Bumper Stickers, by Gillian

Bumper stickers, to me, are a kind of precursor of Facebook. I don't partake in Facebook because my miserably puny ego cannot begin to imagine there is one person out there in cyberspace, let alone millions, remotely interested in what I did yesterday or what I think of today, or what I think of anything. Similarly, I assume that the people in the car behind me have little interest in who I voted, or plan to vote, for. Neither do they care that I want to free Tibet or Texas, am ALREADY AGAINST THE NEXT WAR or that my daughter is an honor student at Dingledum High.

It strikes me as a very strange, and I think almost uniquely American, need; this urge we seem to have to tell everyone around us such facts about ourselves. It's only, what, three generations ago at the most, that no-one would dream of telling anyone how they voted - even if someone asked, which of course no one would. Now we apparently feel compelled to scream it to all those complete strangers who chance to glance at our car. I'm no psychologist but surely it must be all about ego? My candidate is better than yours. My causes are greater than yours. I am right and so, if you think differently, you are wrong. I'm a better parent than you, see, with my honor student daughter and my son who plays football for the Dingledum Dummies. And I proudly display a Dingledum University sticker, managing to imply even higher levels of success. I even have a better dog than you, as I proclaim BULLDOGS ARE THE BEST BREED.

Sadly, these things have now gone beyond simple proclamations. They are frequently derogatory, angry, and confrontational. That poor Honor Student particularly seems to attract attention, as in MY KID CAN BEAT UP YOUR HONOR STUDENT, or MY SON IS FIGHTING FOR THE FREEDOM OF YOUR HONOR STUDENT. No longer content with advertising how we vote, or don't, we now have to add a comment. VOTE DEMOCRAT. IT'S EASIER THAN WORKING or VOTE REPUBLICAN FOR GOD, GUNS AND GUTS.

In our gun-crazy, polarized, society, I am constantly surprised that those kind of bumper stickers don't engender more violence, and also those commanding that you HONK YOUR HORN IF YOU'VE FOUND JESUS, HONK IF YOU HATE OBAMA or HONK YOUR HORN IF YOU SUPPORT GUN CONTROL, the latter a clear invitation to be shot, if you ask me. Al Capone supposedly said that an armed society is a polite society but that doesn't seem to hold for bumper stickers!

Some stickers, I have to say, are creative and funny. There's little that cheers me up faster when I'm stuck in a traffic jam, than a good laugh at the bumper sticker in front of me. A WOMAN NEEDS A MAN LIKE A FISH NEEDS A BICYCLE is one of my favorites, along with TV IS GOODER THAN BOOKS and INVEST IN YOUR COUNTRY - BUY A CONGRESSMAN, and one most of us can relate to, INSIDE EVERY OLD PERSON IS A YOUNG PERSON WONDERING WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED.

I confess I have not always been totally immune to bumper sticker appeal. My car sported a U.S. NAVY sticker when my oldest stepson signed up, to be joined by U.S. MARINES SEMPER FI when my youngest went that direction. But that was simply to show my support to my stepsons, not to anyone else. Which of course is probably, in large part, the justification for all those honor student stickers. I only once succumbed to the political cause sticker, and that was in 1992 when I felt strongly enough about it to post VOTE NO ON AMENDMENT 2 on my bumper.

As I waited at a stop sign in Denver one day, another car pulled up close behind and a man with a tire iron in his fist jumped out. He ran at my car, yelling queer abuse, and brought the iron bar down just as the traffic cleared and I was able to gun the car forward. The blow broke the rear side window and I sped into the nearby King Soopers parking lot where I knew there would at least be a security guard. But the crazy guy didn't follow, and that was the end of the incident.

And, call me coward if you like, it was also the end of my brief involvement with bumper stickers.

© 5 Jan 2015 

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 28 years.

Depravity, by Will Stanton

[Public Figures]

Herman “999” Cain

Coach Jerry Sandusky

Sheriff Pat Sullivan

Former House Majority Leader Newt Gingrich
Former House Majority Leader Dennis Hastert

Gov. Mark Sanford

Senator John Ensign

Rep. Mark Folly

Rep. John Gibbons

Rep. Don Sherwood

Congressman Anthony Weiner

Senator Larry Craig

Wisconsin State Senator Randy Hopper

CA State Senator Roy Ashburn

Mit Romney aid Matthew Elliott

Florida State Rep. Bob Allen

Prosecutor John Atchison

Judge Ronald Kline

S. Dakota Rep. Ted Klaudt

PA Congressman Joseph McDade

Christian Coalition Chairman Louis Beres

Anti-John-Kerry ad producer Carey Cramer

Christian Conservative Activist Jeff Nielson

NY Committee Chairman Jeff Patti

FL Rep. and Chairman of John McCain’s Presidential campaign Bob Allen.

