My Favorite Place by Merlyn

My favorite place is where I'm at right now. Michael and I have been together for almost two years, we do everything together with very little DRAMA. I'm in the best relationship I have ever been in my life with Michael.

We both like to travel and we are spending a lot of time right now looking for fun things to do on our next road trip.

We will be gone for 5 to 8 weeks with only two destinations, Niagara Falls and Boston.

We plan to wander, we don't to have to be anywhere at any given time.

We will be going through about 20 states. If we are having fun we will stay where ever we are as long as we want, if we get bored we will just head down the road.

We are both making lists of things we may or may not want to see or do in each State. Neither one of us are interested in going to a lot of the tourist traps in big cities.

Some of the things on our list so far.

Explore the nude beaches and small towns along the shoreline of three of the five great lakes.

Michael wants to shop at about a thousand antique malls.

We have a list of 15 gay campgrounds that we will be near to on the trip. Two of them have jumped to the top of the list.

Depending on where we are Labor Day weekend we may want to party in Gibson Pennsylvania at a gay campground with about 400 of our closest friends.

We will spend some time at the gay campground in Morgantown Indiana.


© 7 July 2013 

About the Author 

I'm a retired gay man now living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for the unusual and enjoying life each day.

Biography of a Disabled Couple/A Visit to the Doctor or Nurse by Louis

(1) In addition to the LGBT community, another biological minority consists of the disabled population. There was even a national social movement that resulted in the Americans with Disabilities Act (1990). The activists even created a new sociology called the sociology of disability that promoted the idea that “disability” is only a relative term since disabled people would not actually be disabled if their social environment was structured better to fill their needs.

(2) In 1971 I did volunteer work in Goldwater Memorial Hospital, on Roosevelt Island which, back then, was an odd park-like island with two hospitals, Goldwater Memorial and Byrde S. Memorial Hospital. Goldwater was designed to serve the needs of severely disabled patients. Byrde S. Coler was a hospice hospital for the terminally ill. The island was located across the East River facing the upper east side of Manhattan.

(3) As a volunteer I met a young woman who was dependent on an iron lung to breathe. Let us call her RG. RG was one of the first candidates to try and survive by breathing with what was then newly developed breathing equipment using a mouthpiece connected to an air pump. That was significant progress for her.

(4) RG told me that about five years previously she was a senior in a Catholic Nurse Training School. She was assigned to various hospitals as a nurse’s aide. She met and fell in love with a medical student, an Irishman. He was about a year away from becoming a medical physician. I saw pictures of the fiancés later. She was very beautiful, and he was very handsome like one of the Kennedy’s.

(5) RG must have picked up some kind of disease in one of the hospitals; as a senior, she started to feel weak and tired all the time. She told her doctor. Time passed, and her symptoms worsened, eventually she could not get up out of bed in the morning. She started to have difficulty breathing. She had to be hospitalized.

(6) When the med student fiancé saw what was happening to her, he left her.

(7) RG’s condition worsened. Naturally she became depressed. She gradually lost control of most all her muscles. She was hospitalized long-term at New York Hospital. Once, she was about to die when a physician at NY Hospital prescribed a massive dose of a combination of steroids and antibiotics This treatment worked somewhat. It arrested the progress of the disease but unfortunately, it did not undo the damage.

(8) RG’s diagnosis was listed as “polymyositis”, POLIO, but the name of the disease only described the symptoms, Polymyositis, = weakness in many muscles. Her condition was stabilized, however. No doctor ever isolated the cause of her muscular dysfunction, like a germ or virus: no known etiology.

(9) To accommodate her, a large van was purchased and adapted, in which she could travel in her motorized wheelchair. RG still had some feeble strength in her arms and hands so that she could push a sensitive switch on her motorized wheelchair, giving her mobility.

(10) To fight her depression, a trip was arranged to Lourdes, France. RG later wrote that her visit to Lourdes was uplifting. She saw other disabled people. She did not recover physically, but she writes that she came to accept herself more, she forgave her fiancé who disappeared when her condition worsened.

(11) RG is now 70 years old, and her spirits are good. She still goes to the hospital, Long Island University Hospital, about twice a month. She is dependent on 3 home attendants 24 hours a day.

