his own despair and committed suicide at nineteen. Sometime later, Tchaikovsky wrote in his diary, “How amazingly clearly I remember him: the sound of his voice, his movements, but especially the extraordinarily wonderful expression on his face at times. I cannot conceive that he is no more. The death of this boy, the fact that he no longer exists, is beyond my understanding. It seems to me that I have never loved anyone so strongly as him.”

Stories of love, and doomed love, found expression in his music. Musicologists feel that Eduard was the inspiration for his composition “Romeo and Juliet,” based upon the tragedy by Shakespeare and written at the time Tchaikovsky was in love with Eduard.

Tchaikovsky himself had a doomed marriage, an attempt to appear and to feel “normal.” He wrote to his brother Modest that he would marry absolutely anyone, which he did at age thirty-seven. He attempted to propose to his new wife having simply a platonic relationship, which apparently she did not understand. This experiment failed and contributed further to his depression. They separated within a few months but never officially divorced because the legally required infidelity never had occurred.

One woman became his unseen patron, Nadezhda von Meck, widow of a wealthy railroad tycoon. Although they never met face to face, they frequently wrote to each other. This abruptly came to an end at age fifty when von Meck’s relatives, jealous of the money given to Tchaikovsky, blackmailed her with the threat of public exposure of Tchaikovsky’s homosexuality unless she ceased supporting him, which she did rather than risk that exposure. He was not told of this blackmail and became dismayed and embittered by the sudden severing of their relationship.

The most emotional and despondent music composed by Tchaikovsky was his final work, the Symphony No. 6 referred to as the “Pathétique.” The first movement begins with a solemn and even ominous introduction by bassoons. It then leads into one of the most beautiful yet heart-rending melodic themes, very much like a soulful remembrance of love.

The fourth and final movement is unusual in that it is the opposite of the expected exuberant ending. Instead, it begins with total resignation, climbs to a peak of angst and despair, and then, in a dramatically long and ever-descending passage, plummets into a deep, final abyss, much like a jumbo-jet falling from the sky, plunging into the sea, and sinking to the bottom. Recent research since the fall of the Soviet Union reveals why.

In Tchaikovsky’s fifty-third year, the final year of his life, he had an affair with Alexandre Vladimirovich Stenbok-Fermor, the eighteen-year-old son of Count Alexei Alexandrovich Stenbok-Fermor. The great sin of exposure came to pass. The count discovered the liaison and wrote an angry letter denouncing Tchaikovsky to Czar Alexander III, his close friend. The count’s lawyer, rather than delivering the letter immediately to the Czar, instead, contacted his powerful legal and political colleagues, all alumni from the Imperial School of Jurisprudence. They convened a “Court of Honor” and summoned Tchaikovsky to appear before them. He was told that they were prepared to deliver the damning letter to the Czar, thereby destroying his reputation and exposing him to censure and shame. They then informed him that the only way for him to avoid scandal and disgrace was to commit suicide.

Tchaikovsky was confronted with this shock and ultimatum while he was composing the “Pathétique.” It now appears that he completed the symphony as a farewell to life. His death by arsenic poisoning was slow and painful. To prevent the public from learning the facts behind Tchaikovsky’s death, the word went out that he died from cholera.

Anyone who truly cares for other people must be empathetic for Tchaikovsky and regret his having lead such a tortured life. His brother Modest speculated that composing music was “an attempt to drive out the somber demons that had so long plagued him.” We might wish that the man never have suffered so greatly. Yet, without a life of suffering, we might never have had given to us such extraordinary music. I’ll go further; it is safe to say that this “symphony of defeat,” and especially the suicidal fourth movement, never would have been written as it was. As for myself, who have appreciated the beauty and power of the “Pathétique” for so long, it is a sad consolation to have my sense, from the very first hearing, of what Tchaikovsky was saying confirmed. I heard his voice; I felt his despair.

Click on the link below to watch the final
movement of Tchaikovsky’s Symphony Number 6, the “Pathétique”: Mariinsky Theatre Orchestra, V. Gergiev, conductor, 13:20 minutes.  

The “Pathétique” 


January, 2014

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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A Meal to Remember by Will Stanton

I arrived in Colorado in 1975. I first found an apartment in Arvada, then Englewood, and then finally gravitated to Capitol Hill by ’77. I gradually acquired a number of friends and acquaintances. Among them was a very wealthy gentleman named Stan A. and his much younger and particularly attractive partner Michael B.

Stan had made his money by owning a major construction firm that, among other projects, helped to construct I-70 into the foothills west of Denver. By the time I met him, apparently he did not need to work anymore, having made plenty of money. I recall Stan as being immaculately dressed, well groomed, and always very polite. His large apartment was kept perfectly spotless by his house-keeper. His apartment’s décor included carefully selected paintings and objects d’art, all perfectly placed and without a spot of dust. In addition to whatever attractive personal attributes Stan might have had, plenty of money probably was a contributing factor in his wooing an especially handsome young man as his sweety.