Party Chairman Jim Stelling

Whitehouse religious adviser Ted Haggard

Mayor John Gossack

Mayor Jeff Randall

National Chairman of the Young Republicans Glenn Murphy Jr.

Focus on the Family's Physician Resource Council and Bush appointee -- W. David Hager

And certainly NOT last or least,

Neal Horsley who (among other things, has called for the arrest and imprisonment of all homosexuals) admitted in an interview with Alan Colmes on the Fox News Radio to having engaged in sex with a mule.  He said, “When you grow up on a farm in Georgia, your first girlfriend is a mule.” He then credited Jesus with forgiving him and cleansing him of his “sin.”  

Incidentally, one of the people named above is a Democrat.

© 9 Sep 2012 

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. 

Being Gay Is ..., by Ricky

Being gay is a many splintered thing. A gay person faces many splinters during their lifetime.  If these splinters are not removed and the wounds treated properly, the splinters will remain under the skin working their way deeper and deeper into a person’s psyche infecting the brain with festering and toxic mental traumas.

One such trauma is the lack of knowledge resulting in confusion as to why one feels “different” from other boys while growing up; resulting in making interpersonal mistakes at a young age and becoming labeled, shunned, isolated, or assaulted. These negative experiences last for years or a lifetime if not diagnosed and treated.

Since the seeds of a happy life are sown from the moment we are born, traumatic splinters must be removed as soon as discovered lest their toxicity prevents the seeds of happiness from growing and propagating.

In America, gay orientation is slowly being tolerated on the way to becoming acceptable to the heterosexual culture.  I anticipate that today’s gay youth may have fewer splinters in their lives and may live to see a time when gay boys and girls can become complete and mentally undamaged or traumatized by toxic attitudes towards them.

© 29 September 2014 

About the Author 

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I was sent to live with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com. 

Tat, by Phillip Hoyle

I had proven myself the occasional social drinker and social smoker, but there was to be more. I became a social tattoo wearer. Not the temporary tattoos, not henna patterns from the subcontinent, not painted designs like kids wear at festivals. No, I got a tattoo, a permanent crescent moon with its old man looking thoughtfully on my life: its constancy, its changes, and its crises; a July blue moon that arose that summer night twelve years ago and still shines on my left calf.

My tat caught the attention of the security guard at the Denver Public Library the other day. He asked if it had any particular meaning. I said it didn’t, but went on to tell him about the crazy choir member from Tulsa who, when I was planning to move to Denver, said she was coming out soon to visit her daughter at CU Boulder and we were going to get tattoos. “Oh we are?” I asked. “Yes,” she affirmed, “and I’ll have my daughter call you with the name and number of the guy her friends have been going to get their tattoos.”

I moved here, got the information, called the artist, set the appointments, and thought: what would I indelibly mark my body with? I had already decided I’d get my ears pierced; I could always remove the posts or hoops, but a tattoo seemed different. What design was I willing to sport around town for the rest of my life? I chose a crescent moon, and when the artist asked what kind of expression I wanted the man in the moon to have, I quickly responded, “Thoughtful.”

So the moon has been looking on, watching my life with its important changes from married to single to partnered, from minister to masseur, from kind of straight to kind of gay. He’s watched my continuing generous style, and my life’s plentiful crises over finances, relationships, and losses.

I got my moon. My friend got a ladybug on her ankle. A few months later I arranged for more tattoos for her and her husband but declined to add more to my body. I’ve grown so used to my moon that am surprised when someone asks about it. My man in the moon smiles thoughtfully as if to provide me a sense of calm, determination, and love, all three feelings I inject into all my social relationships whether drinking, smoking, or otherwise fitting in.

© 17 Sep 2010 

About the Author 

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com 

My Earliest Queer Memory, by Pat Gourley

This is more difficult to write on than I at first thought it would be. I believe the realization that I was different or as Harry Hay was fond of saying “other” was a gradual process with many little steps and discoveries along the way. This process of realization long preceded my actual coming out which I define largely as an internal acceptance and certainly not an initial sexual act. Again paraphrasing Hay it took years to realize that the only thing I did have in common with straight people was what I did in bed.

