Tag: Will Stanton

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The Norm, by Will Stanton

Webster’s dictionary lists
several possible definitions for “the norm.” 
Two of them are as follows: “Something that is usual or expected,” and
“A widespread or usual practice.”  Based
upon those two definitions, I certainly am not “the norm.”  Who knows why?  I’m sure it’s mostly inborn.  Perhaps I have inherited more unusual genes,
or perhaps I even have alien genes from some other planet.  All I know is that I certainly am not like,
what seems to be, the usual American person.
To begin with, I can watch
football – – – if I have to, but I never have become screamingly excited about
the commercial mega-business of football where the NFL commissioner makes
forty-four million dollars per year and has a special relationship with the
owner of the Patriots who helped him get that job.  The local football franchise, win or lose,
does not affect my life.  If they win, I
don’t receive a check, and I never have received an eleven million dollar
signing bonus.  I just am not like, what
appears to be, the majority of Americans who live and breathe football.  I’m not part of that norm.
I also never have felt
inclined to riot after a game, becoming drunk, joining a mob in the streets at
midnight, jumping on cars, and burning couches. 
It happens so frequently, especially with young people, that it seems to be the norm, but I’ve never been
part of it.
In contrast, for example, I
enjoy diverse forms of music: jazz, bluegrass, folk; but I have an especially
deep understanding and passionate love of serious music.  It’s just part of me; I was born that
way.  I don’t have the physical
capability to be a great pianist or superb singer, but I am capable of
recognizing those relatively few, fortunate individuals who do have those
gifts.  Also inborn, I have a natural
aversion to that large percentage of painfully untalented rock-noisicians and
screaming pop stars, those who have deluded themselves, along with huge mobs of
fans, into believing that they have great musical talent.   I never have been part of those mindlessly
enraptured and drug-intoxicated mobs.  I
am not part of the norm.
I have a deep appreciation
for innate quality as opposed to superficial value.  This is true with humans as well as material
goods, architecture, and fine arts.  For
example, the Wall-Street huckster who used eighty-seven million dollars of
government bail-out money to refurbish his office does not garner my
admiration, even when he looks good in two-thousand-dollar suits and drives a
Ferrari.  It seems to me that most people
are easily impressed with wealth and power. 
I’m not; I’m not part of the norm. 
There are people in this room with love in their hearts and who have
credited themselves with acts of kindness whom I admire far more.
Over the years, we all have
seen, far too often, examples of politicians and business people lying,
cheating, and committing acts of character assassination.  Greed and corruption appear to be so
prevalent that it now appears to be the norm. 
I cannot be part of that norm; it’s just not within me.  I could not be, what often is thought of as,
the “successful business tycoon” because I do not have barracuda or shark
blood.  I could not be an influential
politician because, the moment I tried manipulating people or lying, I’d turn
green and throw up.
Oh, I know that there are
good people, people whom I would admire if I met them and some that I have met
and do appreciate.  They may not be the
majority of the world’s population, but there must be a good number of them.  Separate them out from the masses, let them
stand alone, and I’d be comfortable being part of their norm.
© 30 January 2015 
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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Scars, by Will Stanton

Like each of us, I have
suffered, throughout my years, scars, some physical and some emotional.  I have accumulated scars resulting from
incidents of injury, cancer, unwarranted personal attacks, emotional abuse, dishonesty,
greed, and lack of common human decency. 
Frankly, I’d rather not dwell upon them. 
Dredging up those memories is very uncomfortable for me.
There is something else
about me that people should come to understand.   There is something about me that has made
me, throughout my life, particularly sensitive to the misfortune of
others.  I understand their hurt; I
empathize with their plight; I can imagine walking in their shoes.  I am prone to feeling regret and sorrow; and
I tend not to forget.  I wish more people
were like that.  In addition, the
traumatic incident need not be a recent one. 
I know something about history; and, unfortunately, history is replete
with sorrow.  Yes, those incidents
happened a long time ago; and, no, they did not happen to me.  However, I still wish that those so many sad
incidents never had happened, especially when they have happened to the young,
those who had too short a time to experience the world, to grow, to live.
     