Apparently, Stan preferred having a partner who also was immaculate in his dress and appearance, which enhanced Michael’s being especially eye-catching. He took plenty of time every morning for his libations and grooming. Not a hair was out of place. Being younger than Stan, Michael was still working at that time as a salesman of some sort. I recall seeing on his bathroom mirror self-motivating quotations that he would recite each morning as he combed his hair. For the short time that I lived in Capital Hill, I was happy to be invited to their apartment for gatherings of friends or to use their swimming pool with Michael.

Unlike some wealthy people whom I have met, Stan was not tight with his money. He was perfectly happy to pick up a check if we all went out to dinner.

I recall when Stan piled six of us into his BMW and drove south to the Tech Center to a Chinese restaurant. We all had a grand ol’ time sitting for some time around a large round table with a sizable lazy Susan carrying plenty of Chinese delicacies to choose from.

As excellent as the food was, it soon became apparent that the most obvious attraction at dinner was the bus-boy. He truly was unusually handsome. It was one thing for us younger guys to notice and admire the bus-boy; but now that I’m much older, I understand that Stan, being about a generation older than we, had as much right as we to admire him as well. We guessed that the bus-boy was about seventeen based upon his boyish features, although, physically, he certainly was not puny. He easily could have been a star high-school swimmer or baseball player.

I still am not sure whether we all simply had succumbed to the extraordinary good looks of the bus-boy or whether the wine during dinner had contributed to our increasingly indiscreet glances—and to Stan’s comment. Someone at the table asked if anyone would like dessert. Stan immediately announced that he certainly would love to have that bus-boy for dessert. He was standing right behind Stan. I never knew that a person’s face could turn so red.

© 31 March 2014

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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Mirror Image by Will Stanton

Back in the 1930s when millions of people were out of work, most people thought that it was OK, even wonderful, that the federal government would step in and help to provide good jobs for people, especially since there was so much work that needed to be done. Much of that needed work was fixing what previous generations of people had broken through lack of foresight, no sense of wise land use, and even from simple greed. That certainly was true in the rural areas of Ohio where I grew up. Forests had been stripped, top-soil had eroded away, mine tailings dumped near water sources, and streams had been polluted. Many poor homesteads and small villages were left to decay. Work was scarce, the economy poor.

So F.D.R., the President that some people chose to hate, created the Works Progress Administration and the Civilian Conservation Corps. Just in our area alone, hundreds upon hundreds of people were given useful jobs during the 1930s. Thousands of trees were planted to prevent further soil erosion and pollution of waterways. Roads were improved, and small concrete bridges replaced fords through streams.

Nature had created no natural lakes in the area; so to help control water-flow and to boost the local economy in the Zaleski Forest region, a small damn was built, creating a many-fingered lake. Workers built a swimming area with wooden docks and diving towers. They made places for boating and canoeing. They added a picnic area with benches and fireplaces along side of the shore. They built a road to a scenic overlook where, eventually, a rustic lodge was constructed. Nearby, they made several wooden cabins for campers. The Division of Forestry officially opened the Zaleski Forest Park in 1940. Once the Division of Parks and Recreation was created 1949, it was renamed Lake Hope State Park. The area has provided employment and recreation ever since.

I recall with pleasure and a good amount of nostalgia visiting Lake Hope on many occasions from as young as age two. Sometimes it was just our family; at other times it was with family friends. During those first years, the three routes to the lake were gravel. The northern route was the shortest and passed by the remains of a stone structure resembling an oversize barbeque chimney. It was just one of several dozen 18th and 19th-century iron furnaces long abandoned since the charcoal and ore had been depleted in the area. The southern route took us through miles of hilly rural forest including many acres of pines planted by the C.C.C. And, the eastern route was the most primitive route of all, winding its way through the dense woods past abandoned and near-abandoned settlements and crossing the railroad tracks near the Moonville Tunnel, built in the mid-1800s. The tracks are long-gone, and the tunnel now is rumored to be haunted.

I recall how with excitement I would catch the first sight of the lake, eagerly looking forward to going to the man-made beach. We would wind our way to the parking lot and head for the wooden bathhouse. At age two, I was taken by my mother to the women’s side. (Yes, I can remember that young.) When older, my father took me to the men’s. When so young, I was required to stay near the beach, but I remember seeing my oldest brother going out to the wooden diving tower, climbing up so high, and diving in.

Vintage photo of
Lake Hope’s swimming area

My family and friends would bring along picnics, and afterwards we would find a picnic table near the water’s edge and lay out our food on one of the tables. Little stone fireplaces were provided in case we wished to grill hamburgers or hotdogs. We did not know in those days that potato chips were not so healthful, but we loved them and looked forward to our friends bringing them. They actually brought commercial-size bucketsful. Then there was desert.

Once sated with picnic-food, we would stroll along a path that closely followed the edge of the lake, listening for birds and watching for water foul. In the time of my childhood, the lake was surrounded by old-growth as well as reforested hills. Looking across the lake in any direction, I enjoyed seeing the wooded hills reflected, mirror-image, in the calm water.

