All My Exes Live in Texas by Ricky

        After graduating college in May of 1978, I was commissioned a Second Lieutenant in the US Air Force (Security Police) and stationed at Malmstrom AFB, in Great Falls, Montana.  During that summer, I attended Camp Bullis near San Antonio, Texas for training in security police officer duties, policies, procedures, and combat field skills.  The first four weeks were devoted to classroom activities and physical fitness.  The next six weeks were taught under field conditions to hone the skills we read about in the classroom.

        One of those skills was map reading and orienteering (not to be confused with sexual orientationeering).  The highlight of that portion of our training involved day and night navigation using a map and compass to follow printed directions from one point to another.  The first set of instructions was given us at our starting point.  We had to follow that instruction to find the next leg of our course and so forth for a total of ten legs.  The destination of each leg was a “soup can” mounted on top of a 3-foot post.  There were 75 such posts scattered around the 3 square miles of our training area so it was vital that we used the map and compass accurately or we would not arrive at the correct final destination.

        I had done this type of compass course in the Boy Scouts so I was not intimidated by the task and found it to be rather fun.  We had to follow the course in teams of three.  I don’t know what the others did, but my team drew our course out on the map and marked the desired destination with an “X” and then walked the route.  As we completed each leg, we drew out the next leg and added another “X”.  No one was shooting at us since this was training and not combat, so we had an easy time following the course as drawn on the map except for the oppressive heat.  Due to the rolling hills, gullies, and scattered light and dense vegetation, we would take a compass sighting and send two of us ahead a convenient number of yards to establish a straight line.

        The legs were of varying lengths with some as long as a mile from one point to another.  A one-degree error over a mile distance could cause one to miss the destination by several yards.  The target posts with the “soup cans” containing our next set of co-ordinates were not all easily seen.  Many were placed such that one could not see it until you passed it and looked back.  Several were deliberately placed inside thickets of scrub brush that had grown several feet high.  And there was the constant watchfulness for Texas sized spiders, scorpions, tarantulas, and snakes all while counting our steps and detouring around thickets too wide to push through.  As I said, the day light course was easy, but the night course was a different matter.

        The night course was the same event obviously without the benefit of sunlight and in our case, without moonlight either.  With only flashlights, it was difficult to send two teammates ahead to establish a straight line for walking.  We still had to deal with the local “critters” and also the smelly night prowling ones too.  After completing the first leg with all its difficulties, I decided to cheat a little.  Well, it wasn’t really cheating because we were doing a compass course and orienteering after all, and in a combat situation, it’s the result that counts not the method.  And besides, I really did not want to be walking around Texas all night dodging spiders, snakes, and skunks looking for some elusive “soup can” on a post.

        Therefore, I had my team switch to nighttime orienteering using a method not taught in our classroom experience, but taught in my Boy Scout troop night games—celestial navigation using the stars as a guide.  After we took our compass heading and placed the “X” on the map, we picked out a star on the horizon that was in-line with the desired course and just walked towards that star counting our steps.  Once we switched to that method, the course went very fast indeed.  In fact, my team was the first one done not only for the night course, but also for the daylight course.

        I imagine that all my “Xs” on those maps are still somewhere in Texas, most likely in a landfill somewhere on Camp Bullis or possibly their ashes from an incinerator are blowing around Texas on the wind.

        My only other “exes” are in Texas for sure.  My ex-president, LBJ, is buried there and the “ex-decider” is apparently on his ranch attempting to create excellent works of art and beauty.

© 13 January 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 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.

The Sweetest Touch by Phillip Hoyle

Given my sweet tooth I certainly would recognize and appreciate anyone who personified sweetness, but for some reason I have no recollection of ever meeting such a person. Although I cannot recall anyone, I have experienced sweet moments with special people. I recall what follows ever so clearly.

