Tag: Winston Churchill

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YWCA, by Gillian

It was October 20th 1964 when I arrived at the door of the YWCA.

My friends and I were delivered there, so my diary tells me, by a very chatty driver of a huge orange and yellow taxi. We did not, my past self informs my present self, understand a single word he said the entire way from the pier where the Queen Elizabeth liner had docked that morning, to the ‘Y’ in mid-town Manhattan. I knew at that moment exactly what Sir Winston Churchill meant when he said that Britain and the U.S. were two countries divided by a common language.

My tattered old diary pages tell me little of the ‘Y’ itself – I record the address at 610 Lexington Avenue, and dismiss it as ‘dark, dirty and dingy’. In the event, we stayed there for only five nights. Immediately we all had jobs, we rented a cramped furnished apartment at 161 Madison Avenue. I say little of this place in my diary; I imagine I was suppressing it. As I recall, it well surpassed the ‘Y’ for dark, dirty and dingy. From this apartment we began the daily grind of American everyday life. But the first four days I spent in this country, wandering out in ever expanding circles from the ‘Y’ to explore my new country, everything was as exotic and constantly astonishing to me as if I had landed on mars.

I had rarely experienced central heating constantly blasting into every nook and cranny. The buildings all seemed dreadfully overheated and stuffy, to me. The UK was then, and to a large extent still is, a country of open windows no matter the weather. I found so many permanently closed, and in fact physically un-openable, windows to be very claustrophobic. The next weekend, when we went looking for somewhere to rent, one of the few pre-requisites we all agreed on was – windows that can be opened. That one thing considerable narrowed our choices.

Food was a source of never-ending amazement. On the first night, wandering around Washington Square with four young men we had met on the ship, we stumbled upon a dark, airless, overheated little cafe where they served one item. Steak and baked potato for one dollar. With a Ballentine’s beer, $1.25. No variations, no additions. It was smoky and loud. The tables were sticky. Who cared?? Non of us, all from Britain, had eaten much steak; two of the men, and I, had never had it. The man at the counter asked, we gathered after his third attempt, if we wanted medium or rare. We hadn’t a clue what that meant. Honestly, talk about ‘right off a da boat’!

In our homes you got whatever it was as it came. On the rare occasions we had eaten out, fish of various kinds took up most of the menu. Mutton and pork was sometimes available, with no choice of how it was cooked, roast beef possibly, especially for the Grand Occasion of Sunday Lunch, but steak was available only to the rich. And here it was, before our very eyes and almost in our hungry mouths, for a dollar. We ate there every night until we all had jobs, and quite often after that.

Another huge surprise was coffee shops. By that time we had them in Britain; for some reason they were mostly Italian and they all served what these days we would probably call lattes, with little consideration for anyone who might prefer their coffee black. If you wanted your cup refilled, you paid the same again. Small sidewalk coffee shops abounded in Manhattan. For a nickel you got a cup of black coffee; indeed a bottomless cup, as some almost disembodied hand kept re-filling it. It came with a little glass milk-bottle-shaped container of cream, languishing in the saucer. Cups, even those which were vaguely more mug-shaped, still came with saucers in those days.

So, we discovered, we could satisfy our hunger for $1.30 a day: endless cups of coffee in the morning, skip lunch, steak and potato and a beer for dinner.

But, when we ranged a little further afield on our third day, we found the most incredible gastronomic emporium yet – the Horn and Hardart Automat. None of us had conceived of such an establishment in our wildest dreams. We watched, silently, as by then we had learned to do, to avoid the fools rushing in mode of operation. Perhaps some of you remember these places, the last one of which closed down in 1991, Wikipedia informs me. This one was one big room with small tables with chairs, and a long counter with stools. The walls seemed to be made of many many little glass panels. Behind each pane was displayed an item of pecuniary delight: slices of pie, sandwiches, cookies, cold cuts, salads, cheese, cooked meats and vegetables. Cafeterias I was very familiar with, but not of this style. First you exchanged your cash for Horn and Hardart tokens, small brass objects with H & H stamped on them, to insert in the required slots. Many doors opened at the drop of a nickel or dime, some more luxurious items required a quarter. We loved it! The surroundings were insalubrious, to say the least, but there were many choices available and you could eat well, if plainly, for less than a buck. And we were broke. We alternated the Automat and the $1.25 steak and potato for a week or two – at least until our first paychecks.