Vintage photo of Lake Hope — a mirror image

On other occasions, we rented a small cabin up near the lodge. They had few real amenities, but at least there was a roof over our heads. We brought food and supplies with us, and the lodge was nearby in case we needed anything more.

Later, when my grandmother once came visiting, we took her with us to Lake Hope. It was my birthday, and she thought that I was old enough by then for me to have a Camp King jackknife. My mother did not; she was sure that I would cut myself. Of course, I did, but it was only a slight wound on my thumb.

And as we grew older, we made use of the beautiful stone and wood lodge for dinner. It was perched high on the ridge and had a fine view through the trees to the shimmering lake below. Near the entrance to the dining room, they had placed a Skittles game, and we kids enjoyed playing it when we had some time after our meal. I was sorry to learn that the lodge burned to the ground in 2006. I new one has been built to replace it.

More than seventy years have passed since Lake Hope was opened to the public. Generations of families, locals, and students from surrounding colleges, have enjoyed the facilities and the beauty of this lake. When I last visited there, my memories flowed. Looking across the lake and admiring the mirror-image reflections from the wooded hills, I felt a twinge of nostalgia. I knew that generations more of employees and visitors would continue to enjoy this little Eden. Those 1930s politicians who opposed such projects, those hard-nosed naysayers, were proved wrong. Thank you, you far-sighted individuals who made possible the many benefits from their proposed work projects. Thank you W.P.A. and C.C.C. for work well done.   

© 11 February 2013

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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Little Things that Mean A Lot by Will Stanton

Big things, very important things, I already have addressed regarding my friend James: good character, warm personality, maturity, self-reliance, true friendship, respect, and loyalty. Little things, too, are important, especially cumulatively over the years of our friendship. Each little thing in itself, when spoken of, may not sound like very much; however, if one could hear the loving tone of voice or witness the kindness of the gesture, then one would understand how important little things can be.

On a very basic level, we each made sure that we did our share of housework and chores, although we each tended to gravitate toward our own preferences. He had become a good cook and took pleasure in my appreciation of his varied and delicious meals. I did most of the house renovation and yard work, and he always expressed his appreciation for all my labor, wiring, plumbing, building, digging holes for trees and bushes. At times, he would note my fatigue and remark, “You worked awfully hard today. I think I need to take you out for a steak.” We would go to a favorite restaurant, and within forty-five minutes, my energy seemed to come back. Somehow, he always knew.

Imagine our sitting together reading the Sunday morning paper. He stands up and says, “I’m going to the kitchen. Would you like more coffee?” Now, I am perfectly capable of getting up and going for my own coffee, but that little gesture of James’ reveals a lot about his kindness in thinking about others, even with little things.

James dressed immaculately and also cared about my appearance, too. He enjoyed seeing me dressed neatly and looking attractive. From time to time, he would buy for me some article of clothing, always in very good taste, knowing that I would make a good impression in public. Of course, I was half the age and half the weight at that time, so he had an easier task than he would now. I admit that, since he has been gone so long and my not having a G.Q. figure, I pay far less attention to fashion. I don’t have James to dress for.

Any gifts that we bought for each other over the years never were meant to “buy friendship” but, instead, were genuine tokens of his love and thoughtfulness. He cared about how I felt, being concerned if he sensed that I was frustrated or unhappy, and reached out rather than avoiding me if this was the case. He was genuinely happy to see me happy.

James was a voracious reader and knew a lot. We inspired each other with interesting conversations about a myriad of subjects. We truly were interested in each person’s opinion and always made clear our respect for the other’s knowledge and skills. He was an accomplished, published poet, and I took an interest in his latest project even though poetry was not my forté. He understood my passion for good music and, even though he played little himself, made a point of hearing me play and occasionally acquired sheet music for me. We also enjoyed a good joke. I could tell that he delighted in hearing my laughter because he knew then that I was happy.

We always remembered Christmas, birthdays, Valentine’s Day, and took advantage of those holidays to celebrate our friendship. He liked to plan little weekend trips and occasionally longer vacations for our enjoyment, and we took plenty of photos of the scenery and of ourselves together. He arranged a couple of photo sessions so that we could have portraits made of us together. He always was thinking of us, not just himself.

Even when he was dying of lung cancer, he still did those little things that he still could do to reassure me and to show that he was thinking of me. All those many little things, and big things, that he said and did over the years proved his undying love, a love that he expressed in a poem he wrote for me and presented to me so many years ago:

You,
Whose smile enchants
And laugh delights,
Whose northern eyes
Astonish blue,
Wait here awhile
With me beside
This summer world.
So songbirds hush
And watch the stars:
We’ll taste black grapes
And yellow pears
And speak of youths
Lovely long ago,
Whose love they sang
In ancient phrases
And melodies forgot.
Around your hair
Of morning gold
I’ll weave these bits
Of myrtle leaves
And lavender
And fragrant thyme,
While the faint moon
With empty arms
Goes down the west.
Sleep, sleep, love, sleep,
And when the dew
Falls on your lids
I’ll gather you
Beneath me
And encompass you
Against the chill;
I’ll warm you
with my trembling breath
And hold your lips
Upon my mouth
And drink your love
Until they wake,
Until the songbirds wake.
© 14 December 2011

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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What’s Your Sign? by Will Stanton

I am hoping that my sign does not become the humorous road-crossing sign that I downloaded from the web. Someone made and planted next to a street a road sign stating, “Warning. Geezer Crossing.”