Let me relate one such
incident that, when I heard it told to me and my family, surprised and saddened
me.  It is a remarkable experience of
mine when I was ten years old.  For those
of you who were in this group two years ago, you may recall that I briefly
mentioned this episode in my story about my time in Europe.  This time, I would like to go into greater
detail to clarify the impact this incident had upon me.  The two persons suffering deep scars were two
former soldiers, one Canadian, one German. 
The very end of this story is the main point, a coincidence that is most
amazing.  I never have forgotten that
moment.
In 1954 through ’55, my dad
was an exchange-teacher doing research in Germany.  Our family went with him, living and
traveling throughout Europe during that time. 
I recall one sunny afternoon when we sat at an outdoor café while my dad
talked with several young men who now were exchange-students.  One man in particular (I’ll call him “Tom,”
for I do not remember his name) stated that he originally was from Canada and
had fought, along with the Canadian and British troops, on the beaches of
Normandy and onward, trying to capture Caen. 
He began to relate at length his experiences, unforeseen experiences
that had left a deep, emotional scar; for he just could not forget what
happened.  He had been prepared to fight
German soldiers, but he was not psychologically prepared to fight children.
I never forgot Tom’s
poignant tale.  I became perplexed about
Germany’s immoral use and waste of young people, throwing them into battle
during Germany’s inevitable collapse and defeat.  Recently, I wished to understand more about
Tom’s having to battle boy-soldiers.
Under Nazi rule, joining the
Hitlerjugend became compulsory.  From an
early age, obedience and fanaticism were drilled into them.  The children’s mothers were inundated with
propaganda to assure that this indoctrination continued at home.  Boys as young as nine received paramilitary
training.  This was the only world-view
these youngsters had.  Consequently, most
did not perceive the insanity of sending children to war.
Not all parents or children
wished to have anything to do with the Hitler Youth.  Punishment for noncooperation was swift and
harsh.  The Gestapo could arrest parents
and send them to concentration camps. 
There even were reports of some SS officers using compulsion to force
boys to sign up as so-called volunteers. 
Boys would be held in locked rooms without contact with their parents,
and denied food, water and toilet facilities until they signed.  Others, some members of the regular army complained,
had been physically beaten into submission.
Some parents and boys, of
course, were “true-believers,” and boys eagerly joined.  Those whom the authorities judged to possess
special qualities were invited to enter into the élite NAPOLA schools (Nationalpolitische
Lehranstalt, National Political
Institution of Teaching). 
Those boys likely felt proud of their handsome uniforms and their own
Solingen-steel daggers.  Along with a
steady dose of political propaganda, they received regular military training,
all under the guise of “playing games.” 
They had no idea of what lay before them.
Since Germany’s defeat at
Stalingrad in 1943, Germany faced defeat after defeat with tens of thousands of
soldiers killed or captured.  In
desperation, the authorities began to rely upon underage boys to fill the
gap.  One such division, sent to the
front just before the Normandy invasion, was the 12th SS Hitlerjugend Division,
made up boys mostly fifteen to eightteen, although many were younger.  For example, when captured, Willy Eischenberg
was just fourteen and Hubert Heinrichs only ten years old. 
Willy Etschenberg 14, Hubert Heinrichs 10 Oct 1944
In place of the traditional
tobacco ration, these boy-soldiers received candy, and in place of the beer
ration, they received milk, if and when it was available. Otherwise, they
trained hard to fight like adult SS men. 
I consider war and violence in all forms to be evil, let alone warping
young minds toward fighting wars. 
The Allies, with their
overwhelmingly superior air power, attacked repeatedly to take the area around
Caen and eventually the city itself. 
26,000 tons of bombs were dropped on the old city, crushing it to
rubble.  The remnants of two German
armies were trapped around Falaise and attempted to break out, but they needed
a rear guard.  Sixty of the 12th
Hitlerjugend Division were given that suicidal task and took positions in the
École Superieure.  Firepower from
attacking soldiers and artillery constantly bombarded the young defenders.  The boys, however, refused to retreat.  Of the sixty, only two, chosen as messengers,
survived.
Once the Allied soldiers
discovered that they were fighting just kids, they were surprised and
shocked.  Yet, the ferocity of the boys
astounded the allied forces.  One British
tank commander recalled how Hitler Youth soldiers had sprung at Allied tanks
“- – – like young wolves, until we were forced to kill them against our
will.”  Their fearlessness and
determination reportedly was explained by their training in the NAPOLA schools,
along with their bitterness regarding the massive Allied bombing of civilians
in their homes and cities.
From June 7th through July 9th,
the combined 12th Hitlerjugend Division lost more than 4,000 dead
and 8,000 wounded or missing.  Even the
replacement division commander, Kurt Meyer, wrote down his feelings of dismay
and sorrow.  “That, which l now
experienced, was not war any more, but naked murder.  I knew every one of these boys. – – These
boys had not yet learned how to live; but, God knows, they knew how to
die!  The crushing chains of the tanks
ended their young lives.  Tears rolled
over my face.”  A few days later,
Field Marshal von Rundstedt lamented, “It is a shame that these faithful youth
were being sacrificed in a hopeless cause.” Erwin Rommel made similar remarks
shortly before he was forced to commit suicide.
Later, an Allied soldier
found an undelivered letter on the body of a youth, killed in the battle.  The boy had expressed the feelings of many of
the division’s boys: “I write during one of the momentous hours before we attack,
full of excitement and expectation of what the next days will bring. – – – Some
believe in living, but life is not everything! 
It is enough to know that we attack and will throw the enemy from our
homeland.  It is a holy task.  Above me is the terrific noise of rockets and
artillery, the voice of war.”

That
is what I learned about the young soldiers whom Tom faced around Caen and
Falaise.  When he discovered whom he was
fighting, when he saw the slaughter, he was shocked.  Yet, the memory which most disturbed Tom, the
memory that left such a long-term emotional scar, was the scene of backing some
of the tattered remains of the Hitlerjugend into the river.  He and his fellow soldiers stood on the bank,
picking off every fighter they could see.
The whole point of this
story, the one that I could not forget, is what happened next as Tom finished
his sad tale. He ended by saying, “We didn’t stop firing until we saw no more
figures in the water.  I don’t think any
of them survived.”  At that point, a young
man, sitting alone at a nearby table, quietly turned to our group and stated
simply, “I did.”
 All of us at our table sat in stunned
silence.  After we recovered from our
initial shock, my father spoke to the person and discovered that, as a young teen,
he had been a member of the 12th Hitlerjugend Division and had
barely reached the other side of the river as all his friends perished in a
hail of bullets.  Tom’s scar, or that
other young man’s scar, were not my scar; yet I was deeply moved by what I had
just heard.  Not a scar, but the sad
memory of that day, shall remain with me forever.                                                       © 27 May 2015
Scars:
Postscript, Battle of the Bulge
(as told by Joseph
Robertson at age 86)

Those
remaining boys who survived the fighting around Caen regrouped to fight in the
Battle of the Bulge.  American
infantryman Joseph Robertson fought against them.  One incident in particular left him with a
deep, life-long scar.  He was interviewed
at age 86, when he told his story in his own words.