Out of curiosity, while writing this, I googled my first two addresses on American soil. I couldn’t find out much about that particular YWCA, but it is still at the same address. In the only street-view photo I could find, it still looks dark, dirty, and dingy! The old Warrington Hotel, however, at 161 Madison Avenue, appears to be significantly gentrified. It now appears to be a mix of small businesses and medical offices. The only one I could find for sale is 1200 square feet and described as a ‘medical business condo’ for lease Monday – Friday at $8000/month.

I’m assuming it becomes an ‘airbnb’ or something similar on weekends. I did not record the size of our apartment there, but I wrote that it had a kitchen, dining room and two bedrooms. We paid $178/month. For the extra $7,822, without weekends, I hope it’s a whole lot less dark, dirty, and dingy now!

© June 2016

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

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Cow-Town, by Will Stanton

“Cow-Town” generally has two definitions. The first, obvious one connotes a city or town that is noted for being involved in the cattle-trade. This is an old, traditional definition. The second meaning implies that a city or town, along with its inhabitants, is to some degree uninformed, uncultured, and unsophisticated. I remember while I was growing up in Ohio, Columbus was regarded as a “cow-town” for those reasons. I haven’t been back there for a generation, so probably it has changed some. I have heard that it has. For some time, Denver, too, was considered to be a “cow-town,” although it still is connected with the cattle trade and life-style.

While considering this topic “cow-town,” I began to ponder just how many cities, towns, and villages in the U.S. would fit that second definition. That reputation would have little or nothing to do with cows, nor the dazzle of modern infrastructure or sky-scrapers. It would have more to do with people, the inhabitants of those places.

I have been a long-term observer of human behavior, society, culture, and politics, particularly politics over the last thirty years and culminating with this Presidential election. I know that this conclusion may sound cynical, but I’m beginning to think that many municipalities might be considered to be “cow-towns,” regardless of size, based upon so many people being ill-informed, unsophisticated, uncultured, along with, too often, morally bankrupt.

For example, I’ve witnessed millions of Americans enthusiastically supporting politicians who spew fear, hate, anger, and who promote programs that are profoundly harmful, rather than beneficial. I have been forced to conclude that this reality of today defies all reason. I am unable to comprehend how so many Americans can be so delusional and apparently without moral-compass, failing to think and behave according to the “better angels of their natures.”

Whereas as the Democratic party, whatever its mistakes, weaknesses, or disliked candidates, does try to create policies and programs designed to improve society and the nation, the other does not. Increasingly over the last thirty years, it appears that those radicals who have taken over the Republican have focused only upon attempts to garner and to maintain power; and they have succeeded dramatically. Democrats have allowed themselves to be blind-sided and have been very slow in reacting. For example, Republican operatives cleverly figured out years ago that all they had to do was to grab power in state-houses, then gerrymander voting districts to disenfranchise Democratic voters. Records show that, in several states, Democrats have won discernible majorities of the votes; however, they have been given in those states only twenty-some percent of the seats in Congress. So much for democracy. The voting public was so unsophisticated that it allowed this to happen.

Today’s so-called “Republicans” appear to have to resort to stealing elections (sometimes with seriously felonious machinations, which I could go into detail covering the last sixty years), rather than presenting to the American public viable programs that could help the nation and its citizens. They seem to vote so consistently against good measures and, instead, vote for greedy, harmful ones. I’m not religious, but I wonder whether these nefarious power-brokers have consciously chosen to be in league with Beelzebub.