On the sign, there was an image of a bent, old man with a cane. And in the background of the photo, was an actual bent, old man with a cane with an identical profile, slowly crossing the road. Funny, but a little sad, too.

When it comes to astrological signs, I cannot say that I “believe” in the art. My parents drummed into me to be, in their way of thinking, always “realistic.” So, I do not look at the daily horoscopes, nor do I ask to have astrological charts made for me. I have to say, however, that way back in college, a girl expressed a desire to do my chart; and the results were surprisingly accurate, even in small details. I found it to be somewhat interesting, but I stuck it away in a cupboard and never have referred to it in order to make decisions in life. I regarded it with the same mild curiosity as I have with the revelations of people who have read the lines in my palms or looked at Tarot cards. Those, too, seemed to be accurate. But again, I never felt that there was a practical use for that information. Maybe I missed out on something. Maybe I might have made better decisions in life.

I suppose that I could claim that various other signs, other than astrological, represent me, at least to some degree. The treble and bass clefs found on musical scores might be considered to be representative of my nature, music being a major interest of mine. Unfortunately, retardando might be my current sign, because I appear to be slowing down. Allegro, or more so, prestissimo, as I felt in my youth, no longer are my signs, although I wish that they were.

I am aware that, especially during rush-hour, many drivers utilize various signs. Those are not my signs; I don’t use them. I prefer not to be run off the road or shot. I use my fingers trying to play piano.

I do not know sign language. Perhaps more of us should. That would be considerate, should we encounter a hearing-impaired person. In addition, I certainly wish that, when my friends and I hope for a pleasant dinner in a restaurant, that far more people would use sign language as opposed to having too many drinks and then speaking extremely loudly and shrieking with laughter. In one restaurant, the noise was so intense that a couple and I gave up trying to carry on a conversation. They always carry ear plugs with them for loud movies, and they stuck in their ear plugs. I don’t blame them. The food was good, but we are not going back to that restaurant unless it is on an off-time.

There are signs that I prefer to use a lot. These are non-verbal signs that I use to communicate with others my affection and approval, my caring and empathy. A genuine smile has become one of my most naturally employed signs. Especially in today’s world, there is too little of that.

© 5
February 2013

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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Sorry, I’m Allergic by Will Stanton

In my hometown, the head of the draft board, Mr. D—-, owned an auto-parts store. He knew auto-parts. Other than that, he was profoundly ignorant, prejudiced, delusional, and full of hate. I guess that there is a plague of such people in every generation; we have witnessed far too many of them over the last several years. Unfortunately as I said, he was in charge of the draft board, and he had every intention of using it to perpetuate his political agenda.

To begin with, he had fallen “hook, line, and sinker” for the now-documented lies about Vietnam. He was convinced that those godless, Vietcong Commies were close to invading our hometown, and we had to bomb them back to the stone-age to prevent it. Secondly, he thoroughly believed that anyone who was educated, highly informed, and had good critical thinking skills was obviously un-American and a Commie-sympathizer. That meant every college student and every son of a faculty member was un-American. That included me.

So, Mr. D. concocted a whole series of tricks trying to circumnavigate the draft regulations and the laws of the land to pull every student out of college, believing that education is of no real value, and sending them as soldiers to Vietnam, where they could do God’s work. If executing his plan required blatant lying, violating the law, or making false statements to the FBI and setting them out to arrest students, as one done to my brother, that was OK with him.

My brother had to enlist the aid of a U.S. Senator to counteract such nefarious abuse.

Like so many others, I was called in to face Mr. D. for a series of delightful sessions where, for example, he would state that my student deferment had been canceled because (quote) “I had failed to fill-out and mail-back a required statement,” all the time waving the delivered statement right in front of my face. Oh yes, he was a good Christian man; lying and illegal actions were OK when doing God’s work.

Our friend and neighbor Dr. K——, who was the head of a university department, had two sons who continuously had been harassed and finally declared “1-A.” The same happened to Professor W—‘s family, whom we knew. They were well informed about the true situation in Vietnam and were steadfastly against the war policies of the administration. Seeing no alternative, they finally advised their sons to go to Canada. After all, we already had lost several sons who were acquaintances of mine, and that was a small community.

So, I finally was deprived of my student deferment and ordered to be taken to the state capital for my induction physical. There was a whole bus-load of us from my hometown.