All the busses with their crisscross routes in my Capitol Hill neighborhood and the fact that I knew schedules well enough to judge which one to catch fascinated my nine-year-old grandson Kalo. We’d be ready to go downtown and I’d wonder aloud if we should wait for the Number Ten—an every 20 minute bus along East 12th Avenue—or catch the Number 12—an every 30 minute bus along Downing that in those days, some eleven years ago, turned toward downtown on 16th Avenue—or walk three blocks to catch the ever-interesting Number 15—an every 15 minute bus on East Colfax with both local and limited busses that stopped at Downing. Kalo thought his granddad quite intelligent and looked longingly at every bus that sped by.

When Kalo was ten years old he told his parents he wanted to go to Denver to paint with his grandpa Phillip instead of attending summer church camp. Calls were exchanged and a date agreed upon. For years I had programmed summer educational experiences for children, but now I faced a new challenge: to plan a weeklong art experience for one child with one ageing granddad as the solitary staff. I called my one-week plan the “Young Artist’s Urban Survival Camp” and looked forward to the week. I knew the time would require many and varied art projects and for my grandson travel around the city by bus! Finally the day dawned and Kalo arrived. I met him at the airport gate. We rode the Skyride from DIA, took the Shuttle to Civic Center Plaza, and transferred to another bus to go up Capitol Hill. Our week was off to a great start; he loved the transportation!

That week the two of us did a heap of artwork. We visited museums, galleries, an outdoor arts festival, and the annual PrideFest. Probably just as important for Kalo, we rode busses. On one of our outings we transferred to the Light Rail. Also we walked. Since Kalo was from a small city and had lived most of his life in the country, I was a bit cautious when we were crossing streets. I’d give instructions and sometimes take his hand until I was sure he was alert to what could happen. Then one afternoon on an outing to the Denver Art Museum, when we rode the Number 10 down to Lincoln and were getting ready to cross the busy intersection at 12th Avenue, Kalo grabbing my arm cautioned me about the traffic. “Grandpa, be careful.”

I thought how sweet this changing of responsibilities was—one of the sweetest interactions of our ten year relationship. I who had long cared for people in a thirty-year ministerial career, who in my five years in Denver had watched over two partners during their deaths, who had given countless therapeutic massages—many to very ill persons—was in Kalo’s simple, thoughtful act being taken care of by a precocious ten-year-old grandchild. I received his act of kindness and thoughtfulness as a sweet moment. Of course, I also saw the act as a portent of what happens between generations: someday he and others would take care of me.

We had a great week on public transit, a mountain hike, and watching the PrideFest parade; and did artwork that had us painting, constructing collages, and making rubbings. But my favorite experience was receiving Kalo’s sweet and practical gesture for the safety of his grandpa.

Yesterday a young-adult Kalo with his younger sister Ulzii, their dad, and two friends, came to Denver. We have begun lots of talk. Perhaps I’ll remind him of this sweetest moment!

© 30 March 2014 – Denver

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

Clothes by Pat Gourley

I really was never much of a clothes person. Growing up on a farm did not lend itself to high fashion and certainly not in rural Indiana in the 1950’s. My family could certainly be considered lower middle class even in the heady economic postwar years and clothing budgets were always tight. Also attending Catholic grade school and continuing on with the Holy Cross nuns through high school dress codes if not uniforms were required. I wonder in hindsight if perhaps my parent’s real motive for insisting on Catholic education wasn’t that the dress codes really cut down on clothing expenses?

I often did farm chores in the morning before catching the school bus and the most important thing on my mind was not my regimented clothes for the day but making sure I did not smell like pig shit going out the door. As soon as I got to college my hippie days started in earnest and we know what fashion mavens’ hippies can be.

Thanks to some rather ironic and unfortunate body changes due to HIV medicines where one wastes extremity fat but seems to pile it on in one’s mid section viscerally I have become a total fan of scrub pants, which often come with an elastic waste band. The elastic waistband is one of the great inventions of modern civilization.  And nurses bless their hearts have made this the primary mode of work dress. That has meant for years now that I can live almost 24/7 in relative comfort. I have in fact incorporated wearing black scrub or chef’s pants to nearly any social outing I participate in. I do own a few sport jackets but these most often get paired with a tasteful t-shirt and the subtlest black scrub pants I can find. T-shirts are of course another modern clothing invention worthy of praise.