I think this is true of queer awakening in general in that it rarely initially involves the sexual but rather a profound and deeply real sense that we are not like our peers in some fundamental way.  This may take the form of what society would call gender nonconformity perhaps in dress, actions, mannerisms and speech but again I think it can be even less blatant and more elusive than that.  These expressions despite their honest innocence are often met with quick and at times harsh rebuke. For me personally it took the forms of loving to cook and garden and when we did play cowboys and Indians I always insisted on being Crazy Horse or Cochise, an interesting twist on being “other”.

Oh and of course there were those times when we played school and I was always the nun.  Prancing around with a couple bath towels serving as a shawl and headgear for a makeshift nun’s habit. This was behavior that should have been a siren-like clue to somebody that this little kid was not fitting into the norm.

My first sexual encounter with another man was a spectacular bit of mutual masturbation that took place in the biology lab of my Catholic High School with a wonderful man 20 years my senior in the spring of 1967. This was though preceded by years of many little messages some subtle and some others not so subtle that hey I wasn’t like a lot of other little boys. I date my real coming out though to almost a decade later. The Gay Community Center of Colorado and the LGBT folks I met there playing a very significant role in cementing my comfort with my queer identity.

For years I was fascinated and aroused especially by older men and any snippet of their naked physiques I could spot and believe me I went out of my way to catch a glimpse whenever I could.  My dad’s beautiful naked ass being on rare occasions a wonderful source of inspiration! I was in some ways sheltered from blatant homophobia in the form of overt harassment because of my fey nature in part by the all-encompassing cocoon of Catholicism that totally enveloped my life at home and at school. Something that I really only broke free of when I went off to college in the fall of 1967.

Though I have no doubt I was exhibiting less than desirable “little boy” qualities from an early age it wasn’t until about the 4^th grade that I started to respond ever so indirectly to little cues that this could be a bumpy ride. In hindsight it all proved pretty smooth from about 1960 until the full Monty so to speak that was my life by the mid-1970’s. I attribute my coming out being relatively smooth with little drama , even though it took about a decade and a half, to wonderful parents and a host of older teachers and mentors along the way that were accepting and even celebrating of difference and not of course only in the queer arena.

Queer awakening is rich with possibilities for growth that are unique to us as a people.  If we make it through this process alive, and most of us do, we come out the other side so often strong and vibrant individuals. Despite gains in the areas of marriage equality and military access the coming out process for most remains initially a unique character building solo-process with still very few societal supports and unfortunately to this day many very negative messages. These admonitions to shun the “other” may not be as blatant and intense as in the past but they still remain and are quite daunting for little queer folk.

Again it is amazing how many of us make it through to the other side stronger than ever. And this is why continued support of community-based organizations that programmatically facilitate the coming out process remains paramount in moving the gay agenda forward. This Story Telling Group comes quickly to mind as one such effort.

© 17 Jul 2015 

About the Author 

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

When Things Don't Work, by Gillian

Throughout human time, I believe, there has been a certain protocol to be followed when things don't work. You change them, stop using them, or eliminate them. This is more or less the pattern today. But we seem to have added a little something. We apply the same rules to things or procedures or systems which do work!

A prime case in point would be computer programs. I struggle for months to master how to use, say, hypothetical programs photomax, to share my photographs on line, or readywrite for my weekly story-writings. I don't find either of them particularly user-friendly, but then, at my age new cyber-tricks do not settle instantly in my brain. I can guarantee, the moment I become fairly comfortable with them, I shall receive notice of the dreaded upgrades. I dither. I do not want to install the bloody upgrades because then I shall return to the bottom of the learning curve. But if I don't, I run the risk of the whole thing becoming so down-level that it slowly bogs down in computer mire. Timidly, I click on ignore. The screen is instantly filled with flashing WARNING signs. If you do not install this upgrade, oversized, over-excited words threaten me, you will no longer be able to use readywrite 4-1. Meanwhile photomax is telling me that unless I download their upgrade my system will lose security integrity. But why is it, that in order to upgrade security, they also change every little thing about how it works? When I pressed *4, this used to happen. Now, nothing happens. But if I hit command S, which used to sort my photos, the screen now goes blank. Oh, I see. It transferred everything to the trash. Why oh why, I moan, do they always have to fix things when they ain't broke? It worked perfectly. I had learned to love it. Now I hate it all over again!