Traveling eighty-five miles by bus took a while, so I had plenty of opportunity to chat with some of the other guys. The fellow next to me sported a well trimmed beard, which suited his geology major very well. He enjoyed explaining the geology of the area as we moved along, a tutorial which I thoroughly enjoyed. Others expressed their anxieties about the draft.

Once we arrived at the center, we quickly were required to fill out forms. I recall that one question demanded to know if the individual was homosexual. I wondered how many had the courage to mark it “Yes,” whether actually straight or gay, simply to become ineligible for the draft. We then had to strip down and start through a long line of examiners.

I do not know if all potential inductees experienced the same treatment as we did, but I was rather surprised how uncivil and belligerent each and every examiner was there. I wondered if the reason was that each examiner considered himself to be a true American patriot, but the inductees were “reluctant laggards, not worthy of being seen as true Americans.”

I brought along my medical file with me, for I knew from having read draft regulations that my life-long allergy condition was so severe that I would not qualify for service. As far back as age five, our family had to cut short a Canadian camping trip because I could not breath from reacting to all the tree-pollen. By age ten, my year-around allergies were so severe that I was taken to see a specialist. The doctor was surprised to find out that I am allergic to just about everything in nature that I find attractive, trees, flowers, grass, but also weeds such as ragweed and goldenrod. I try to do the best I can, short of living in a bubble.

My allergic reactions were not just sneezing and having itchy eyes. My throat could close up, and I could break out in hives if I just touched dandelions. I was given a series of immunization shots, but they failed to diminish the symptoms. In college, the doctor tried even cortisone shots, ignoring the cumulative, toxic side-effects. That was not much help either.

Before the physical, I reviewed my file. Then I decided to take an eye-catching piece of colored paper and type a synopsis of my allergy history. I included that in the file.

So, going through the examination line from person to person and hearing the examiners’ snarling orders, I was not surprised that each and every one of us passed with flying colors despite whatever afflictions each of us had. It looked as though no one would be exempted from the privilege of going to Vietnam.

Then I came to the last examiner who reviewed my file. He casually glanced at each page in an obviously dismissive manner. But then, the colored paper caught his eye. He read through the medical synopsis, then glared at me and said, “You know the regulations too well.” I responded, “I’m familiar with the regulations.” He repeated, “Too well!” Then with one angry motion, he grabbed a rubber stamp, slammed it down on my form, and shoved it back into my hands I looked at it. It said “1-Y, that is, to be called-up only in the case of national emergency.” I was the only one from that bus-load not drafted.

I had much to think about on the long bus-ride home. Once I arrived home, I was eager to contact my friends Ned and Derrith to tell them the news. We had talked quite a bit about this situation before I went to Columbus. When I finally met up with them, they were very pleased to hear that I still would be around, that I would not be going into the army and being shipped off to Vietnam.

Then Derrith informed me, “We knew that you would have a hard time with all of the examiners. That’s why we decided to concentrate on just the last man.” I asked what she meant.

She answered, “Ned and I did a little ceremony and concentrated on the last man, telling him that he had to let you go.” 

I was puzzled. I thought that it was my colored page that saved me. Was Ned and Derrith’s little ceremony just a coincidence?” 

I still wonder.

November 7, 2013

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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Point of View by Will Stanton

When many people think of the so-called “gay lifestyle,” they very often have a stereotypical picture of gays frequently hanging out for hours in gay bars, drinking, and picking up tricks, one-night stands just for sex and without much regard for getting to know the person any better. At least, that may be the more visible aspect of some gays’ lives, but I know that this is not true with many others. Some have dinners and parties in their homes rather than going to bars. I found this to be especially true in cities that were less tolerant, such as Cincinnati at the times I visited there. That community was in some ways rather southern and conservative, and they did not tolerate gays very well. Many other gays spend more time in activities such as going to movies, plays, or concerts. Some engage in active pursuits such as sports or hiking in the mountains, just like many other people. Still, the bar scene seems to be one image that often comes first to some people’s minds.

The idea of going to bars as a major means of having fun never has been my point of view. My tastes always have been very different. I occasionally can enjoy an alcoholic drink just for the taste, but I don’t need more than one to enjoy that taste. I never have needed to get an alcoholic buzz, either. Plus, I did not care to lose more brain cells than I already was losing from the toxins in our water, food, and air.

And speaking of toxic air, that went for heavy cigarette smoke, too, the usual atmosphere of bars when I was young. The few times that I ventured into bars at the request of friends, my lungs felt as though I had sand in them by next morning.

I never went to bars looking for anonymous sex in basements. I also never cared to dress up either in drag or butch-drag. My point of view is that genuineness is preferable to affectation.

I also have a very different point of view when it comes to choosing music to listen to. I never cared for ear-splitting pounding drums and screaming. I know that many people seem to enjoy loud noise, but I now feel vindicated by all the medical studies that document the physical and mental harm from exposure to atavistic drivel foisted upon us by rock-noisicians. I realize that more civilized music is regarded by many to be boring, and they would complain if that were played in bars.