“I was hid behind the big
tree that was knocked down or fallen, and I could see these Germans in the
woods across this big field.  And, I saw
this young kid crawling up a ditch straight towards my tree.  So I let him crawl.  I didn’t fire at him.  But, when he got up within three or four foot
of me, I screamed at him to surrender. 
And instead of surrendering, he started to pull his gun towards me,
which was instant death for him.  But,
this young man, he was blond, blue eyes, fair skin, so handsome.  He was like a little angel.  But, I still had to shoot him.  And, it didn’t bother me the first night
because I went to sleep, and I was so tired. 
But, the second night, I woke up crying because that kid was there.  And to this day, I wake up many nights crying
over this kid.  I still see him in my
dreams and I don’t know how to get him off my mind.”
Those dreams, that scar,
haunted Joseph Robertson for sixty-five years until his death at age ninety in
2009.

© 27 May 2015 

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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Spiritual Journey by Will Stanton

I regard myself as a highly spiritual person. I’m not quite sure why that is. If so, it has come about naturally. I never was raised in a church, temple, or mosque. Many Americans regard religion as the one and only means to achieve spiritual development. I have heard some people, like Bill O’Reilly, even claim that spiritual development outside of church is impossible. I have had no formal religious teaching in Christian, Jewish, Muslim, or Zoroastrian dogma. I don’t pray to Zeus, although I do admire his selection of cup-bearer.

Yet, I instinctively always have been concerned with listening to “the better angels of our nature” and trying to develop a relationship with others and the world that is positive and commendable. I prefer to treat others as I would have them treat me, a precept similar to the instructions expressed in most religions. I feel that my instincts have lead me in the right direction on my spiritual journey.

Throughout my life, however, I have encountered, or been made aware of, a large percentage of people who do not think nor feel as I do. My positive values, my being sensitive to others’ needs and feelings, often have been regarded as being “too sensitive, too selfless, too impractical.” I also abhor all forms of violence and mistreatment of others. My heightened sense of what is most precious and beautiful in the world apparently is not shared by the majority of people. The more of the world I have seen around me, the more I feel that I am a member of that minority of humans living in a world full of troglodytes. Could one of the factors contributing to this increased sensitivity and spirituality be natural orientation?

There does seem to be a sense that those persons most interested in spiritual development have greater sensitivity than many others. People may think that priests and ministers may be more sensitive, more empathetic, and perhaps even sexually suspect. That may be a stereotype, but there also may be some truth in it. Certainly, many gay men go into the church. Pope John-Paul II (now “Saint John-Paul II”) once estimated that half the Catholic clergy were gay. (Or, was it the former Hitler-Youth pope who said that?) The previous Archbishop of Canterbury at the time also estimated that seventy percent of the clergy in the Anglican Church were homosexual. Did their orientation lead them to greater spirtual exploration?

I have been aware over the years that I feel deeply the spirituality in the most sublime music, such as Mozart’s “Ave verum corpus.” I know that greater understanding and feeling for sublime music is partly the result of one of the several heightened levels of secondary intelligences; yet possibly orientation does, too.

I often have seen men, who regard themselves as quite macho, raise an eyebrow in suspicion of anyone who has a passion for the arts or chooses a profession that is regarded as un-macho. This stereotypical attitude is not limited to modern American men. For several hundred years, the aristocratic men of Europe were convinced than any man who spent too much time involved with music or the arts would deplete his masculinity and become more feminized. It may be true that a devoté of art and music might devote too many hours to his passion to permit him to, for example, conduct a war in Iraq, or work twelve hours per day to become a multi-billionaire, or slander all political opponents to gain a seat in Congress. I am certain that, if I were to spend my life around such troglodytes in any form, I would be committing spiritual suicide. I prefer to associate with friends who possess an admirable spirituality about them. In my working years, my own sensitivity and empathy enhanced my ability to help others with their problems. It has been, however, in my passion for sublime music and art that I personally have found the greatest spiritual fulfillment, finding within such creations intrinsic value, a value that I enjoy sharing with others who are like-minded.

© 05 June 2015

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 Makes Homophobes Tick? by Will Stanton

Well well well! What we have suspected about homophobes is true. To paraphrase Shakespeare from “Hamlet,” “The homophobes protest too much, methinks.” Understandably, what makes people “tick” always is a multifactorial answer…their inborn natures, their learned behaviors from their parental upbringing, the social environment in which they live, church dogma, influence from school friends, and many other experiences. Recent research also shows that brain-structure has something to do with it. Significantly, research now also shows that, frequently, people who express hate toward gays are in fear of their own, inner feelings. That fear leads to denial of their own natures, verbal expressions of intolerance or hate, and unfortunately too often, violence. We can laugh at people’s hypocrisy; however, too often they do damage to others before they are exposed.

Ted Haggard, the evangelical mega-church leader who preached that homosexuality was a sin, resigned after a scandal involving a former male prostitute. Republican United States Senator Larry Craig opposed including sexual orientation in hate-crime legislation, yet he was arrested on suspicion of propositioning someone in a men’s bathroom. Republican Congressman from Florida Mark Foley, Chairman of the House Caucus on Missing and Exploited Children, favored strengthening the sanctions against inappropriate behavior with congressional pages; yet that’s exactly what he was accused of. Then Republican Congressman Jim Kolbe was accused of engaging in improper conduct with two youths. Glenn Murphy Jr., a leader of the Young Republican National Convention and an opponent of same-sex marriage, pleaded guilty to a lesser charge after being accused of sexually assaulting another man. I could list many more. Apparently, it is hardly unusual for someone who describes himself as having “conservative values” and as being a member of the “moral majority” to have desires that he denies but engages in behavior that he loudly condemns.

As early as the era of famous Sigmund Freud, psychologists theorized that shame and fear regarding one’s own homosexual urges can be expressed as homophobia. Freud described this phenomenon as “reactions formation.” Since then, there have been several remarkable laboratory studies that confirm this theory.