The real-world equivalent of cyber-upgrades would be the similarly dreaded new and improved. That phrase can generate panic attacks. Oh no! That means it will no longer work for me. That blouse I have bought three of over the last couple of years will now be too tight and have sleeves that end, as modern female fashion seems to dictate, four inches below my fingertips. My favorite shoes, now new and improved, are suddenly only available in strangely psychedelic colors. A few years ago they "improved" many of my favorite deli and restaurant dishes by loading them up with pico de gallo; a flavor I really do not appreciate. When a new and improved bus schedule comes along, you can bet it provides a diminished service.

Often appearing in tandem with new and improved is the worst one of all; for your convenience. Any time you are greeted with that one, you know things are about to become very inconvenient indeed. For your convenience, with that new and improved schedule, the bus will no longer run after 6.oo p.m. and will no longer stop at Union Station. For your convenience the parking lot will be closed for two weeks in July. This, of course, in order to provide new and improved parking spaces. A few weeks ago King Soopers reorganized it's stores for, of course, our convenience, so that now no-one can find anything. I think my favorite to date is a sign posted recently on a bank door; for your convenience this branch will no longer be open on Saturday morning. Really! Where are these people's heads? Do they believe that simply saying it makes it so? 

Maybe we should give it a try!?

There are, happily, many of us in our Monday story-time group these days, so I'm trying to keep my offerings pretty short. But my future new and improved stories will be a minimum of 10,000 words. For your convenience.

© 8 Dec 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 28 years.

To Peggy, My Horse, by EyM

Moments away in your humble little barn filled me deeply.  I savored the rich natural smells, and loved so well your big deep brown eyes,  and  the warm air from your soft nostrils.  So carefully you moved your big puffy lips to take my gifts.  These were moments precious and forever true.

Never was there a brown so lovely as your hair.  Never was there a cologne so soothing as your smell.  Never was a flower's aroma any sweeter than the hay where we communed.  I believe my visits were deep in your heart too.  You were my get away, my comforter.

I loved to climb on your back and hug you as you lay on the ground.  You made me laugh as you got up so smoothly that I could hang on and go up with you.  Looking back now, you always took me to the barn.  I suppose you knew I'd give you some grain and my little hand full of hay. 

When we saddled up and traveled from there, someone else was with us and talk took over.  I trusted you and reveled in those rides.  But the times alone with you at your hay window were more special.  Those were the secret healing heart times.  Thank you Peggy.  I think you understood that I needed you.

© 28 Sep 2015 

About the Author 

A native of Colorado, she followed her Dad to the work bench to develop a love of using tools, building things and solving problems. Her Mother supported her talents in the arts. She sang her first solo at age 8. Childhood memories include playing cowboy with a real horse in the great outdoors. Professional involvements have included music, teaching, human services, and being a helper and handy woman. Her writing reflects her sixties identity and a noted fascination with nature, people and human causes. For Eydie, life is deep and joyous, ever challenging and so much fun.

Doors, by Betsy

Ten years ago I was on the trip of a lifetime. This was not my dream trip. That is, it was not a trip I had dreamed of going on all my life. As I was approaching retirement several years earlier, I had dreamed of hiking the Colorado Trail. After all, I had helped build the trail as a volunteer on a couple of occasions when I had vacation time from work or a long weekend. Unfortunately I never could realize the trek of my dreams because of a condition in my spine which was causing pain when I was on my feet for long periods of time. The Colorado Trail Trek door was closed.

So one day I decided instead to take a cycling trip. The “Bike Trip Directors” website opened that door. It lead me to a group called Woman tours. Perfect, I thought.  The door to cycling had opened when I started participating in the MS 150 fund raising event years earlier. Now I wanted a trip that would take me to other places and for a longer stretch of time. Woman tours offered trips all over the U.S. and some in Europe and Asia. A simple trip in the U.S. was what I was looking for. This would open the door to something even bigger in the future maybe. 

So I laid the information and the maps out on the living room floor and called to my partner Gill to take a look with me. “Oh this week-long trip in the Mississippi Valley looks good. Or how ‘bout this one: 10 days on the Maryland coast, or the California coast.” So much to choose from. Gill is just shaking her head. “Look at this. Pacific to Atlantic two months across the southern tier of the U.S.”  “Well, yeah,” said I. “But I’m not ready for that. I need to take shorter trips first.”  Sometimes it takes someone who knows you very well--a loved one--to bring you down to Earth--to reality.  Her words were so true: “My Darling, you will be 70 years old this year. I think you need to do this cross-country trip NOW.”