Still, when I was young and first met some gay people, I was persuaded to go to a few bars just for the camaraderie. A few of the places were relatively civilized. The only gay bar in my hometown had been made out of a small garage some distance from the downtown. It was run by a couple of older, friendly guys who tried to keep the prices of all the drinks, hard or soft, very low. They never made much money, and eventually the bar had to close.

The most comfortable bar that I remember was one that two friends of mine and I found as we traveled through Allentown, Pennsylvania. The bar was unusual because it had been a small branch-library and was situated in a pleasant, residential area rather than, as happens so often, in a less desirable location. It had ample parking in a large lot where cars were safe. The building was in the shape of an “H” with the entrance facing the middle reference desk, which had been turned into the bar. To the right in one end of the “H” was a large dance floor with dancing music. At the opposite end of the building was a large, quiet lounge with comfortable chairs and couches where friends could talk with each other without having to shout.

And finally, the spookiest experience that I had at a bar was when my friend Jim drove me many miles to a bar in a town in central Ohio. It was located in an older, urban area, and originally had been built for some other kind of business. There was a small entrance room, which was not lit very brightly, then a hall that led past restrooms and storage, and then finally a long area in back where the barroom was located.

The time was around twelve-thirty that night when Jim and I decided to leave. As we started to pass through the empty, front room, a lone figure approached out of the shadows. We saw that he appeared to be much too young to have been permitted into the bar, and he had not ventured farther back into the barroom. He appeared to be about fifteen. He spoke to Jim, but in a tone of voice that actually surprised us because it sounded angry and bitter. He said, “I’m chicken!” He seemed to glare at us with that announcement. Jim and I looked at each other somewhat confused by the intensity of his voice. I noted that he was good-looking, but I also was startled by the apparent fury and bitterness in his eyes. He seemed to be a very stressed and unhappy person. The intensity of his look stunned me.

Jim got over his initial surprise and said, “What?” The boy repeated his angry statement, “I’m chicken!” And then he added, looking only at Jim, “I have a hotel room nearby.” Jim, who always was the far more adventuresome person than I, turned and looked at me, seeming to communicate that he was attracted to this good-looking kid, would like to go with him, but at the same time, realized I that I would have no transportation. So, Jim, perhaps regretfully, declined the offer and said that we had a long way to drive and needed to leave now. As we left, I still was amazed and mystified by that very strange encounter.

It was some years later that I saw that face again, those intense eyes. I saw that face in newspaper photographs and on the TV. The image was immediately recognizable. Ever since then, I never could forget what a bizarre encounter Jim and I had had with this person and how close Jim possibly came to learning more about this strange kid than Jim would have wished to learn, even though what the kid became noted for began three years later. I clearly remembered the pained expression on that face, the intense bitterness in those eyes. And when I learned his name, I never have forgotten that either…Jeffrey Dahmer. Now there was someone with a very different point of view.

© 13 October 2013

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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Endless Joy by Will Stanton

This selected topic “Endless Joy” puzzles me. Why was it chosen? What could it possibly mean? After all, for any human being to experience endless joy rationally seems to be an impossibility. No one experiences endless joy unless he either wishes to arbitrarily interpret his life that way or if he is delusional.

The human condition does not allow for endless joy. We are born mortal, already flawed, and vulnerable to a myriad of trials, tribulations, disappointments, and sorrows throughout life. I realize that some people apparently are blessed with a generally positive attitude, whereas others are plagued with doubt and pessimism. Each may view conditions and events differently; however, neither is slated to be gifted with endless joy.

Perhaps if a person compartmentalizes his life into a variety of conditions, experiences, and activities, one might suggest that one or more of those categories presents endless joy. Taking myself for an example, I have learned over the years that I have an especially deep understanding and appreciation of truly fine music. Such superlative music never fails to provide me with joy, passion, and solace. So, separating out those moments when I either hear or play such high-quality music, they cumulatively provide me with endless joy.

By nature, I also especially appreciate and respond to true love, friendship, and camaraderie. It is a rare person who claims not to require the companionship of fellow human beings, but I do sense that I especially am sensitive to such human gifts.

Admittedly, my appreciation of Mother Nature is very selective. I am a romantic and idealist. So, there are seasons and locales to which I respond deeply, whereas there are others that I feel to be far less inviting, less aesthetic, perhaps even harsh or dangerous. For those ideal aspects of nature, they, too, provide me with great joy. To, again, express such experiences cumulatively, Nature can provide me with joy.

Because none of us is in the springtime of our lives, we generally are suffering a variety of afflictions to our health along with daily concerns and trials. I pity those who may have bowed under the weight of elder life and have lost a sense of joy. Instead, we might regard being alive each day as joy, at least in some aspects of our lives, no matter the difficulties or pain.