The Journal of Personality and Social Psychology had a revealing article by Henry E. Adams, Lester W. Wright, and Bethany A. Lohr of the University of Georgia. They used sixty-four subjects, all young men who claimed to be exclusively heterosexual. To begin with, they were assigned to groups on the basis of their scores on the Index of Homophobia (W. W. Hudson & W. A. Ricketts, 1980). Twenty-nine expressed no homophobia; thirty-five expressed homophobia. Then each group was given the Aggression Questionnaire, created by A.H. Buss and M. Perry in 1992, to compare the subjects’ natural tendency toward generalized aggression. There was no difference in those results; aggressiveness is not the source of homophobia.

Then each group was shown two different series of erotic videos. All the subjects were wired to monitor responses, including pineal arousal. When shown videos of heterosexual love-making, the resulting graph showed some gradual increase in arousal among the homophobes but a greater degree of arousal among those who were not. Then when each group was shown videos of homosexual love-making, the non-homophobic group showed a degree of arousal; however, the homophobes’ graph showed a greater degree of arousal.

When homophobes express their fear and shame by verbally abusing gays, lesbians, or transgendered people, that can cause serious harm to the victims. Victims might be emotionally scarred for life. Or worse, the victims may feel driven to suicide. A greater percentage of bullied or depressed gay youths than straight kids commit suicide. Jamey Rodemeyer was a gay teenager who tried to lead an open life and to not hide his orientation. He also felt strongly enough about gay rights to be an activist and to post videos on YouTube, trying to help victims of homophobic bullying. Unfortunately, there was only so much bullying that he himself could tolerate, and he committed suicide at age fourteen.

Jamey Rodemeyer (21 Mar 1997 – 18 Sep 2011)

Suicide of Jamey Rodemeyer

The news, from time to time, reports beatings and murders of gays. Even in my hometown, a trucker, who had a teen in his truck cab for sex, beat the “living daylights” out of the boy just to prove to himself that the trucker really was straight. Another young gay was shot dead at a rest-stop just outside of town. And, we all have become familiar with poor Matthew Shepard, the University of Wyoming student, who was tied to a prairie fence and beaten so badly that, after several days of suffering, he died. I find it very hard to understand the level of hate and violence that so many people are prone to. What ever happened to “Love thy neighbor”?

Matthew Shepard (1 Dec 1976 – 12 Oct 1998)

Matthew Shepard Biography

Homophobia certainly is not limited to our own country. Russia recently has gained further notoriety by passing anti-gay laws and by allowing young toughs to lure young gays to bogus rendezvous and then severely beating them while filming the atrocity. Even some conservative U.S. senators have encouraged the Uganda government (as though their government needed any encouragement) to pass laws that could put gays into prison for life or even to execute them. The proposed bill stated that straight friends and family who did not turn in gays to the authorities could, themselves, be jailed for three years. One ultra-conservative, American senator is reported to have told the Ugandans that the U.S. had failed to stop the spread of homosexuality, but it was not too late for Uganda to stop it.

Fortunately in our country with the passage of time, with greater understanding among young people, and gradually fewer narrow minded people as they die off, the U.S. appears to be becoming better informed, more tolerant, and more open. Fewer people are “living in the closet” in fear and shame. Perhaps fewer will try to prove how tough and straight they are by attacking their own kind. Although the causes of homophobia will continue to exist, I hope that we will have far fewer people afflicted with that disease. We must continue to work toward a cure for homophobia.

13 February 2015

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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Guilty Pleasure by Will Stanton

Without my dwelling upon any particular events in my life, I can say that, in general, I could have wished for a more satisfying, fulfilling life. Oh, of course, I have had some good things happen that others, perhaps, were denied; and I have not suffered the misfortunes that many others have. Yet, I would have preferred to have had a life of far better health, more supportive family, better direction, greater success, more love and happiness, and the physical ability to do the things I wished to do.


I always have been prone to seeing selected others who appear to be endowed with the qualities I would have preferred to share and wishing that I were like them. Of course, we can not tell for sure, especially from a distance, whether or not such persons truly possess those qualities. Simply viewing someone on TV, in movies, DVDs, photographs, or even live, briefly in passing, is no assurance that I would like to be “in their shoes” if I were fully aware of their lives, thoughts, and feelings.

Over the years, I have watched many hours of film of various genre, portraying other people’s lives. Some of it has been documentary, some of it fiction. Undoubtedly, some of my selections have been an attempt to divorce myself from the real world and to identify with the characters portrayed. I have found perhaps a dubious pleasure by identifying with some others rather than making something of my own life.
A more self-actualized person would declare that I always have needed more self-acceptance, more self-esteem; and that person would be right. My not reaching that preferred state of being has resulted in far too much time in my life wasted upon gazing at others and dreaming, “What if?”

All that time and energy wasted dreaming reminds me of a scene and a lesson I should have learned many years ago from the book “Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.” Harry sits for hours in front of the Mirror of Erised, viewing his greatest desire reflected in the glass. He is found there by Professor Dumbledore who admonishes Harry, “ – – this mirror will give us neither knowledge nor truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible. – – It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.”