The door thus opened to my trip of a lifetime, pedaling from San Diego, California to St. Augustine, Florida.  Sixteen women over 55 cycling for 58 days through 7 states averaging 70 miles per day. We would have one day off per week for rest and laundry. Pay up front and your food and lodging is covered for the entire trip except for days off.

Our group of cyclists from this adventure has had a reunion every year except for one. This year we will celebrate our tenth anniversary in September near Cape Cod. Our friendships have grown over the years. The cycling trip opened the door to many more cycling trips as well as the friendships created on that trip.  Happily Gill is included in the group even though she did not cycle. When I chose to do this trip, she told me she would drop me off in San Diego and pick me up in St. Augustine. I should have known. There was no way she was going to miss out.  Drop me off and then drive home. No way! She never intended to do that. She followed us in the van and gave unofficial SAG support the entire way. Oh, she would disappear for a day or two on a side trip to some interesting site. But she always showed up again especially when needed; such as, the day we ran out of water and could find no source nor was there any sign of Bo-Peep, our official SAG. Or the day we were freezing cold from the rain.

I have just recently completed transcribing my journal from this trip which I dictated at the end of each day of riding. Here is a short excerpt from 10 years ago almost to the day.

May10 Live Oak to High Springs, Fla. Day 55

Last night we were in Live Oak and I didn’t get a chance to record. We had a 100 mile ride yesterday and it was quite amazing. I really didn’t feel very tired from it. It was a beautiful ride. We have had lovely rides in Florida and we have been lucky in that we haven’t had much rain. Today we had one of the best rides of all.  We stopped about 20 miles outside of the town of High Springs at High Springs State Park. We went into the park to one of the springs and all went swimming. Great fun! It was a welcome break. It was only a 58 mile ride so we had plenty of time to enjoy the cool water.

We are at the Cadillac--a 50’s motel. Gill has been quite active with the group the last few days sagging and helping the Kiwi’s with their filming. She’s enjoying that a great deal except she will be camping in the parking lot again tonight.

I can sense some strong feelings among the group about the tour coming to an end. Since there are just two days left.  Etc.

May 13 St. Augustine Day 58

Yesterday was our triumphal entry into St. Augustine. We met at the fire station after an easy ride from Palatka. We were escorted by two police cars and a motor cycle, sirens blaring. We dunked our tires into the Atlantic, true to tradition, then we all ran gleefully into the surf holding hands and screaming making quite a spectacle of ourselves. We played in the water and hung out on the beach for a while. Some family and friends were there with flowers and greetings of all kinds and it was a grand celebration.

I was quite emotional as we rode ceremoniously into St. Augustine. It was an honor to be leading the group along with Mary and Glenna as the oldest members. I was quite proud to be one of the six who pedaled every mile with no sagging. A lot of that is luck.

 A group picnic followed by teary goodbye’s ended the day. Many would be on their way home before breakfast tomorrow. Gill and I decided to stay for a couple more days.

I am having trouble focusing today since I am so used to focusing on push my pedals every day. I’m sure I will adjust to normal life quickly.

The fact that we have just pedaled across the country 3165 miles has not yet fully registered in my head. I expect it will sink in at some point or maybe not. It’s a bit overwhelming. No question about it . It was the trip of a lifetime and a most extraordinary experience with a most extraordinary group of people.

There is no doubt in my mind. A door was closed to me when I developed a condition in my spine. But, I believe when one door closes another one opens up. When the hiking door closed the biking door opened. That’s why I love revolving doors.

©  27 May 2015 

About the Author 

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

Acting, by Will Stanton

The word “acting” first brings to mind theater acting or perhaps movie acting.  I, however, briefly considered delving into a deeper subject.  I always have been fascinated with human minds, and I have been aware that people often put on acts in front of others throughout their daily lives.  William Shakespeare wrote, “All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.”

The degree of acting varies greatly from person to person depending upon his perceived situational needs and depending upon his own nature.  I, for example, don’t care to engage in artifice; I’d rather be just who I am.  Acting takes too much effort, and perhaps I’m just too simple-minded to be clever at it.  Others, however, are like chameleons, saying and doing anything and everything they deem necessary to attract and influence other people.  An extreme example of that is the last three (especially Republican) presidential primaries.  Many people enthusiastically succumb to such manipulation, but I am repulsed by it. 