As far as shopping for clothes go I would really rather watch paint dry. They just need to be baggy and loose fitting and of course comfort rules always over fashion. This is a fashion statement that also endeared me to the Radical Fairies. Especially when Harry Hay put out with the first call for a large national gathering and in that call said something to the effect that if clothing was to be worn at all it needed to be and I quote “flowing non-hetero garb”. Since this first Radical Fairie gathering was in southern Arizona in late summer the nudity won out over even the flowing non-hetero garb.

The opposite option to clothes I suppose is no clothes or that wonderful word ‘nudity’. This option was truly reinforced for me in my bathhouse days primarily in the 1970’s. The bathes were such a great gay male creation. I mean lets all get together in place where clothing is truly frowned on and actually considered rude. Nudity even if a bit of towel is involved really does throw all pretexts for why we are here out the window. The lack of clothes in the bathes really was a great facilitator for the main course if you will, a great time saver.

The bathes though took a real hit in the mid-1980’s with the AIDS epidemic beginning to really pick up steam and for me personally they were no longer a legitimate avenue of play. I did miss the communal nudity with many other gay men and perhaps that is why I was briefly attracted to a group called the DAN-D’s, an acronym for “Denver Area Nude Dudes” that described itself as a “nonsexual, social naturist club” in the early 1990’s. I did though only attend a couple of their events the most memorable being a nude bowling outing somewhere up in Northwest metro Denver. Trust me even the most buff individual can look a bit strange pitching a bowling ball down the alley and jumping for joy at a strike.

I was though delighted to find the DAN-D’s current web site and that they seem to be thriving almost 25 years after being founded in 1990. They actually have an event this evening if anyone might be interested. It is a nude shopping spree at a local men’s underwear store on Broadway. Clothing apparently not optional but a purchase does not seem to be required. It is between 5 and 8 PM and I assume the store will be closed for this “private event”. There is a modest membership fee to join the DAN-D’s but if you hang out in front of the store you might be able to tag along in as someone’s guest for the evening.

© September 2014

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 I Decided by Gillian

Well, y’know what? If I’m perfectly honest with myself, (if that is even a possibility for me or for anyone, but I do my best,) I fear that there are few, if any statements, at least with reference to my earlier years, that I could make beginning with those words. At least if I did, they would all end up like this; “When I decided .... whatever .... I didn’t really decide at all but just drifted along due to inertia.  Or, was swept away by emotion.  Or, Let someone else decide for me.”

Really! And this came as a surprise to me! I always thought I made decisions, but looking back I’m not so sure. Much of the time they certainly did not add up to what I truly consider to be active decision-making; weighing the odds, listing the choices, analyzing the figures. At best they were passive decisions, if decisions at all. In my own defense I must say that I never simply tossed a coin, but maybe even that would have been more pro-active. At least the coin toss acknowledges that there is in fact a decision to be made. With me it was often as if I spaced out the necessary decision completely, and, as if sleepwalking suddenly woke up in a new situation. And to top off this sad tale of inadequate thinking, it appears to me that sometimes when I did actually decide something; it was for the wrong reasons. I have been mighty lucky, then, that most changes I have drifted or been dragged into, have been very positive.

Take, for example, my decision to go to college. A good decision made, admittedly subliminally, in order to fix this queerness I did not even acknowledge having. The men there would be different from the farm boys at home. I would fall madly in love and live happily forever after without this unidentified thing eating away at me. A great decision, my college days were among the happiest in my life, but made for completely the wrong reason. I hadn’t been there a week before I fell madly in love with a woman in my class.