© 05 May 2015

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

Bumper Stickers, by Will Stanton

Bumper stickers.  We all have seen hundreds of them, many on
car bumpers, some stuck on car or truck windows.  A search on Google images brings up lots of
them, but I have to say that I’m not impressed with many of them.   The
vast majority of those stickers I would prefer never to have stuck onto my own
bumpers.  Many of them appear to have
been concocted by mindless idiots who think that they have been so clever.  The stickers neither convey any message worth
reading nor spark constructive thinking. 
Too many of them are simply profane, substituting profanity for
wit. 
And, far too many of them
express hate, something that I have grown very tired of.  I actually saw a battered old pickup truck
with a sticker on the cab’s rear window that read, “Save America.  Shoot all Muslims and Democrats.”  What added to the irony was that the
stereotypical looking cretin behind the wheel also had placed a “I love Jesus”
sticker next to the other one.  It
reminded me of a satirical bumper sticker that I once saw that asked, “What gun
would Jesus buy?”  Or, there was one I
saw that said, “Nuc a gay whale for Christ.”
I have become weary of
seeing religious messages on bumper stickers. 
Of course, those people who place them there have the right to do so;
however, I think that there are so many that they become tiresome.  Or worse, the statements shout intolerance,
proudly inferring that their religion is the only true religion, and all others
are false, sure to send the adherents to hell. 
The acerbic-tongued, British actress Maggie Smith sums it up quite
nicely: “My dear, religion is like a penis. 
It’s a perfectly fine thing for one to have and to take pride in; but
when one takes it out and waves it in my face, we have a problem.”
I can think of a lot of
messages that I could share with others, but I feel that most people would
think them too tame, too “goody-two-shoes.”  
Here are a few.  “Have you treated
everyone kindly today?”  “Have you been
honest in all of your business dealings today?” 
“Are all your political statements honest and constructive?”  “Do you strive each day to make society a
better place?”  I feel that such messages
should be seen by everyone; however, most likely, many people, viewing such
positive messages, might choose to become irritated or even angry.  The messages convey modes of behavior too
foreign to their own experience and desires.
Of course, most people
select bumper stickers that concern them personally, often omitting messages of
general interest.  I, too, can think of
various messages based upon my personal preferences, such as good music and its
remarkable influence upon emotional health and even physical well-being.  How about a bumper sticker that says “Build
fresh brain cells.– Listen to classical music.”  Or, “Go for Baroque.” 
Or, people might prefer
something a little more catchy.  At one
time a few years ago, I met a young waiter whose father was an
opera-tenor.  The father and his favorite
historical figure was the superlative singer Carlo Broschi, known on stage as
“Farinelli.”  The waiter asked me to find
a good portrait of Farinelli and to assist in preparing the digital data to
make a series of good-quality T-shirts, some for his dad and himself, and
others for friends.  An acquaintance of
mine who was supposed to print them never bothered to do so, but the slogan
still could work on a bumper sticker. 
Print a picture of Farinelli along with the statement, “It takes balls to
be a castrato.”  That bumper sticker
might raise an eyebrow or two.

© 19 November 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.
Posted on

Joey, by Will Stanton

I was in my car, driving to
a friend’s house in town.  The
destination does not matter.  What
happened along the way is what is important, something very poignant that I
just cannot forget.
It was 1974.  The Vietnam War was supposed to be over – –
“Peace with honor,” we were told.  My
classmate Bernard had lost his younger brother Larry in Nam and still was
having a hard time dealing with it.  The
little blond boy in the class ahead of me, the one who looked to be no older
than an adolescent, he was dead, too. 
Ours was a very small town, yet we had our share of losses.  Maya Lin was the talented designer who later
would be chosen to create the Vietnam Veterans Memorial honoring the 58,000
American lives lost.  I remember her as
the little girl who once lived in our town.
As I started up a steep
hill, I saw an older man slowly making his way up the sidewalk.  Head down, he moved as though he had the
weight of the world upon his shoulders. 
As I drew alongside of him, I recognized him as Mr. Bodnar.  I stopped next to him and offered him a ride
up the hill.  Expressing appreciation, he
accepted and wearily sat in the passenger seat next to me.
Mr. Bodnar was from
Hungary.  He was an educated attorney in
his home country.  Here in the U.S., he
worked for a pittance doing furniture repair and as a handy man.  His knowledge of Hungarian law was of no use
to him in this country, and his limited English also was a handicap.
The Bodnar family fled
Hungary in 1956 when the Soviet army invaded his homeland in response to the
Hungarian people’s abortive attempt to bring a modicum of freedom to their
lives.  The Bodnars chose America to come
to, the land of peace and opportunity.  I
imagine that they were proud when they received their American citizenship.
Nicholas Bodnar was in my
class at school.  He was deemed
unsuitable for the draft, but his younger brother Joey received his draft
letter.
Joey was a very impressive
person, exceptionally bright and very talented. 
In addition to being a very good student, he was a remarkable
artist.  He was very athletic, too.  Blond, small but compact, he could swim more
than two lengths of the pool underwater in just one breath.
Because Joey now was an
American citizen, he had the honor of being drafted into the American army in
1966 and being sent to Vietnam to go to war to save the world for
democracy.  On one unfortunate day when
he was slogging through the rice paddies or dense jungles, he contracted
malaria and was removed to the rear.  He
was given time to recover his strength and eventually returned to the front
lines.  His company received enemy fire,
and Joey did not survive.  His family was
notified.  He was only twenty-two.
As I drove Mr. Bodnar up the
hill, I mentioned that Nicholas was in my class.  Mr. Bodnar then quietly asked me, “Did you
know Joey?”  I replied, “Yes,” and said
that I had admired him.  There was a
moment of silence, after which Mr. Bodnar, in a soft, tearful voice, said,
“They killed my Joey.”
It was clear to me what Mr.
Bodnar meant.  The “they” that he was
referring to were not the Vietnamese people who had killed Joey; the “they”
were not some faceless enemy.  The “they”
he was referring to was the American government that had the legal right to
draft this naturalized boy and send him off to war, adding him to the 58,000
others who were killed in Vietnam – – a boy from a family that had fled Hungary
to escape violence and governmental oppression, who had come to America to find
peace and safety.  I deeply felt the
tragic irony of Joey’s fate.
We came to the address where
Mr. Bodnar was to do some work.  He
opened the door and got out, thanking me for the ride.  I sincerely wished him well.  After the door closed and I continued on, Mr.
Bodnar’s painful lamentation continued to haunt me, “They killed my Joey.”  I never have forgotten.  Those words and the mournful sound of Mr.
Bodnar’s voice have remained with me ever since.
© 23 August 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.
Posted on