So, rather than my being repulsed and spending time talking about the vagaries of human nature, I’ll return to the more enjoyable subject of theater acting.  Here are a few snippets of theater occurrences from my early days.

My first experience being in a play was at age seven.  My elementary school was run by the local university, which provided student teachers with an opportunity to practice by assisting the regular teachers.  One young lady wrote “The Marshmallow Mushroom.”  I was an elf name “Muffin.”  I was a very competent elf.  I enjoyed the experience and still have the script secreted somewhere with all my keepsakes.

Two years later, the university was celebrating the sesquicentennial of its founding, and they had commissioned Alan Smart to write an historical play called “The Green Adventure.”  I played a pioneer lad.  Ever since that time, I never have looked at the script, but I have that one, too.

Of course, I participated in the infamous genre of high-school plays.  The usual botches and glitches occurred in all of them: forgotten lines, mixed-up scenes, stiff acting.  I was sufficiently unimpressed with our productions to remember them today.

I’ll never forget, however, what happened to my oldest brother.  That class put on the famous “Annie Get Your Gun.”  My brother was cast as Buffalo Bill.  The problem was the audience never did figure out who he was.  That is because the lead actor totally forgot his first-act lines and kept repeating the lines from the end of the second act to the point where the rest of actors just went ahead and skipped half the play.  So by the time my brother wandered onto the stage wearing a cowboy hat and a quizzical grin, no one knew who he was.  That role did not lead my brother to a career in Hollywood.

At the same time, the girl destined to become my brother’s wife was participating in a high-school play in Katonah, New York. They were performing “Arsenic and Old Lace.” As you recall, the loony brother who thought he was Teddy Roosevelt always assumed the responsibility of taking the supposed “victims of yellow fever” to the basement to be buried.  The stage was built three feet above the main floor of the auditorium, and a trap door provided access to the space beneath.  The play director decided, having no stairway to a basement that the trap door would suffice as the apparent entrance to the basement.  Of course, when “Teddy” dumped his victims down into the basement, they had learned to bend their knees to simulate descending into a deep basement.  During the first act, the trap door was covered with a carpet.  The problem was that, during the first act, the carpet was there, but someone had forgotten to replace the trap-door cover.  So in the midst of the first act, an unsuspecting student-actor walked across the carpet and immediately slowly sank three feet down into the floor where he remained standing, torso and head above the floor, and wearing a very surprised expression.  Fortunately the play is meant to be a comedy, however, the howls of laughter from the audience came at an unexpected time.

I tried participating in just one play as a college freshman.  The theater department had a good national reputation, so I thought that I would see what it was like.  I played the servant “Mishka” in “The Inspector General.”  I don’t recall seeing any mention of me in any newspaper rave reviews.  Apparently, I didn’t have the immediately recognizable attributes of stunning stature, handsome looks, and captivating voice to merit much attention.  The young stud who starred in “The Fantasticks” was a corn-fed Kansas boy whose natural talent and good looks guaranteed the role, even without any prior experience.  Apparently, I was destined to play character roles such as servants, extras, or just one of the elves.

There is one charming play that I sentimentally recall.  Although I never had the pleasure to be in it, I saw a wonderful production of it by my university theater department and, later when I arrived in Denver, by the young students at Arapahoe Community College.  The play was “Dark of the Moon,” a folk-play about simple back-woods people living in the Smokey Mountains.  Although the theme and setting may seem too antiquated for these modern times, it was remarkably popular for many years from the 1940s through the 1970s, so much so that up-and-coming actors such as Paul Newman eagerly wished to be part of the play. 

The story in a “nutshell” was that “John Boy” fell in love with “Barbary Allen,” a beautiful girl previously never seen in those hills.  It turns out that she is a witch-girl with no soul and who lives three hundred years, after which she turns into Smokey-Mountain mist.  Of course, the story has love, rivalry, and tragedy.  There also were occasional scenes at the general store with the old folks sitting around the pot-bellied stove with their musical instruments and singing Appalachian ballads that coincided with the story.  I became so fond of the story that I bought the script to read, twice, once because I loaned a copy to a friend who failed to return it. 

Now that I have reached my dotage, I recall “Dark of the Moon” with sardonic humor.  That is because I recall the youngsters of Arapahoe Community College doing their best to imitate the elderly, they themselves never having experienced the stiffness, pain, and other afflictions of old age.  They did their best, but somehow, they just did not look convincingly old.  And, I don’t think that additional experience acting would have made any difference.