(12) In 1973, thanks to the intervention of a politically influential doctor, Dr. A., RG went to Burke Rehab Center where a medical expert in prosthetic devices tried and failed to construct an “ecto-skeleton” to enhance the strength in her arms and legs. RG told Dr. A. she wanted to go to Fordham University and earn a Masters Degree in Social Work. She was accepted at Fordham in Bronx, NY. It was an adventure for her to be driven in her enormous van from Astoria, NY, to Fordham University for evening classes. I helped her with the typing and editing of her papers, but, basically, on her own, she finally received her Masters Degree and became a licensed social work counselor.

(13) To back-track a bit, while at the Burke Rehab Center, RG met FM, who suffered from severe ataxia due to lithium poisoning. FM was from nearby White Plains, about 3o miles north of New York City. FM had earned an engineering degree from McGill University in Canada, had met the “perfect” girl there, and she loved him, and they planned to get married. Then she got sick and died. FM got very depressed, went for psychiatric help. The psychiatrist prescribed lithium treatments, which, in those days, was the preferred method of treating depression. The dosages were too high, however. FM got deathly sick, had to be hospitalized. He was diagnosed with blood poisoning. The levels of lithium were toxic. FM lost his ability to walk, has to use wheelchair to move about. His speech is slurred. His hands shake so much, he really cannot write anymore. His vision is somewhat impaired. After his condition was stabilized, FM was sent to Burke Rehabilitation Center for rehabilitation where he met and befriended RG. FM was then sent to Goldwater Memorial Hospital.

(14) While at Goldwater Hospital, RG and FM asked for assistance to live independently in the community. RG and FM got married spiritually if not legally, and they rented two apartments in the same building in Astoria, NY. After about ten years there, they purchased a home in Whitestone in a very nice neighborhood. And they lived happily ever after.

(15) Currently, FM is trying to graduate from wheelchair to walking with walker, and, to improve his vision, he is exercising with specialized charts and playing the mind-improving games of lumosity.com. FM is also better able to eat his own food as opposed to being fed.

(16) Once a year RG gives talks at seminars at Long Island University School of Nursing. Both RG and FM are interested in liberal politics.

© 22 June 2013 

About the Author 

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA's. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

Ambitious Changes by Gillian

For many years I was driven by just one ambition. It ruled the major decisions of my life.
I was going to find a way to fix this unidentified, at best only subliminally recognized, problem.

In high school, and for that matter as far back as I could remember, I simply felt zero excitement over boys. 
I liked them, I had plenty of boy friends, but not boyfriends; sexual stimulations of puberty were engendered exclusively by girls. I was in love with my best girl friend all through high school.

Well. This would not do.
It was all the problem of these country bumpkin boys of the remote hill country I inhabited. Somehow I failed to notice that the girls came from the same place.
I would go off to College and there the young men would at least be intellectually stimulating which in turn would surely lead to……?

That worked well. 
I was madly in love with the same woman all through college. There were many intellectually stimulating men but that failed to lead to …….? 

Well. This would not do.
It was all the problem of these dull boring Englishmen. After all, the jokes are endless.
The Englishman can get along with sex quite perfectly so long as he can pretend that it isn't sex but something else. 
The rest of the world has sex, the Englishman has cricket.
I didn't know he was dead; I thought he was British.
On and on.
I would go off to the United States where men were men and that would lead to….?

That worked well. 
I was in love with my female workmate in no time. 

Well. This would not do. 
I had simply not found the RIGHT man. I became quite promiscuous in my search.

That worked well. 
I remained madly in love with the same woman. Even when it is all confined to some underground segment of my being, I am hopelessly monogamous.

Well. This would not do. 
The problem was all these one night stands, all this messing around. I would find a good man and get married.

That worked well.
I remained in love with the same incurably hetero woman, but increasingly more consciously. The reality of what I was became abundantly clear.

Well. This would not do. 
I would get divorced. And I would stand my ambition on its head.

And that did work well. My ambition became to embrace, if sadly belatedly, my sexuality. 
I would not hide it, I would come out to my family and friends and coworkers almost as soon as I came out to myself.