Clubs, by Will Stanton

Joining a club sometimes can
be a good fit, sometimes not.  DPMC, or
Denver Professional Men’s Club, is a euphemism.   I suppose that, if the club were located in
a more cosmopolitan area with a reputation for having a large gay population,
such as San Francisco, the club might have been named “Denver Gay Men’s
Club.”  Also, to me, “Professional Men’s
Club” sounds rather presumptuous.  All it
really means is that a member is supposed to have enough money to host and
cater large gatherings of around one hundred men, has an elegant home large
enough to accommodate such a group, and money to hire bartenders.
A few years ago, Dr. Bob
persuaded me to join DPMC and sponsored my application.  After all, “Not everyone is suitable for
admission.”  This reminds me of the
quotation attributed to Groucho Marx, “I wouldn’t want to be a member of any
group that would have me as a member;” for I do not have a very large,
expensive home, and I cannot afford to cater food for a hundred men or to hire
professional bartenders.  I did join
DPMC, albeit only briefly.  My rationale
was that I needed to get out more, meet more people, socialize more, because I
had been so isolated living alone and running a home office after the death of
my partner.
I generally am open-minded,
enjoy people’s company, and give people the benefit of the doubt unless proven
otherwise.  Eventually, however, I
realized that I was not particularly happy in DPMC.  So many of the members seemed so full of
themselves.  Everyone stood about,
shoulder to shoulder or occupying the various chairs and couches, chatting to
their few  selected friends to the
exclusion of others.  Most of the members
drank, some drank heavily.  There was
plenty of catered food, although the heavy drinkers often ignored food or
merely nibbled at it.  The gay bartenders
were kept very busy and made a lot in tips. 
I never have been big on alcohol. 
If I ever had a drink, it was only one, and that was for the taste, not
to get a buzz or to loosen up.  One
egotistic member, known to give private cocaine parties and popular with those
who attended, tried to give a recovering cocaine addict some cocaine as a
birthday present.  Those factors alone
set me apart from most of the members.
I made a point of
circulating among everyone, trying to get to know them.  I discovered, however, that the
long-established cliques tended to stay together and were little interested in
getting to know new members.  Also,
although ages ranged from early twenties to, in one case, early eighties, most
were at least a generation younger than I and clearly preferred to remain
within their own age group.  This
certainly was true in one particular case.
Long enough ago when
brick-front stores sold CDs and DVDs, as opposed to generally buying on-line, I
used to frequent Tower Records.  That
large store had a separate room for classical music so that those of us with
sensitive ears would not be accosted by the sound of pounding drums and
screeching pseudo-singers blaring from the speakers in the main part of the
store.  Naturally, I found few, more
discerning shoppers in the classical room. 
That is where I was surprised to find a boyishly-young shopper sorting
through the opera recordings.  We struck
up a conversation, and he mentioned that he was studying opera and sang
tenor.  We found that we had a lot of
interests in common.
I later discovered that this
young tenor was a member of DPMC.  I
found him chatting with a small group of twenty-somethings.  I greeted him and spoke with him for a moment;
however, I quickly felt that I was regarded as an intruder, my being older and
not a member of their clique.  It also
became apparent that another in that group had taken the young tenor as a
partner and preferred not having any strangers talking to him.  So, regardless of having similar musical
interests with the tenor, I did not fit in.
I found that the older
members of DPMC were more courteous and accepting of newcomers, yet I had
little in common with them.  The
eighty-two-year-old multi-millionaire, who made his money in Texas hogs, sheep,
and most likely some oil, lead an ostentatiously flamboyant life, as evidenced
by his owning a pink Rolls Royce, a much younger, former drag queen, and a
large home decorated in a style that would have embarrassed Liberace.  Yes, they were kind enough to invite me to
their Christmas party, but our interests were so different that we did not make
socializing together a regular habit.
The most unusual member whom
I met was Jimmy.  (I am leaving out his
surname.)  I was puzzled by his arrival
at a DPMC party one evening, his appearing to be no more than fourteen-years-old
and in the company of a tall man in his mid-forties.  I dismissed the idea that the older man had
the indiscretion to bring an underage partner, so I wondered why this man was
bringing his son or nephew to an adult party. 
Later in the evening, I noticed that Jimmy sat alone, abandoned,
ignored, and obviously very sad.  When I
witness people feeling hurt or sad, that distresses me.  So, I approached Jimmy to see if I could
cheer him up.
During our conversation,
Jimmy revealed that he had an off-again / on-again relationship with the tall
man, and was living with him.  I sensed
that Jimmy felt that he was being used but had no practical idea how to find an
alternative life.  I was interested to
hear that he loved classical music and owned a grand piano, although it had
been placed in storage because the tall man had no room for it, leaving Jimmy
without the opportunity to play.  He also
enjoyed opera and cooking.  I was able to
observe very clearly that he never smiled, that his apparent sense of sadness
and loneliness were disturbingly deep-seated. 
He surprised me when he mentioned that he was employed.  I also noticed that, contrary to Jimmy appearing
to be too young to shave, he sounded much more mature than a mere
fourteen.  I said to him, “I don’t wish
to be too personal in inquiring, but how old are you?”  He stunned me when he replied, “Forty.”  Trying in my mind to reconcile the dramatic
difference between his age and his appearance, I quickly concluded that he must
be an extremely rare case of Kallmann syndrome, an affliction of the
hypothalamus and pituitary gland that, at the very least, prevents
puberty.  I then understood Jimmy’s sense
of alienation and isolation, his being a forty-year-old man who looked
fourteen.  He being so different, he did
not have a sense of belonging.  
My having been working for
many years in behavioral health, I wished that there were some way that  I could help Jimmy and offered to be
available to talk with him if he desired. 
He seemed thankful and provided me with his full name and phone
number.  The next weekend, I phoned Jimmy
a few times to see how he was doing and if he needed someone to talk with.  I received no answer, and he did not call me
back.
At the next DPMC gathering,
Jimmy again appeared.  I spoke with him,
saying that I hoped that he was OK.  He
puzzled me when he stated that I could have phoned him.  I replied that I had but had received no answer.  About this time, a DPMC member with camera
came around, taking pictures for the next newsletter.  The moment Jimmy spotted him, he bolted from
his chair and hid behind a large fish tank, refusing to have his picture
taken.  The cameraman tried to persuade
Jimmy to come out from behind the fish tank and to have his picture taken, but
he adamantly refused.  I interpreted
Jimmy’s action as having been so self-conscious and unhappy with himself that
he would not allow his picture to be taken. 
I never saw Jimmy after that.  I
wonder what became of him.  I hope that
he has found happiness.
I did not stay in DPMC much
later, either, mostly because I was not impressed with what this club turned
out to be, and I did not find people with similar interests who could become
friends.  Another contributing factor was
that the events coordinator must have thought of himself as a twenty-something,
slam-dancing, hot club-guy; and he arranged events to suit himself, despite the
fact that most of the members were more mature than that.  He arranged for a Halloween party in a huge
warehouse and hired a DJ to play ear-splitting, pounding noise.  Literally, I could not remain in that
warehouse, even though I had stuffed paper napkins into my ears and stood in
the farthest corner away from the towering speakers.  The decibels must have been about twenty
points above the level that causes hearing damage.  I was forced to flee to the parking lot,
finally deciding that I might as well leave. 
There was no way I could go back inside and be comfortable, let alone
protect my hearing.
When I was about to leave, a
long limo with a bunch of queens and driven by a Russian émigré came into the
parking lot.  It just so happened that my
costume was that of a KGB officer, with a KGB general’s hat, black-leather
coat, trousers, boots, and gloves.  The
Russian noticed me immediately, came over, and addressed me in Russian, which,
obviously, I did not understand.  He turned
and walked away when he realized that I was not Russian and that my apparel was
merely a costume.
The events coordinator
arranged another gathering at a bar that was built like a concrete box.  Apparently he had hired the same DJ, who
played ear-damaging noise.  Several of us
fled to the rear of the building and finally left the event early when the bar
needed that area to set up for another event.  
Later, when I politely inquired of the events coordinator why he
arranged extremely loud events, he gave me a very snotty reply.  I increasingly became disillusioned with
DPMC.
There was one annual event
that was supposed to be very chique, the Christmas black-tie
dinner.  Formal tuxes were expected and
an extra fee charged.  I did not
attend.  Friends, who are no longer members,
have told me that they found the event rather artificial and ostentatious.  They, too, became disenchanted with DPMC and
quit.
The very last gathering I
attended consisted of several cliques that clung to each other and ignored
everyone else.  At that point, I finally
concluded that DPMC had almost nothing to offer me.  I let my membership lapse and ignored
membership-fee notices mailed to me.
Since then, I was introduced
to the Story Time group.  Here I have
found people who have something worthwhile to say, who have had interesting
lives, and who are interested in hearing about other’s experiences, thoughts,
and feelings.  These members are genuine
people who share without pretense and who provide a welcome atmosphere of
trust.  These are the people I look
forward to seeing each week.
 © 4 March 2015      
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