After college I fell into deep infatuation with another woman, who one day casually tossed out the suggestion that we go to the United States for a year. “OK,” I shrugged, and that was the extent of my decision-making. Had she suggested an excursion to the South Pole I would have responded in the same way. Talk about decisions for the wrong reasons! And letting someone else make them for you.

My “decision” to come to Denver was mighty casual, as well. I had trailed my ineffectual self around the U.S. in my inamorata’s wake, ending up in Houston where she married a very rich and mighty cute Texan, which put an end to me as her shadow. I might as well start saving the money to return to England, I thought, gloomily. The new unwanted man in my life had a friends in Denver and said I should see Colorado before leaving the U.S.

“O.K.”

Another shrug decision. “Why not?”

I cannot even remember really deciding to go to work for IBM, where I remained for 30 mostly very happy years. I was working at Shwayder Brothers, later to become Samsonite, when the guy working next to me said that if I wanted some quick bucks to get myself home, I should apply at IBM, which at that time was rapidly filling it’s new plant in Boulder with just about anyone walking in off the street. What an opportunity. It’s difficult in this day and age even to imagine such a thing, never mind remember the actuality of it. But I don’t recall finding the prospect exciting at all.

“Yeah, O.K.” I responded, “Thanks. Why not”

I never did return to England permanently, but again I have little recollection of actually making a conscious decision to stay in Colorado, for all that I recognized I had found God’s country. It was more a case of drifting: allowing nothing to happen. In the absence of decisions, the status quo remains.

My marriage was most definitely a product of non-decision. (Which is, by the way, nothing like indecision, which implies at least some attempt to make a decision.) I simply drifted effortlessly into the vacuum created by my future husband’s needs.

As for coming out, to myself, that is, there was no decision involved at all. I was picked up by the cowcatcher of a runaway train and away I went. I couldn’t stop it and I couldn’t get off.

When that train arrived and dumped me firmly on the ground at it’s destination, I of course had to leave my marriage. And it was as a result of a very conscious decision that I left. Not long after that, I came out to everyone else in my life; another conscious decision. When I asked Betsy if she would consider actually, really, legally, marrying me last year, that again was a serious decision.

You see, before I came out at least to myself, in my early 40’s, I wasn’t myself. I was an actor plugging along on the stage of life, playing me. But I was not me. At some deeply-buried intuitional level, I always knew this. So what did I care what that person playing me did; where she went or how she lived? Why bother making decisions about what moves this person, in some ways almost a stranger to me, makes?

Then I came out and I was me. The real me. The actor was gone. From then on, of course it mattered what happened to me. ME. MYSELF. The original. The one and only. You talk about being born again! Suddenly, in middle age, the real me was born. And I am important to me. I care for me. I make decisions very carefully for me. I most emphatically do care what I do and where I go and how I live. Finally and forever, I am me.

“Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”

― Dr. Seuss

© 15 August 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.

Summer Camp by Betsy

Unlike their counterpart the Boy Scouts of America, the Girl Scouts of the USA have historically been accepting of their lesbian members--girls and adult leaders and professional staff members.   The policy regarding sexual orientation is and always has been not to condemn or condone any sexual behavior, and that displays of or promotion of any lifestyle over another is inappropriate and has no place in the conduct of adult leaders or girl members.  Inappropriate conduct sexual or otherwise is subject to evaluation and condemnation by the administrative authorities of the organization.

I had a 25 year career as a professional staff member and about 40 years as a girl member and a volunteer leader and administrator.  In those 65 years I have known many women both gay and straight who have been dedicated to the Girl Scout program and ideals.

The Girl Scout program and the places where it is carried out offer girls something unique; namely, a place for girls only, a place where girls can carry out their activities and projects without the presence of boys.  In a girls-only environment, the dynamics are different from an environment where boys are present.  Expectations of the girls are higher and their performance is often higher.  The stereotypes assigned by society to females usually disappear in an all-girl setting.  Stereotypes of acceptable female roles simply do not apply in such circumstances.  Studies have shown clearly that students in an all girl setting consistently out perform those in co-ed settings.  Girl Scouting offers this all-girl setting where recreational activities can be carried out.