I see no viable alternative. Wishing is unrealistic and impractical, although we may engage in it from time to time. I am aware that in some Greek plays and Baroque operas, when some problem has become overwhelming and unsolvable, the authors often employed (as expressed in the Latin phrase) deus ex machina, meaning that a divine power spontaneously intervenes with a device that solves the problems. For example, the lonely and unfortunate cyclops Polifemo, blinded and desperate, pleads with Jove for intervention, who does respond and grants Polifemo the gift of immortality. We might envy Polifemo’s great good fortune.

On a more realistic plain, finding joy in life may be a real art, an acquired skill, a consistent philosophy. So, it is important for each of us to seek and experience a variety of joys, great or small, each day. For me, Story Time, and its members, has become one of those joys.

December, 2014

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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Dresden by Will Stanton

The fire-bombing and destruction of Dresden happened close to seventy years ago, in another era, another country, with other people. In raising the subject, many people might respond by saying, “Why should we remember? Why should we care? That was a long time ago and has nothing to do with me or today.”

George Santayana is credited with saying, “Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it.” And, “Only the dead have seen the end of war.”

By nature, I am a very empathetic person. Hate and violence perpetrated against others, present or past, disturbs me greatly. Also, I have a great appreciation for the good works of humanity; and when they wantonly are destroyed, that, too, concerns me.

Before World War II, Dresden, the capital of German state of Saxony, was known as “The Florence of the Elba” because of its extraordinary beauty. Elaborate Baroque stone architecture was expressed in its churches and cathedrals, its opera house and symphony hall, its university and museums, the choirboys school, its grand manor houses, and in its middle-class homes and shops. This peaceful city was built for living, not for war and destruction. There were no military facilities or industries in Dresden. For that reason, Dresden remained untouched until almost the very end of the war…almost.

In a statement by J.M. Spraight, Principal Secretary to the Air Ministry, he stated the following: “Charles Portal of the British Air Staff advocated that entire German cities and towns should be bombed. He claimed that this would quickly bring about the collapse of civilian morale in Germany. Air Marshall Arthur Harris agreed, and when he became head of R.A.F. Bomber Command in February 1942, he introduced a policy of area bombing where entire cities and towns were targeted. We began to bomb objectives on the German mainland before the Germans began to bomb objectives on the British mainland… Because we were doubtful about the psychological effect of…the truth that it was we who started the strategic bombing offensive, we have shrunk from giving our great decision of May 11th, 1940, the publicity it deserves.”

Ironically, an in-depth study after the war indicated that, had the Allies concentrated strictly upon military-related targets, the war could have been ended several months earlier, saved thousands of lives, and avoided the devastation of civilians’ towns and cities. Despite these facts, Harris was convinced that bombing civilian populations was the best way to win the war.

The bombing tactic developed by the Royal Air Force and the United States Army Air Corps was the creation of fire-storms. This was achieved by dropping incendiary bombs, filled with highly combustible chemicals such as magnesium, phosphorus or petroleum jelly (napalm), in clusters over a specific target. After the area caught fire, the air above the bombed area, became extremely hot and rose rapidly. Cold air then rushed in at ground level from the outside, and people were sucked into the fire. The Allies first tested this concept over the city of Hamburg. The resulting fire-storm created tornadoes of fire. Even the civilians who jumped into the river burned. Harris considered the test to have been a success.

By February, 1945, the war was almost over. The Allies were closing in from the west and the Russians from the east upon what remained of Germany. So far, the non-military city of Dresden was untouched.

It was at this point that Winston Churchill, the British Air Marshall (who became known as “Bomber Harris),” and his staff, decided that the Allies should make, shall we say, “a statement” by demonstrating their power to obliterate an entire, previously untouched city. It has been said that this decision so near to the end of the war was based partially upon revenge for bombing the British munitions-producing city of Coventry. Perhaps more importantly, it was to choose a previously undamaged city to demonstrate to Stalin and the Soviet armed forces, who rapidly were moving west across Germany, that the western contingent of the Allies was very powerful and could obliterate an entire city. The Soviet Union, therefore, would see the West’s determination to finish off Germany and also that the Russians should think twice about occupying lands too far to the west.

David Pedlow, in a letter to The Guardian (14th February, 2004), wrote about a rather revealing scenario supporting the fact that the bombing of Dresden was no militarily strategic objective. He stated, “My father was one of the…R.A.F. meteorological officers (who) finally sealed Dresden’s fate…The Dresden briefing was only one of many that he routinely attended, and even before the crews left the ground, he was troubled because of one notable omission from the routine.

Normally, crews were given a strategic aiming point – anything from a major factory in the middle of nowhere to a small but significant railway junction within a built-up area. The smaller the aiming point and the heavier the concentration of housing around it, the greater would be the civilian casualties; but given that the strike was at a strategic aiming point, those casualties could be justified. Only at the Dresden briefing, my father told me, were the crews given no strategic aiming point. They were simply told that anywhere within the built-up area of the city would serve.