When I Get Old by Will Stanton

What do you mean, “When I get old”? What a weird topic suggestion. I already am old. And, why would I want to go and get it? That doesn’t make sense, considering all the problems associated with old.

I never got old. I became old, or one could say “I grew old.” But, I sure did not go out to get it. As far as I’m concerned, that would be like going to some place to get Ebola. If I had had some means of avoiding old, I would have done so.

If, for some inexplicable reason, one wished to go somewhere to get old, where would one go to get it? Are there shops that have old? Can one get old on-line, perhaps through Amazon? If so, how much do they charge for getting old? I assume that there are different sizes, colors, qualities, and prices for old. Considering what has happened to me now that I am old, I assume that the price can be quite high – – in my case, extremely high.

I don’t encounter very many young people; but if I do, I certainly won’t suggest that they go looking for old. That myth about the so-called “golden years” rarely lives up to its reputation. The only gold that I associate with old is what I need to pay for daily expenses, along with all the medical bills.

Now that old has been dumped on me, I “give it the finger.” Old is shabby and not worth the price.

© 9 February 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.

Posted on

Reputation by Will Stanton

I really was in the mood to prepare something more unusual and more interesting than just a run-of-the-mill story; but for a long time, the suggested topic “Reputation” did not inspire me. Naturally at first, I tried to think of a person whose reputation is remarkable. One came to mind, but I already have written about him.

On the other side of the coin and as occurs far too often, reputations are inflated, misleading, or even false. Quite often, a person’s reputation largely is the result of his “blowing his own horn,” in a sense, marketing himself. In contrast, those of us who, by nature or breeding, learned not to impose our own impressions of ourselves upon others suffer a lack of recognition and reward. Our accomplishments even may be met with skepticism because they are not widely known. My not settling upon any particular person, good or bad, I abandoned the thought of writing about a person.

Of course, the idea of reputation may apply to whole organizations, such as the I.R.S. or political organizations such as those financially supported by the Koch brothers, but I did not wish to upset my stomach and rejected them as a subject. Then, it occurred to me that reputation, good or bad, can apply to locations as well.

That’s when I decided to prepare something a little more amusing, writing about the abandoned Moonville railroad tunnel and all the wild rumors about it. Over the years, I have taken several rail-fan friends there to see it. The idea to write about it was sparked when I was doing a Google-search for railroad history near my home-town, and I stumbled upon an astonishing number of videos and websites devoted to supposed ghostly apparitions associated with the tunnel. This widespread reputation keeps growing. All one needs to do is talk to any person residing in the general area of the tunnel or just look on Google or YouTube for stories, pictures, and videos.