I met Betsy, fell madly in love, and in my monogamous way have loved her for twenty-five years.
I do, completely, embrace my lesbianism. 
In fact, I have to put it more strongly. 
After I turned my ambition around 180 degrees I can honestly say that I am grateful to be gay. It has brought so much meaning and purpose, such joy, such support. (This storytelling group is the perfect example.)

I have been buffeted by one ambition, then by another in the completely opposite direction. 
And now, not driven at all, I am content simply to be.

© 18 July 2011

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.

I Never Knew -- Mutable Facts by Carlos

Did he remember me as I remembered him?

A couple of summers ago, playing on my computer, I typed in his name in a people search website, curious as to where the years had taken him. When his obituary of ten years earlier emblazoned my screen, a darkness of grief blotted out my emotions. I felt a suspension of thought, a resurgence of memories. I never knew.

I didn’t know he had died ten years before. After all, the last time I had seen him was at a very awkward, unexpected encounter where he had paid his respects at my father’s funeral twenty years earlier. I don’t remember what we said, only that I spoke his name for the first time in years; I did, however, recognize the gulf that divided us as he hurriedly walked away.

Interestingly, to my observant eyes, the obituary made only cursory mention of his wife with whom he had shared his final decades, yet it emphasized his ever-loving daughter and even more interestingly, his life-long allegiance to the church where he had served as sacristan, eucharistic minister and lector. How strange it was that as I read the obituary, memories of our shared pasts deluged my mind, memories of love in all its many and varied guises. Since we lost touch after I left Texas thirty years before, I often wondered if he remembered me as I remembered him. And now as I re-read the obituary, I concluded that death had finally effaced the irrational love that had since withered like a spray of once fragrant violets. I pondered whether over time I become nothing more than a sepia memory or whether I had the right to suspect that he had finally won the battle fought over a lifetime to obliterate me from his mind.

We had once shared secrets together, secrets of young love and hopeful futures over several years, as with needle and thread we quilted a covenant we trusted would last a lifetime. But I went away for a span of time and journeyed to foreign shores in distant lands as I fulfilled my obligations to my country. We wrote religiously in the interim, breathing life into our discoveries, distilling hopes like rain water percolating through layers of limestone. And when I returned, we tilled the earth in the backyard, determined to transform a plot of calcified soil into a reawakened garden of erotic extravagance. And for a while the bulbs and rhizomes we planted in the fall greeted us in the spring with rainbows of irises and ranunculi, tulips and daffodils. The sweet scent of arching peace roses and tender green grass enveloped us like a capsulated chrysalis. But he had changed; I had changed. Our improvised dance now seemed staged and amateurish. All too soon, we recognized we had miscalculated our misadventure as we pirouetted in our macabre ballet of fate. He wanted to be a father, dreaming of a little girl to whom he would build palaces of spun filigreed gold topped with silver moon beams radiating outward. I wanted him to love me with a love that was dawn and twilight and everything in between, no longer being satisfied with the love of first sight. Thus, he sent me away; I walked away. Nevertheless, even as I ascended into the skies far from him, I looked behind, hoping against hope that he would restore the primal cord that had been cut with a whetstone-sharpened steel blade.

He married within weeks, to what I believe was a wonderful woman he had known for years, a woman who was able to give him what I could not. Asking me to be his best man, I stood solemnly but tormented at bride and groom shared sacred vows. I wanted to give flesh to our sin before man and God lest we lose each other in the maelstrom of time. But I silenced my voice; I carved a smile upon my polychromed mask, and again, I flew away into the clouds. Nine months to the day, he sent me a letter informing me of the birth of a daughter hours earlier, a daughter he wrote who uncannily had my eyes, my skin, my mouth. Days later, he sent me a picture of him bathing the child, a look of sublime joy on his face. I realized he had discovered the treasure after which he had quested. I returned back to him not long after when he asked be to be the godfather of his beloved...his two beloveds joined in a momentary gasp of suspiration, the child holding her breathe as the pure water dedicated her to God; me gasping with unanswered questions.