© 2 Aug 2012 

About the Author 

I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories.  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.

Believe It or Not, This Really Happened to Me, by Ricky

In the spring of 1969, I was in the Air Force and stationed at Hurlburt Field near Ft. Walton Beach in the western panhandle of Florida.  One day I was alone driving north along a road which was basically the top of a mile long levy which was dividing a swamp to the west from farm land on the east.  The road/levy was approximately 10-feet above the level of the swamp to my right.

I saw, about ½ mile ahead of me and traveling in the same direction, two boys riding on one bicycle rather unsteadily.  I was driving at the speed limit of 55mph.  In the distance way beyond the boys, I could see a school bus driving south coming towards us.

Suddenly, I heard a voice in my head telling me to “slow down”.  I was surprised because I know what my thoughts sound like and this “voice” was not mine.  When I did not respond as directed due to my surprise, the “voice” spoke again saying for forcibly, “Slow down! Those boys are going to fall in front of you.”  I immediately took my foot off the gas pedal and the car began to slow.

Sure enough, when I was about 40 yards away, the bicycle hit some kind of object near the edge of the road and the boys fell off the bike right in front of me.  As luck would have it, the school bus also arrived going the speed limit.  I was now going slowly enough that I was able to stop in plenty of time.  If I had not received the warning or heeded it, I would have had three choices.  Run over the fallen boys, swerve to the left and hit the school bus head on, or swerve to the right going off the levy into the swamp.

I got out and made sure the boys were okay.  I then had one boy ride in my car while the other one rode his bicycle to the end of the levy where the boys would turn onto a side street to their destination.  I followed behind the bicycle so no other car would hit him, if he fell again.  At the end of the levy, both boys thanked me and rode off to their destination.

I have not heard any “voices” since that time on the levy.

© 6 October 2014

About the Author  

 I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I was sent to live with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

Teachers, by Phillip Hoyle

Teachers: I’ve had a lot of them. Some I recall for their names, others for their engaging communications, still others for the lack of impact they made on me. From grade school I recall Miss Weenes whom we second graders called Miss Weenie, although not in class, and Mrs. Schaffer who read “Treasure Island” to us, my first novel; there were others whose names escape me, but I do recall the woman who taught us cursive writing in fifth grade leaving me with a rather readable hand and the rather effeminate man who taught music in fourth and fifth grades introducing us to Bizet’s “Carmen.” From junior high I recall Mr. Moon who at the board always pointed with his middle finger and who told memorable stories about science, Miss Oliver who taught Latin not only to me but to my older sisters and to my mother, the effective algebra teacher who also taught my mom and started geraniums in the windows of her classroom, and Miss Costello who sent home a mustard plaster recipe when too many students got colds. From high school I remember Mr. Martin the choir director, Mr. Snodgrass the band director, Miss Perkins the Latin teacher and drama coach, and Mr. Unruh the football coach and government teacher. In college, I remember Dr. Van Buren, President Lown, Mr. Secrest, and Professor Jamie Morgan; in graduate school, Mrs. Kiesgen and Dr. Lee; in seminary Dr. Duke, Dr. Routt, Dr. Hoehn, and Dr. Rowell. But that’s only the beginning of the list. I also had music teachers in piano and voice studios, art teachers at the Oklahoma Art Workshops, leaders of numerous seminars and workshops at hotels and conference centers, and informal mentors whose revelations and advice paved the way for a rich life of learning, work, and enjoyment. Trying to list all my teachers indicates I learned many things from many different instructors over a long life. I owe a lot to these people.

Mother taught us kids to respect our teachers although she well knew they had feet of clay. She supported them through her tireless work in the PTA but also challenged them when their behavior overstepped their role of teacher and nurturer of young people. So when I heard harangues from the pulpit that some faithless people scandalously thought of Jesus as only a teacher, I felt unsettled. Mom taught us that being a teacher was one of the very best occupations anyone could pursue. Of course, those preachers were defending the orthodox doctrine of the divinity of Christ. I was not concerned with orthodoxy and thought if Jesus back then or as a spiritual presence could teach anyone, he could be my teacher as well and earn my deepest respect. Like Mom, I liked my teachers. Two, though, stand out as the most influential: the first for inspiration, the second for technique.