Why are so many Americans so unsophisticated that they allow themselves to be manipulated into feelings of fear, hate, anger, deep delusions, and to voting even against their own best interests and that of the nation? Could we consider ignorance and irrationality part of being unsophisticated? I certainly think so, regardless of how sophisticated some believe they are.

In addition to egocentric manipulators’ unbridled grab for power, there also is the sad emphasis upon greed. Why do a few feel entitled to billions of dollars while the majority of the population struggle? Where is the logic? Where is the empathy and care for others?

I suppose the word “culture” may be defined in two ways, also. One may use it in general terms to denote a wide spectrum of a nation’s society. It legitimately also may be used to connote the highest quality of humankind’s creative efforts in art, music, architecture, and societal interactions. In this nation, however, culture, in that second sense, no longer appears to be of any importance to the majority of the American population, especially in contrast to some other nations, where the people and their governments care for, and support, culture. During World War II, the British Chancellor of the Exchequer suggested to Prime Minister Winston Churchill that financial support should be cut off from all British cultural programs of art and music and, instead, be added to the war-effort. Churchill’s reply was, “No. Why else are we fighting?” Churchill obviously understood the importance of creating and maintaining a high level of culture in a civilized country.

In just the last eighteen years, the United States has lost 1,083 symphony orchestras, in addition to numerous opera companies, ballet companies, and school programs in art and music. Hours of operation for libraries and museums have been shortened. Apparently, most Americans just do not seem to care. They would much rather be entertained by far less sophisticated diversions. At the same time that America has been rapidly losing its culture, the American taxpayer has shelled out 5.4 billion dollars to build twenty-two new football stadiums just since 1997. Then there is pro-wrestling, cage-fighting, monster-truck contests, and rap. No, it is not “just a matter of taste,” as some claim. Medical/psychological research has documented that much of the nation’s population prefers humanly toxic exposures rather than beneficial, uplifting experiences. Of course, as today’s Republicans constantly remind us, “Science should not be believed, nor does it matter. Culture does not matter, either.”

And, this is where I get back to “cow-towns.” If “cow-towns” are made up of people who are ignorant, uncultured, and unsophisticated, then there must be many, many such places in America. My concerns bring to mind some thought-provoking words from one of the most brilliant authors of the 20-21st-century, David Cornwell (pen-name John le Carré), from his superlative book “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy.” I often quote these words. With one of the major characters, Carré had him speak feelings of dismay and sense of betrayal: “Do you know what is killing western democracy? Greed – – and constipation – – moral, political, aesthetic, – – – the economic repression of the masses, institutionalized.” Those words of condemnation were written forty-two years ago. Now look at us. Welcome to a nation of “cow-towns.”

© 20 July 2016

About the Author

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

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Any Writing is Experimental, by Will Stanton

Any
writing, especially when one first endeavors to write, is experimental.  This is particularly true for those not well
versed or prone to writing.  As one
becomes more accomplished, the need for experimentation is reduced but rarely
eliminated.
The
primary function of writing (and speaking, for that matter) is to communicate
clearly, conveying accurately what is meant to be said.  If that is achieved, the secondary
consideration is to communicate in an engaging manner through a good command of
language and perhaps, when appropriate, with humor.
The
main advantage of writing, versus attempting to speak extemporaneously, is one
is given the chance, in advance of presentation, to organize one’s thoughts and
words.  In that way, the presenter has a
good chance of eliminating pauses or non-verbal utterances while searching for
the next thing to say.  This also
prevents one from repeating or wandering astray onto unrelated and unnecessary
sidetracks.  The presenter also has the
advantage of not droning on, losing the main point or topic meant to be
conveyed and, consequently, driving the listeners to distraction.  The presentation should be no more nor less
than required.
A
colleague of mine, Dr. Hughes, made an in-depth study of well-known
speakers.  He concluded that the most
effective, extemporaneous speaker was, unfortunately, Adolf Hitler.  Winston Churchill found it impossible.  He had to write and re-write his speeches and
then practice them until he felt comfortable presenting them.
Over
the years, I regularly was required to speak extemporaneously in my
therapeutic-group sessions, in lectures regarding some of my other interests,
and even, for fun, spontaneously creating and relating stories.  Apparently, I’ve inherited a modicum of
verbal skills.
I
still find, however, reviewing and fine-tuning early drafts beneficial.  The main reason is that imagery and memories
are clear to me, yet they may not be clear to listeners unless I make sure that
I express them clearly.  As a
consequence, I always begin early thinking through and writing about a topic,
rather than waiting to the last moment or, perhaps, not writing at all.
I
am aware of only one super-genius who never had to rethink or revise what he
wrote, and that was the superlative composer Mozart.  He could perform one of his piano concertos,
then at the same time compose another in his head, and finally, upon returning
home, set the new concerto down on paper without a single change or
correction.  Obviously, that skill is
astonishing.  Most of us, however, are
not so astonishing, and experimenting with our writing still is required.
© 14 July 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