And I walked away. Because the cicatrice in my heart kept opening and spewing molten pain that could not be cauterized, I again walked away, but this time I never returned. The moments became eons, and the eons coalesced into eternity. As I re-read his obituary, I hammered nails upon the entombed gyrations that had decimated with finality. I hoped that over time the church that he had so openly shunned when we were one offered him solace. I knew the beloved daughter he had birthed certainly did. I suspect he spent a lifetime trying to deny me, yet I retain a romantic hope, maybe even a vain hope, that maybe, just maybe, he experienced moments when he exalted me, when he honored that part of me that he carried in his heart forever.

And I wondered if he had remembered me as I remembered him.

© Denver June 2, 2013 

About the Author 

Cervantes wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.” In spite of my constant quest to live up to this proposition, I often falter. I am a man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic. Something I know to be true. I am a survivor, a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite charming. Nevertheless, I often ask Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth. My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the Tuscan Sun. I am a pragmatic romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time. My beloved husband and our three rambunctious cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under coconut palms on tropical sands. I believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty. I am always on the look-out for friends, people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread together and finding humor in the world around us.

Cities of My Heart by Betsy

Denver is where my heart is. That’s because the love of my life lives here--with me. I love Denver and Colorado. I have been living quite happily here since 1970. This is where I came out. This is where I met the love of my life. I have many friends here both straight and LGBT. My three children grew up here and call Denver their heart home. There is much to be said about Denver but not here and not today. So.......

Since my three children have a place in my heart also, I suppose I can say at least part of my heart is in those cities where they reside.

Decatur, Georgia is a small city completely surrounded by the city of Atlanta. From my several visits there it appears that Decatur is young, relatively progressive, and gay friendly. This is where my oldest child, a daughter, lives. This daughter is a professor on the faculty at Emory University where she teaches in the Women and Gender Studies Department. Lynne has been in academics for about 20 years. In that time I have learned that her community of friends and associates is not usually representative of the area in which she resides. I learned from her partner Tamara that The Women Studies Department of Emory University is the oldest (and best) in the United States. Who would have guessed that this, one of the most conservative states and cities of the country is the original home of such a progressive subject as Women Studies. Suffice it to say that academic communities bear no resemblance to the states or regions where they are located.

Before moving to the Atlanta area around 2005 Lynne and Tamara lived in Houston, Texas--another conservative hot spot. I imagined a very difficult time for the couple when I heard in 1998 they were moving from New Haven to Houston. Never mind a lesbian couple living together in Texas, but an interracial lesbian couple. However, I was surprised to learn from my visits there that Houston is in fact a fairly cosmopolitan city--at least for Texas. Even though Lynne was teaching at Rice University, my view of Houston was not distorted by association only with the academic community. Tamara started out working as campaign manager for a city council candidate bent on ousting an incumbent. Lynne was of course somewhat involved in the campaign as well. The incumbent opponent was well entrenched, so the campaign would be hard fought. In the end the campaign was successful, Tamara’s candidate was elected to the city council, and Tamara became her Chief of Staff. Needless to say, the scenes and experiences we heard about during this time gave a very realistic, true vision of the city of Houston as opposed to the college professor’s perspective. We saw a liberal candidate oust a well entrenched conservative. But that was not the only surprise. During their stay in Houston, we saw many other unexpected changes. At the present time the mayor of Houston is a lesbian woman--a former acquaintance of Lynne and Tamara’s. I was pleasantly surprised that Houston was so good to my daughter and her partner.

My second oldest child, a daughter, lives in Baltimore. The nation’s economic problems have badly effected Baltimore--by appearances, much more so than Denver. However, Baltimore has always had a large population of struggling workers.

On one recent visit we found ourselves in the very worst neighborhood of the city. Gill and I were traveling in our camper van from Denver to the east coast with a planned stop in Baltimore to spend a few days there with my daughter Beth.

Beth works in the area of artificial intelligence. Currently she is working for NASA’s Atmospheric Science Data Center. She is a logician and applies her knowledge and expertise as such in her job developing ways to access past meteorological data.