It seems that homophobia has never been an issue in my experience in girl scouting with one exception.  Summer camp. 

One can certainly understand how a college aged lesbian seeking summer employment would be attracted to the Girl Scout summer camp counsellor job.  How many times have I heard these words from many of my lesbian acquaintances: “Oh, you worked for the Girl Scouts?  I was a summer camp counsellor when I was in college.”

There are very few times the homophobia monster reared its ugly head in the 25 years I was with Mile Hi Council staff.   Both were very ugly indeed. 

I was not involved in the camp program so I heard this story second hand but I am sure it’s accurate.  During one two-week session of camp somehow word got out that there were two lesbians on the camp staff--maybe more.  The word got to some of the campers’ parents--parents who did not want their children exposed to homosexuality.  In the middle of the session two of the parents appeared one day at camp and publicly and loudly demanded that their children be removed immediately from whatever they were doing.  The mothers were there to take there darlings home lest they fall under the damaging  influence of the lesbian counsellors.

The second appearance of the monster occurred when an acquaintance, the administrator of a camping program told me that she had been directed by her CEO to be sure not to recruit camp staff from the lesbian community.  How do we know an applicant is a lesbian,” she asked.   “We can’t ask.”  “They all have short hair,” was the reply from the CEO, who, by the way, herself had never been known to have anything but short hair.

Ahh! Summer camp.  No wonder I loved it so much myself.  Crawling with lesbians.  How is it that I ended up with a life-long partner who doesn’t even know what summer camp is!

© 25 August 2014

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.

Magic by Will Stanton

For some of you, please bear with me for just a moment. Today's topic is Magic, and what easier way to start the conversation than with some references, using them simply as a preface to my main thoughts, references to the currently very popular books and movies about Harry Potter. We can't be more magical than that. Anyone who knows him is well aware of his great magical powers. After my preface, I'll then tell you about a few of the things I would do if I possessed such great powers.

Harry's special powers came about by, first, his having been born a wizard, not a mere mortal (or "muggle," if you will.) Then he honed his skills and learned many more by attending Hogwarts School. During those several years, he also gained from practical experience utilizing his magical powers. Then finally, author J.K. Rowling writes that Harry had acquired the three instruments of great power: the Elder Wand (the most powerful wand in the world), the Resurrection Stone (with which one can bring people back to life), and the Invisibility Cloak (which hides the person possessing it from Death.) Harry could be the most powerful wizard in the whole world.

Rowling then writes that Harry, admirably demonstrating his modesty and his wariness of any one person possessing such vast powers, tosses aside the Resurrection Stone and then breaks and discards the Elder Wand. Good old Harry, modest and of good character right to the end. Logically, however, there was a precedent of someone possessing all three instruments of power without having abused such powers, Harry's own friend and headmaster Professor Dumbledore. He had those great powers but apparently did not abuse them.

Harry might not have been able to bring back all those good people who died at the hands of the evil wizard, Lord Voldemort and his minions, but at least he could have helped to heal the many injured and traumatized. With a mere flick or two of his wand, he could have rebuilt Hogwarts that had been left in shambles after the last confrontation with the evil hordes. I can think of so many additional, magnanimous uses of such powers.

Yes I admit, if I were Harry, I would have done a few minor things for myself, too. Why not? For example, why not fix his eyesight so that he would not have to go around with those eye glasses that always seemed to become broken? Then, now that Voldemort is gone, he might get rid of the lightning-scar on his forehead. There was no need to go around the rest of his life with that mark of evil. And, how about unobtrusively growing an inch or three, considering that Harry was so short? (I'm talking about his height.)