Any Writing is Experimental, by Will Stanton

Any
writing, especially when one first endeavors to write, is experimental.  This is particularly true for those not well
versed or prone to writing.  As one
becomes more accomplished, the need for experimentation is reduced but rarely
eliminated.
The
primary function of writing (and speaking, for that matter) is to communicate
clearly, conveying accurately what is meant to be said.  If that is achieved, the secondary
consideration is to communicate in an engaging manner through a good command of
language and perhaps, when appropriate, with humor.
The
main advantage of writing, versus attempting to speak extemporaneously, is one
is given the chance, in advance of presentation, to organize one’s thoughts and
words.  In that way, the presenter has a
good chance of eliminating pauses or non-verbal utterances while searching for
the next thing to say.  This also
prevents one from repeating or wandering astray onto unrelated and unnecessary
sidetracks.  The presenter also has the
advantage of not droning on, losing the main point or topic meant to be
conveyed and, consequently, driving the listeners to distraction.  The presentation should be no more nor less
than required.
A
colleague of mine, Dr. Hughes, made an in-depth study of well-known
speakers.  He concluded that the most
effective, extemporaneous speaker was, unfortunately, Adolf Hitler.  Winston Churchill found it impossible.  He had to write and re-write his speeches and
then practice them until he felt comfortable presenting them.
Over
the years, I regularly was required to speak extemporaneously in my
therapeutic-group sessions, in lectures regarding some of my other interests,
and even, for fun, spontaneously creating and relating stories.  Apparently, I’ve inherited a modicum of
verbal skills.
I
still find, however, reviewing and fine-tuning early drafts beneficial.  The main reason is that imagery and memories
are clear to me, yet they may not be clear to listeners unless I make sure that
I express them clearly.  As a
consequence, I always begin early thinking through and writing about a topic,
rather than waiting to the last moment or, perhaps, not writing at all.
I
am aware of only one super-genius who never had to rethink or revise what he
wrote, and that was the superlative composer Mozart.  He could perform one of his piano concertos,
then at the same time compose another in his head, and finally, upon returning
home, set the new concerto down on paper without a single change or
correction.  Obviously, that skill is
astonishing.  Most of us, however, are
not so astonishing, and experimenting with our writing still is required.
© 14 July 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