In giving us directions to her home in Baltimore she did NOT apply her knowledge and expertise as a logician. Approaching her area of Baltimore, and carefully following the directions she had sent via e-mail, at a crucial point we made the turn to the left as instructed. Within two minutes we found ourselves in a very seedy neighborhood. Realizing surely something was wrong we pulled over to get out the cell phone. We needed to turn on lights as it was dark. Some unsavory looking characters gave us the once over and approached the van whereupon we locked all the doors and windows. No, we were not in the right neighborhood. We were supposed to turn right back there, not left, Beth admitted. In another five minutes we were in the correct neighborhood of Patterson Park. Not a swanky place, mind you. A very middle class, working person’s neighborhood in transition where we felt ever so much more comfortable and safe.

Beth now works from home and could live anywhere she wants, but chooses to stay in her neighborhood in Baltimore close to her D.C. contacts.

By the way, have you ever driven on the D.C. beltway? One of the most terrifying experiences of my life.

My youngest, a son, lives in Fairbanks, Alaska. Often I hear friends and acquaintances say, “Oh, yes, I’ve been to Alaska.” Almost inevitably it turns out they have been to Anchorage or the coastal area or perhaps Denali National Park. Fairbanks is not typically a tourist destination. I have only been to Fairbanks twice and those visits were in the summertime. It is not an easy place to get to even by plane.

My son John started his practice as a urologist in Fairbanks. Instant success as there are but four urologists in the entire state. Three of them practice in Anchorage.

The city of Fairbanks sits in the interior region of the state. Googling the list of rivers in Alaska did not help when trying to recall the name of the river that flows through the city. There are 9728 rivers in Alaska. Other methods of investigation including my failing memory yielded the name: The Chena River.

A drive from Fairbanks to the nearest city Anchorage is a day’s drive on a highway running mostly beside the rail route of The Alaska Railway. This rail system boasts punctuality and comfort. The dome-topped train offers incredible scenery on its route from Fairbanks to Anchorage with a stop at Denali National Park, home of Mt. McKinley, and fist-clenching run along the edge of the spectacular gorge carved by the Talkeetna River to mention only two of the numerous, magnificent, unforgettable, and interesting sights.

Further on about an hour out of Anchorage the train stops at Wassilla--Sara Palin’s home.

On my first visit to Fairbanks John rented an RV and off to Denali the five of us went--three adults and my two very young grandchildren. Our three day visit was memorable to say the least. Denali is a place of indescribable pristine beauty and awesome vastness.

Anyone wishing to travel east out of Fairbanks will be disappointed. If one travels in any direction other than south to Juneau, southwest to Anchorage, or north to Prudhoe Bay, one is liable to run out of highway. The roads simply stop. Beyond is wilderness. Of course the lumbering and mining operations abound in that state, but the place is so vast it appears to be endless and untouched. It is not hard to understand why half of the population are licensed pilots. Many people live in areas accessible only by plane. Many of these people live on islands off the coast.

Fairbanks is a growing city, currently at around 35,000 residents. Seemingly unaffected by the economic disasters taking place in the rest of the country, jobs are available. Students with a taste for adventure and perhaps the promise of a summer job are drawn to the University of Alaska’s Fairbanks campus.

I have not been to Alaska in the winter. When I checked the January 14 weather report, the expected high for the week was -32 with fog and mist resulting in a “feels like” temperature of -47. Does it really matter which it feels like: -47 or -32?

I do know that in the winter months many Alaskans--the more fortunate ones--fly to Hawaii where they spend a couple of weeks. A veritable exodus takes place in the dead of winter when those Alaskans who can afford it decide it is time for a good dose of sunlight and it’s mood-enhancing effects.

Here is a place where much attention is still given to the magic of the winter solstice. After December 21 it can only get better.

Atlanta, Baltimore, Fairbanks--wonderful places to visit. But I’m glad I live in Denver.


© 14 January 2012 

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.

Marriage by Will Stanton

“Ah am again’ a man marrying a man or a woman marrying a woman.  It ain’t right; it ain’t natural.  Marriage should be between one man and one woman, just as it always has been for thousands of years!  Ah believe in traditional marriage!”    

At least those people who hold such beliefs and who make such statements are consistent : they generally are ignorant of the facts concerning most things.  Facts mean nothing to them.  Throughout history, so-called “traditional marriage” has not been anything like what these people say.  On the contrary, usually marriage has been quite different.