He felt that Dresden and its civilian population had been the prime target of the raid and that its destruction and their deaths served no strategic purpose, even in the widest terms, that this was a significant departure from accepting civilian deaths as a regrettable but inevitable consequence of the bomber war, and that he had been complicit in what was, at best, a very dubious operation.”

The British Royal Air Force, with the assistance of the United States Army Air Corps, chose to bomb the historic Dresden in six raids over three days and nights [13th, 14th, and 15th] during February, 1945. The four British raids over Dresden, followed by two American raids, consisted of 3,600 bombers and other planes, 650,000 incendiaries, plus over 6,000 tons of explosives. The high explosives and incendiaries resulted in a raging firestorm that sucked all the oxygen out of the city, suffocating the citizens hiding in basements. Those above ground were incinerated or crushed by falling buildings. The bombing completely destroyed seventeen square miles of the historic city and damaged many additional square miles surrounding the city center.

At first, apologists for the bombing claimed that the obliteration of Dresden was a “navigation error” – – over a three-day period. Later, some claimed that the bombing was necessary to take out military targets, although the only minor, war-related facilities were far from the city. Those facilities remained untouched by the bombing and are intact to this day. They also claimed that “only 50,000 civilians” were killed in the bombing and resulting firestorm; however, this figure ignores the fact that 300,000 refugees recently had fled to Dresden for safety, knowing that the city was a non-military location and that the war was almost over. More accurate estimates range far higher with additional tens of thousand of souls lost in the devastation. This included eleven of the church choirboys and their school.
Dozens of photographs were taken of the aftermath of the firebombing, many of them, such as mountains of dead being burned in the streets, too horrifying and gruesome to view without being emotionally shaken. The most poignant, haunting picture that I’ve seen is the charred remains of a nine-year-old, blond boy clinging to his dead mother.

Ironically, there were American prisoners of war in outlying areas of Dresden at that time. Fortunately, some of them survived the bombardment by taking refuge in the basements of homes. My family had a friend who had been an American POW and survived the bombing in that manner. He mentioned that, by the end of the war, Germany had lost so many adult soldiers that mere boys had been assigned to guard them. Also held with him and the other soldiers was Kurt Vonnegut who, as a now-famous author, wrote about his Dresden experience in his 1969 book “Slaughterhouse Five.”

American soldiers were recruited to carry the dead to the burning grounds. Many were found seated in basements and shelters, dead from carbon monoxide and lack of oxygen. Many others were burned beyond recognition. Kurt Vonnegut later reported, “American prisoners, at first, were ordered to move thousands of bodies to pyres for burning (of which there are photographs); however, there were so many bodies that they were provided flame-throwers to burn the bodies just where they lay, turning them into ash and, therefore, no longer identifiable as human remains. Thousands of the dead likely were refugees and not listed on resident rolls, making almost impossible estimation of the final tally.”

Otto Sailer-Jackson was a keeper at Dresden Zoo on February 13th, 1945. He recalled being at the zoo when the bombing occurred. “The elephants gave spine-chilling screams. The baby cow elephant was lying in the narrow barrier-moat on her back, her legs up in the sky. She had suffered severe stomach injuries and could not move. A…cow-elephant had been flung clear across the barrier-moat and the fence by some terrific blast-wave, and stood there trembling. I had no choice but to leave these animals to their fate…We did what we had to do, but it broke my heart.”

The famous stone-domed cathedral Frauenkirche stood for just one day after the bombing; however, the heat from the fire-bombing was so great that it turned the stone porous. The cathedral collapsed the following day.

Because Dresden had no food and little shelter, our friend and the other Americans were marched north, out of the ruins of Dresden. Years later, our friend returned to Dresden and found the very same house in which a German lady had protected him. He knocked upon the door. An elderly lady answered, looked at him, and then broke into a broad smile. She remembered him.

In addition to the destruction of the city itself, great works of art and other prized creations made by human hands were destroyed. Also, sitting on a railroad siding was a whole train-load of valuable artwork that had been brought there for safe-keeping. The “Florence of the Elba” was no more.

After the war, Churchill began to back off from previous statements about the supposed necessity of bombing Dresden, whereas Harris continued to defend the decision. Suspicion concerning that decision grew even among the British public. Partially for that reason, Harris moved to South Africa and lived there from 1946 through 1953. No special medal was offered to the crews who flew the Dresden missions. Whereas a statue of the war-time supreme commander of the R.A.F. was erected soon after the war, no such statue of Harris was considered until several decades later.

Despite protests from Germany as well as some in Britain, the “Bomber Harris Trust” (an R.A.F. veterans’ organisation formed to defend the good name of their commander) erected a statue of him outside the R.A.F. Church of St. Clement Danes, London, in 1992. It was unveiled by Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother, who looked surprised when she was jeered by protesters, one of whom shouted, “Harris was a war criminal.” The line on the statue reads, “The Nation owes them all an immense debt.” The statue had to be kept under 24-hour guard for a period of months because it was often vandalised by protesters. Apparently, some people do remember, and they do care.

© 21 December, 2013

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.