Reputation, by Gillian

Reputation is an idle
and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving. –
William Shakespeare
As most often,
I completely agree with you, Will.  A
reputation is a dangerous thing; good or bad, yours or someone else’s.  I guess the essence of their threat lies in
the fact that we all tend to become sucked in by them, rather than by the
reality of a person’s character. And, again, this is as true of our own as of
others’. Being fooled by another person’s reputation, or image, is dangerous.
Being led astray from your real self by your own, can be disastrous.
Reputations,
and the images they create of us, can stay pretty stable throughout a lifetime,
but for many of us they are fluid, changing as we grow. Who doesn’t know that
wild child with the dreadful reputation in high school, who grew up to be a
boringly conventional pillar of the community? Nevertheless that past
reputation can hang around. Who has completely forgotten Chappaquiddick? It
followed Ted Kennedy to his grave and beyond into the history books. The same
for Monica Lewinsky, who will forever haunt Clinton’s reputation.
I’m not sure
whether reputations have become more insidious in our modern word, or less.
In the days
when most of us lived in small communities where everyone knew everyone else,
it was hard for anyone to escape their established reputation and build a new
one. You aren’t going to employ Bob to put in your new windows. He got caught
shop-lifting at the dime store when he was ten. Probably rips off all his glass
from some place. And as for letting Mary baby-sit. Remember how she knocked her
baby sister off the chair that time? Well, yes, probably was an accident but
still ……   
These days, we
tend not to know that the woman selling us insurance used to beat her children,
or that the man fixing our car is a longtime alcoholic. On the other hand,
anything you do or say can swoop around the world in a nanosecond, and if
whatever it is goes viral, God help you!
I believe a
lot of what Facebook is about is changing reputations, your own and others’,
which is surely much easier to do these days than back in the small town where
you were the town drunk for life no matter that you had been on the wagon for
half of your life.
Winston
Churchill was a perfect example of changing reputations. Come to that, he still
is.  His youthful military escapades were
a mixed bag, but, never lacking in ego, by the age of 26 he had published five
books about them. His reputation was mixed, but he was made Lord of the Admiralty
at the ridiculously young age of 37. Sadly for him, and alas much sadder for
the 250,000 casualties, his poorly-conceived Siege of the Dardanelles during
WW1 was a total disaster and he was forced to resign, with his reputation in
tatters. He immediately redeemed much of it by consigning himself to trench
warfare, where he reportedly fought with vigor and valor.
Between the
wars, his constant warnings of impending and inevitable war with Germany again
diminished his reputation. No-one wanted to hear it. The Boer War was not so
long over, and the British were not up for another. But when Germany broke its
promises and invaded Poland, Churchill was proven right and his reputation
soared. Almost instantaneously he was made Prime Minister and, with his reputation
as that British Bulldog thundering around him, proclaimed by most as Britain’s
savior. His very reputation, along with endless stirring speeches, did much to
keep spirits high under desperate conditions, and to keep most Britons
determined to go on fighting.
But that
reputation, as a supreme fighter who would never give up, lost all appeal the
moment the war ended. Churchill’s hawkish reputation coupled with his endless
warnings over the new threat from the Soviets, were too scary for peace-time. Two
months later Winston Churchill was defeated soundly at the polls.
His ego,
however, remained undaunted. He had no fear for his reputation.  “History,” he pronounced,
“Will be kind to me for I intend to write it.”  Which he did. Over his lifetime he wrote 43
books in 72 volumes.
But still he
was unable completely to preserve a positive reputation.  Although for many years it was considered
akin to blasphemy to criticize such a great hero, that is no longer the case.
There is much discussion these days as to whether Churchill was, to quote Dr.
Andrew Roberts, “Brilliant Statesman or Brutal Demagogue.” Just from
his own quotations, he was clearly misogynistic and racist, but in his day that
was not condemned as it is today. So reputations change not only as a person
changes, and events change, but as attitudes change.
And so we
re-write history.
It’s hard to
be sure what one’s own reputation is. Probably, in many cases, not exactly what
we think it is or would like it to be. I do know that when I was married the
first time, to a man, we were considered a really strong, stable couple. I know
that because our friends were so utterly shocked when we split up. And, in so
many ways, that reputation was valid. Except for one teensy weensy detail which
no-one knew.  In one way our reputation
as a married couple was true. In another, it was as far off as it could be. But
I was the only one who knew that; and I played my part so well.
When I came
out, I became a bit confused. I wasn’t at all sure what the archetypal lesbian
would be; but whatever it was, that’s what I would become. I observed carefully
in this new world, and acted accordingly to create a new reputation, a new
version of myself. Thankfully, this stage did not last long.  
You’re doing
it again! I said to myself. Your entire life you
have created a false reputation for yourself, and now you’re finally free,
you’re doing it again! STOP!
So I did.
And for over
30 years now, I have simply been me. I don’t know what kind of reputation I
have.  I don’t care. A reputation is
simply others’ visions, versions, of me. It may or may not be anywhere near the
truth. It simply doesn’t matter.
Free at last!
© October 2014 
About the Author 
I
was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to
the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the
Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised
four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting
myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25
years.
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Right Now by Gillian