In most early societies, marriage was a private agreement between two families.  Neither the Church nor the State had any say in the matter. Of course now-days, a bride’s family is shirking its duty if they do not provide the groom’s family with a number of sheep or horses.

Often, not even family-consent was necessary for marriage. Two people who simply regarded themselves as being married were viewed by the Church as having a valid marriage, provided neither one was a slave of course.  It was not until 1754 that England preferred to have couples obtain a marriage license, although that was not regularly enforced. Even in socially backward countries such as America, authorities initially simply inferred marriage from a couple’s behavior rather than requiring either a license or a church wedding.  Just living together was all that was needed.

Considering that so many “good Christians” would like to alter civil law to conform to their religion, they would be upset to learn that the type of marriage most often mentioned in the first five books of the Old Testament was not one-man, one-woman, but instead was one-man, several-women.  So, in today’s “traditional marriage,” how many women should a man be allowed to marry?

If a man chooses only one woman to marry, then he is allowed to either divorce his first wife or add another wife or concubine if the first wife does not produce a child.  After all, producing offspring is the only reason to marry; no one else should want to marry.  

Early Christian records document some same-sex marriages.  It is said that, in the 4th century, Saint Sergius and Saint Bacchus were united in a church service.  They even are portrayed close, side-by-side in a religious icon.  

When the Church later promoted two-person marriages, the Church would nullify a marriage if the man was impotent, but not if one of the spouses was sterile.  One wonders to what extent the Church went to determine which was which.  In 18th-century Ireland, one aristocratic lass insisted upon marrying the great castrato singer Tenducci, only to employ the law of the time to divorce him when she discovered the greater pleasures of a fully intact man.  The New York Court ruled in 1898, however, “It cannot be held, as a matter of law, that the possession of the organs necessary to conception are essential to entrance to the married state, so long as there is no impediment to the indulgence of the passion incident to this state.”  So apparently, two guys who are partners don’t have to keep trying to make babies.

Only in more recent times have American legislatures and courts felt obliged to intrude upon what has been, in truth, real traditional marriage.  Black slaves in America could marry, but only with the permission of the slave owner.  By the 1920s, thirty-eight states had laws prohibiting marriage between whites and blacks, Mulattos, Japanese, Chinese, Indians, Mongolians, Malays, or Filipinos.  Twelve states prohibited marriage to a “drunk” or “mental defective.”  There even was a prohibition to marrying any  (quote) “drunkard, habitual criminal, imbecile, feeble-minded person, idiot, or insane person.”  If we adhered to this “traditional” concept of marriage today, that would eliminate the right to marry to most members of the GOP and all of Fox News.

In conclusion, and to paraphrase conservative pundit George Will, what is the cost / benefit of so many Americans believing in, and subscribing to, the hate-filled, irrational rantings of so many so-called “good–Christian” politicians, voters, and  preachers?  The cost to American society, and especially to the civil rights of GLBT citizens, is clear.  But, I see no true benefit from having millions of Americans standing foursquare with bloviating ignoramuses. The recent statement  by  a  North-Carolina,  Baptist  minister who said, “Ah could just puke!  Can you imagine kissin’ a man?” is redundant proof that high authority allows for someone of extremely low IQ to insert himself into the debate concerning human civil rights.

© 01 June 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.

Filing through the Files by Terry

In the effort to avoid a depressing subject, I am sharing my little adventure in going through my files to find the title of my car. It took me twice through to locate the title. I traveled a territory spanning at least three decades. I searched through three different files.

The largest, looming at a full page, officially stamped, was my marriage certificate. Could not for the life of me remember what I’d needed that for.

Ahh the receipts.  For someone who doesn't itemize, I have a lot of receipts!  Everything from ice cream shops to body shops, not to mention movie tickets (remember Back to the Future?)

For some reason, I had tucked a bunch of poetry and letters written many years ago, under, for some reason, letter H.  I read through several letters written to someone named Nancy. Unmailed, Passionate, that professed undying love, please don't leave me, that kind of thing, for pages and pages!