I knew Dr. James Van Buren by reputation long before I got to school and took his demanding class, “Survey of Biblical Literature.” After that there were other classes in biblical studies, philosophy, theology, sociology, and literature. Studying in a small college, I got to make a rather thorough study of this professor who was both the hardest one to get good grades from and the one who opened worlds of knowledge most widely. I can say confidently that Dr. Van taught me how to run successfully on the liberal edge of conservatism. By ‘successfully’ I mean not only getting beyond political hurdles but also doing so while maintaining theological self-respect and integrity. He taught me to read broadly, to think openly, and to communicate creatively. For instance, he lectured on Christian humanism, Christian hedonism, Christian stoicism, and Christian Epicureanism insisting that Christian thought was not a complete philosophy in itself but a base from which one examined and utilized perspectives of the ages. He taught humor as an essential ingredient in the most serious communications and sex as a broadly celebrative dynamic of life. In Dr. Van’s approach God as the creator and approver of creation served as the starting point and essential part of a healthy approach to life, morality, and ethics. He insisted that creative and playful thinking stands as a necessary component in one’s life and insisted religion should never become a wooden legal transaction or set of rigid laws. He taught an appreciation for beauty through arts, literature, science, and everyday interactions with fancy and plain people. Poetry, storytelling, drama, and lively insights transformed theology into a process for living. The arts pointed to dynamic creativity in the name of the Creator.

This overweight professor rested a little notebook on his stomach as if it were a lectern. This enthusiastic professor lectured from the book of Job on the dances of whales in the ocean, leaping about like one of them himself. This insightful professor opened the way to Shakespeare, Milton, and Whitman. This scholarly professor had been granted a DD and then earned a PhD in English Literature, his dissertation an examination of Old Testament Apocryphal references in John Milton’s poetry. This superlative teacher supported in me my love for books and libraries and my proclivity toward creative thinking in matters of education and religion. I continue to think about Dr. Van Buren’s advice, knowledge, and approach whenever I try to solve problems or speak from my own heart.

I knew Dr. Karen Bartman years before she was conferred a doctoral degree in piano pedagogy. She served as the church’s music coordinator and organist where I worked as associate minister and director of the Chancel Choir. We made music together for several years before I studied in her piano studio. I recall this teacher for both her pianistic and pedagogical techniques—carried out with consistency, musical depth, and always the encouragement to keep making beautiful music. I’ll never know if I could have learned piano technique at an earlier age, but I did learn it in my late thirties under her tutelage. When I approached my 40s crisis (a la Goldberg and Sheehe), I became “angry with the gods of literature” as my friend Gerald put it and went on a yearlong book fast. I joined Karen’s studio to learn to play piano, knowing I’d have about three hours a day to practice, time I would not be reading books. I remained a student in her studio for two and a half years. Since childhood I had played—my father said banged—the piano but always with great limitation. Gerald once said I was quite musical but had no technique. After two years of Karen’s discipline I played a piece for my dad. He declared, “She’s a miracle worker; you’re not pounding.” Even Gerald seemed impressed at her work and my response, and Dr. Bartman said what she appreciated about teaching me—an adult—was that I always played musically.

This physically fit teacher sat at the keyboard with perfect posture and insisted I do so as well. This enthusiastic teacher with beautifully strong hands didn’t just give me scales and arpeggios to strengthen my hands but showed me how to execute them in ways that engaged listening, phrasing, and trusting that my hands would know where they were on the keyboard. This insightful teacher showed me how to ground myself at any point in a phrase, a measure, or a beat giving life to the composition in performance. This scholarly teacher helped me know Bach, Mozart, Brahms, Schubert, Schumann, Chopin, Debussy, Mompou, Shostakovich, and Prokofiev in ways I had never grasped even after extensive graduate study in musical style analysis. This superlative teacher inspired me to practice with confidence that I could play effectively and beautifully. Eventually I quit piano instruction and returned to books and writing. Still, I continued to practice and put to use my grasp of her technique when I played. From her I learned the value of technical proficiency. Her consistent teaching encouraged me to continue to develop as an artist and to bring artistry to bear in all my work.

In summary, Dr. Van Buren taught me to love life and the arts, Dr. Bartman encouraged me to find consistent techniques for any creative work I undertook. My life as a learner continues inspired and enabled by these two great teachers. There have been plenty more teachers, loads of learning, and lots of creative outcomes that today I celebrate along with this litany of my teachers’ names.

© 1 Nov 2011 

About the Author 

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com