The ironic, but not surprising, reputation of the Moonville tunnel has nothing to do with reality or the utilitarian purpose of its construction but, rather, the generations of people who have imposed their fantasies upon the tunnel. Apparently, a large portion of the human population is prone to eagerly embrace such fantasies and escalate their spread.

Here is the factual history of the tunnel. Early in the nineteenth century, people living and working in southern Ohio decided that they needed a railroad to ship coal and iron, to take goods and produce to market, and to more conveniently move passengers. The construction of the Marietta and Ohio Railroad began in 1845. By 1856, the line had reached into the wilds of the isolated Zaleski Forest, named after a Polish count who had been persuaded to invest in the railroad with the hope of profiting from the coal reserves lying in the area. Vinton County remains as the most heavily forested and least populated county in Ohio. More memorable for me is the fact that the area surrounding Moonville is rather desolate, gloomy, inhospitable, and can be reached only by circuitous gravel roads through the forest. That alone can contribute to a person’s developing strange feelings about Moonville.

The tiny village of Moonville was built to house railroad-construction workers, miners, and those forging artillery pieces at nearby Hope Furnace for the Union army. The village consisted of a small row of clapboard houses, a general store, saloon, a saw mill along Raccoon Creek, and a cemetery atop the high ridge just to the east. At its peak in 1876, Moonville housed only around one hundred people. By 1947, the last family left, and the remaining structures crumbled into nothing. Only a few sandstone foundation stones remain.

It was that high ridge that obstructed the railroad without its having to be diverted in a large loop along Raccoon Creek to the other side. So, a tunnel was dug out and lined with brick. Above each portal, protruding bricks proudly spelled the name “Moonville.”

By 1887, the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad had crossed into Ohio, and they bought the Marietta and Cincinnati, using it as the main southwestern line from Washington to Cincinnati and St. Louis. In the later 20th century, in addition to freight-train traffic, Amtrak leased the rights to run passenger trains on the line. The one time in the early ’80s that I decided to go to Athens by train turned out to be the very last run of the Amtrak “Shenandoah” on the southwest line and through the Moonville Tunnel.

 The final owner, CSX Corporation, tired of maintaining that mainline through the low and isolated Zaleski Forest and cleaning up train wrecks such as the coal train that I saw tipped over right at the eastern portal. They abandoned the line by 1988 and pulled up the track, ties, and the short bridge near the west portal. I was surprised that CSX, out of any over-concern about potential injury and liability, did not close the tunnel by blowing up the portals. Instead, a portion of the line has been turned from rails into trails, allowing people to hike through the tunnel.

Because of Moonville’s isolated and unusual setting, tales of hauntings around the tunnel began as early as the 1890s. I suppose that it’s human nature to imagine experiencing paranormal phenomena and to weave tales about what they supposedly saw. Usually, such tales surround tragic events and deaths. There certainly were some incidents over 150 years, although such things can happen anywhere. It’s just that Moonville Tunnel makes for such an appropriate setting.

During the 19th century, the job of railroad brakeman was one of the most dangerous jobs known. Sure enough in 1859, a brakeman fell off a train near Moonville and was run over.

Over the years, local people often avoided the winding roads and made a habit of walking the rails, taking a shortcut through the tunnel, or hopping freights for a more direct route to Moonville. In 1866, a ten-year-old girl was walking on the small bridge near the west portal and was hit by a train. In 1876, thirteen-year-old Henry Sharkey hopped a freight, tried to jump off near Moonville, and was run over. In 1880, James Hood road a freight train from Athens to Moonville, jumped off, but smacked his head on a post. Mrs. Patrick Shay was trying to cross that same bridge in 1905 and was killed by a locomotive. Allen Albaugh hopped a freight in 1907 and fell off near the tunnel. Coal-miner Rastus Dexter took a shortcut through the tunnel in 1920 but did not make it to the other end. As recently as 1986, a girl scout on a hike tried to beat a train across the bridge.

There were a few other kinds of deaths, too. David Keeton was murdered along side the tracks in 1886, and another man was murdered in the Moonville Tavern in 1936.

But it was the 1880 head-on train crash that has sparked the most tales over the years. The tales spun around this incident grew to the point that someone even wrote a folk ballad about it. Starting with westbound train No. 99 in 1895 and for generations afterwards, locals told tales of a ghostly railroad man with a lantern trying to stop approaching trains near the tunnel. Rumor has it that this occurred so often that engineers were instructed to ignore such visions in the area of Moonville.

What amazes and amuses me is that the current generation of teenagers, college students, and locals, have not only perpetuated the tales surrounding Moonville Tunnel but actually have increased their number. Clusters of kids make the long trek through the Zaleski Forest to experience, what they hope to be, ghostly encounters. So called “ghost clubs” have sprung up, and whole groups come out to the tunnel, sometimes even at night, bringing their cameras and sound equipment. Often, they do convince themselves that they have witnessed something strange. A college student swore in 1993 that he actually saw a swinging lantern in the tunnel. Then these young ghost-hunters, fascinated with their experiences, upload their stories, pictures, and videos onto the web.

The unfortunate result of all this attention to the Moonville Tunnel and its reputation is that many kids have felt the urge to spray-paint graffiti throughout the tunnel and over the bricks forming the name on each portal. Fortunately, the cemetery on the hill above the tunnel has been left alone. Mother Nature has not been so crass as the kids have been, but she has contributed to the decay of the area around the tunnel. Within a few short years, new trees and shrubs have crowded in on either side of the railroad right-of-way, and soil has crumbled down upon the path.

Moonville is a perfect example of reputation based upon people’s perception and imagination rather than more prosaic facts. It also is a good example of how such a reputation can grow and spread. Once this happens, people are less interested in hearing facts, especially when the facts are far less exciting than the myths. After all, the Moonville myths are so much more fun.


© 9 October 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.