Right now, I could die happy. We don’t exactly control, at least consciously, what thoughts and feelings flit into our psyches and this came unbidden into my head as we drove east on California Highway 78, leaving San Marcos where Betsy and I had been married a couple of hours earlier. First the thought flooded me with emotion, but then it seemed a strange reaction when I thought about it. Why DIE happy? Shouldn’t it be, live happily ever after? Nevertheless, that is what I thought and felt at that moment, and much of it is still with me. Maybe age has something to do with it: it affects most things. I’m not a twenty-one year old running off to get married, but a seventy-one year old who has waited 26 years to marry the love of her life.

Right now, as we head at top speed into the Holiday Season, I’m sure I shouldn’t have any thoughts of death in my head. I should have visions of birth and rebirth and focus on how wonderful life is. Which it is; at least mine is, and it’s the only one I am qualified to discuss. And for the wonder of my life I am most sincerely thankful, and more grateful still for my awareness of that wonder. Many many people in this world do not live wonderful lives, for many many reasons. But others do live, are living, wonderful lives and do not know it. How sad is that? All those, many of them already rich, who constantly seek more and yet more money, and all that it will buy. They are stuck with this illusion of some future wonderful life which will magically be available if they get that extra car or if they buy a bigger house or if that multi-million dollar bonus comes through. “When the terrible ifs accumulate,” Winston Churchill once warned, disaster looms.

And speaking of a wonderful life, the movie will be on TV several times in the next couple of weeks, I’m sure. I used to watch it faithfully every Christmas, first with my kids and then without them. Now I am over seventy and have reached the stage that I can lip sync every word, it has rather lost it’s appeal. Familiarity has bred, not contempt, but perhaps a little boredom. But both “It’s a Wonderful Life,” and “A Christmas Carol,” in it’s many movie iterations, present the same theme; accepting the reality that you have, right now, without the addition of one single thing, a wonderful life. And perhaps, then, it does make sense to feel that you can now die happy. After all, if you have lived a wonderful life, what more can you possibly want?

I haven’t always known that my life was wonderful. Being GLBT in an overwhelmingly straight world tends to skew somewhat your view of your life and yourself. But many years ago I turned a huge corner on that. It suddenly came to me one day, as unexpectedly as the blazing newsflash, “Now I Can Die Happy.” Not only was I, at that moment, OK with being gay, but much more I was actually grateful for it. And I have been ever since. Why? Perhaps you ask, or perhaps you have no need to. Well, right now is the perfect example. Can you take this Monday story telling group that we so value, and put it into a traditional straight setting? I can’t.

Right now, a friend of ours and her partner are meeting with Hospice. She has been diagnosed with inoperable cancer. Will she, after a time of adjustment, be able to feel she can die happy? I wish her that kind of peace, but it’s not easy to “go … gently into that good night,” as Dylan Thomas expressed it. We want to kick and fight and scream. It’s fine for me to have that overwhelming sensation of being ready to die happy when I’m not, as far as I know, facing death in the immediate future. Last year I had just enough of a cancer scare to make me realize that, right now, any sentence of death would be very hard to face with equanimity, whatever inspiration might have hit me on that California highway.

I guess it’s one of life’s paradoxes. When our lives are the best they have ever been, we are able to feel that right now we could die happy. Like quitting while you’re at the top of your game. But in truth I want to enjoy my wonderful life a little longer. I think perhaps I could die happy, but preferably not right now!

© December 2013

About
the Author


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