Now getting on with the supposed reality, this poor world seems always to have been plagued with hordes of evil Lord Voldemort, those persons who have caused death, trauma, and great destruction. Some start wars or otherwise engage in various levels of violence. Crime is rampant. Lack of empathy and civility permeate humankind. So many people seem to be prone to continually creating toxic levels of fear, suspicion, intolerance, and hate merely by their words, words that seem to drip with acid. One such character in Tolkien's "Lord of the Rings" was known as "Wormtongue," a singularly appropriate name. I guess that such evil is why Canada has outlawed one American television network from opening an affiliate in Canada. Canada actually has a law against networks lying. Amazing! I wish that the U.S. had such a law and it were enforced. The world and our own nation suffer from such people on a daily basis. Oh, how I would like to do something about that if only I had great magical powers!

How I also would like to eliminate illiteracy, ignorance, economic hardship, the sad decline of culture and society, including the lamentable failure to raise a huge portion of our children so that they become well prepared, happy, and productive members of society. There is so much that needs attending to among humankind.

Even without the deficiencies and destructiveness of humankind, the world itself has plenty of troubles: global warming, natural disasters, disease, and possibly an asteroid or meteor crashing into the earth. The powers of nature and the universe appear to be overwhelming; however, some good, solid magic might be able to tone down the impact of such troubles, even if just a little.

I know that we all are supposed to accept reality, to not engage excessively in fantasy; yet it is easy to understand how many of us do see what is and wish how things could be, and then possibly become frustrated. There are some people who do have sufficient abilities and truly influential positions where they might make some positive differences. Unfortunately, such positive people are few and far between. For the rest of us poor souls, however, slipping into fantastic thoughts and wishes can become rather attractive. Oh, Harry! Where are your powers when we need them?

© 22 August 2013 

About the Author 

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

Favorite Places by Ricky

I have many “favorite places” depending upon which part of my life I am remembering.  Only a few can be called absolute favorites throughout my life.  What follows is only a listing of those places which are withstanding the ravages of time upon my memories.

These places are listed in no particular "favorite" order.

1.   Disneyland – Peter Pan Ride (I first rode this in 1955)

2.   Disneyland – Alice in Wonderland Ride (I first rode this in 1955)

3.   Lake Tahoe – Emerald Bay (My first summer home at Lake Tahoe – 1958)

4.   LDS Manti Temple (Deborah and I married here in 1973)

5.   Mt. Rushmore, South Dakota (I recharge my patriotism here)

6.   Epcot Center – Journey Into Imagination with Figment (My family LOVED this ride.  We rode it three times in a row without getting off the ride to reenter.  This link is for the newest version not the one we saw years ago.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuPr7G-uBmM

  

7.   BSA Camp Winton (I was a boy camper 2 years and on the “Staph” in 1966.  The “staph” spelling was my idea.  My name is recorded around the “XX” brand left of center.)

8.   Disneyland Paris – Space Mountain (My youngest daughter, her friend boy, and I rode this twice.) 

  

9.   Step-father’s Tour Boat (I was his deckhand all summer in 1958)

10.   The California Redwood forest at Trees of Mystery.  Specifically, the “Cathedral Trees.”

Cathedral Tree video 1:48 minutes.

The Redwoods

Joseph B. Strauss

Here, sown by the Creator's hand.
In serried ranks, the Redwoods stand:
No other clime is honored so,
No other lands their glory know.

The greatest of Earth's living forms,
Tall conquerors that laugh at storms;
Their challenge still unanswered rings,
Through fifty centuries of kings.

The nations that with them were young,
Rich empires, with their forts far-flung,
Lie buried now-their splendor gone:
But these proud monarchs still live on.

So shall they live, when ends our days,
When our crude citadels decay;
For brief the years allotted man,
But infinite perennials' span.

This is their temple, vaulted high,
And here, we pause with reverent eye,
With silent tongue and awestruck soul;
For here we sense life's proper goal:

To be like these, straight, true and fine,
to make our world like theirs, a shrine;
Sink down, Oh, traveler, on your knees,
God stands before you in these trees.

© 7 July 2013

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 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 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.