I was stunned. I had no idea who this Nancy was.  Had I been in an imaginary relationship?  Or, had I actually been writing letters, at age thirty or so, to an imaginary lover?  Was this a half-finished narrative from a short story that I forgot I wrote?  Who in the Hell was Nancy?  I don't know any Nancy, or any Nancys.  The handwriting looked like mine.  It took a good twenty minutes of staring into space before it dawned on me; the woman I thought I would never get over, over whom I had been devastated and bereft; I must have been chuckling to myself the rest of the day and into sleep over that one.

The other find was the roster for The Denver Golden Girls, my wonderful Lesbian rugby team.  I had started out just to take part in practices to get into shape. But that game just sucked me right in.  I remembered practice, breaking through tackles, when Harpo (her real name) tied to catch me by the waist band of my shorts which were of a stretchy material, and more than my athletic talent was revealed, however briefly.  Though we beat the women of The Air Force Academy I remembered only Harpo from that roster.

Ultimately, of course, there were receipts from doctor bills and shrinks and surgeons, but I said I wasn't going to get into that.  Suffice it to say that some things just are bound to be forgotten.  After all, isn't that why we have files?

  

© 23 June 2013 

About the Author 

I am an artist and writer after having spent the greater part of my career serving variously as a child care counselor, a special needs teacher, a mental health worker with teens and young adults, and a home health care giver for elderly and Alzheimer patients. Now that I am in my senior years I have returned to writing and art, which I have enjoyed throughout my life.

Keeping the Peace by Ricky

Beginning in August 1972 until July 1976, I worked as a Deputy Sheriff in Pima County, Arizona. August through November consisted of training at the Southern Arizona Law Enforcement Institute [commonly known as the Tucson Police Academy]. My father and future wife attended the graduation ceremony. After the ceremony, I patrolled out of the substation located in Marana, which at that time was a small unincorporated community located 24 miles north of Tucson along Interstate 10. You might say I was involved in several adventures during those years, but to me it was just keeping the peace.

As a little boy in Redondo Beach, California, I would watch the Sheriff John cartoon TV show each day. As I grew and moved to different homes, I began to watch the current popular western TV shows of the time featuring characters such as Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, Matt Dillon, Paladin, Lucas McCain, Johnny Yuma, Wild Bill Hickok, Annie Oakley, Zorro, Lt. Rip Masters, The Lone Ranger, Davy Crockett, and probably more, which I do not recall now. Thus, these characters became somewhat of role models to me and created a desire to become a “lawman.” But then again, I also wanted to be a teacher, a military officer, and a farmer. Strangely enough, I did actually did accomplish all four of those juvenile desires, not by proper planning, but by taking advantage of opportunities that sprang up unexpectedly.

During my younger preteen years, I read many comic books. However, those cartoon “heroes” did not create any desires in me to become them. They were “unreal,” completely fake, unlike the “real” people playing the characters of heros I watched on TV. Sure, I would imagine or fantasize what it would be like to have super powers or abilities, but I also knew that even though they were fun stories, such things did not exist in the real world. However, it was fun to dress up as Superman at Halloween.

While still in a K-8 elementary school, I wrote a book report using the autobiography of Wyatt Earp. This really cemented the subconscious desire to follow his example. Sadly, my real life, the Vietnam conflict, and the “draft” teamed up to cause a temporary blockage to that desire when I joined the Air Force to avoid being drafted into the Army upon flunking out of my first year of college.

Upon my discharge from the Air Force, I returned to college life this time at Brigham Young University for one semester before moving to Tucson. During the Christmas break, I had gone to Tucson to visit an ex-military family that had been my “adopted family” while I served in Florida. One day, while stopped at a traffic light, I saw a billboard that read, “Support Your Local Sheriff.” I thought it was an advertisement for the James Garner movie by the same name. When I glanced at the sign again, I noticed the rest of the message, which read in its entirety, “Support Your Local Sheriff, Get a Massage.” As it turned out, the local sheriff owned the massage parlors in Tucson.

A day or two later, I was at my adopted family’s home when some ladies from the church visited and I overheard one of them telling how the “crooked” sheriff had recently resigned rather than face prosecution and the department was hiring because about half of his deputies resigned at the same time. I saw an opportunity because at the time, police officers were not very popular, much more so than nowadays. I returned to BYU, took my final semester exams, then returned to Tucson, and submitted an application.

Eventually, I entered the police academy. On the first day of class, I learned two important life lessons. The first one is that an electric shaver does not shave close enough and I have used a razor ever since. The second lesson involves what we were all told. The academy commandant informed us that for each of the 23 deputy sheriff cadets in our class, they had interviewed 10 applicants; 230 in all. If I had known in advance that the odds of selection were 1 in 10, I never would have applied. I learned to try in spite of the odds.

One of the questions asked of me by the selection board was, “How do you see this position; as a police officer or as a peace officer?” I answered, “peace officer.” I have always believed that it is better to solve a problem than to simply treat the symptom by taking the easiest solution (i.e. arrest someone).

Thus, during my time as a deputy, there were two cases that I consider my best work.

The first case involved a “runaway” boy from one of our church member families. While the other deputies working in the substation, would have waited until they spotted him, arrest him, and deliver him to the juvenile authorities, I took a different approach. I went to a convenience store where kids of his age would visit and spoke to several to see if they knew the boy. To those who said they did know him, I asked them to give him a message if they were to see him. It worked. The boy came to where I was waiting one day and I spoke with him about how his parents were worried about him and how much trouble he would cause the family he was staying with, if any other deputy should find him. I explained to him he needs to go home before he causes a problem. I phoned his parents and informed them the boy is okay and would return home in a day or two. He went home the next day. Case closed with potential problems avoided.

The second case also involves a boy, also about 12-years old. This boy was repeatedly cutting through a neighbor’s property, taking a shortcut to the school bus stop after being told not to trespass by the property owner. This was a big deal to the owner as he and his wife were building their house and all the walls were not up yet, specifically the bathroom walls.

When I arrived at the boy’s home one afternoon, the “runaway” boy from the previous story was also there. I explained the situation and the trespassing law to the boy and asked him what we should do about it. He had a small “chip-on-his-shoulder” and told me that he did not know. So, I told him that I should probably take him to Tucson and let his parents come there to get him. (I can be mean when I have to be.) The boy immediately burst into tears. I cannot stand it when kids cry and my heart melted. I had not even planned to carry out my statement but only intended to place some major psychological pressure on him. I gave him a reasonable alternative just between us with no report to his parents. 1.  Go and apologize to the owner, 2. explain about the school bus shortcut, 3. promise not to use the shortcut again, and 4. ask if after the house was finished, he could use the shortcut again. I told the runaway boy never to tell anyone that the first boy had cried. I drove to the owner’s house and reported on my conversation with the boy. I explained that I don’t want a neighborhood feud and was giving the boy a chance to redeem himself. At first the man was a little unhappy but he came around to my view. As we were talking, I saw the boy walking towards where we were, so I told the man that they could work this out and I left. We never got another call from that man concerning the boy and no feud developed.

That is what “keeping the peace” is all about.

My Childhood TV Heros

Annie Oakley
Annie Oakley TV Show Opening Theme

Bat Masterson
Bat Masterson TV Show Ending & Theme

Davy Crockett
Davy Crockett TV Show Theme

Matt Dillon played by
James Arnes
Gunsmoke TV Show Theme

Johnny Yuma played by
Nick Adams
The Rebel TV Show Theme

The Lone Ranger played by
Clayton Moore
The Lone Ranger TV Show Opening & Theme

Lt. Rip Masters played by
James Brown
The Adventures of Rin-Tin-Tin Opening Theme

Paladin played by
Richard Boone
Have Gun Will Travel TV Show Theme

Roy Rogers & Trigger
Roy Rogers TV Show Opening

Sheriff John played by
John Rovick
Sheriff John Cartoon Show Biography

Lucas McCain played by
Chuck Connors
The Rifleman TV Show Ending & Theme

Wild Bill Hickok
James Butler Hickok
Wild Bill Hickok TV Show Opening (and one episode)

Wyatt Earp
Ballad of Wyatt Earp TV Show Theme

Zorro played by
Guy Madison
Zorro TV Show Opening & Theme

© 9 June 2013 

About the Author 

Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA

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 began living 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 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.