The Shongololo by Betsy and Gillian

We were looking for a trip that would provide both adventure, something different, and a measure of comfort. It was in the year 2000 that our search ended when we read an article in the travel section of the Denver Post. The Shongololo: ten day train tour through South Africa. If this trip turned out to be as the article described it would be perfect. We needed a travel agent representing the South African Company to make the arrangements for us. There was such an agent in Boulder. So to Boulder we went to book our tour on the Shongololo.

The tour started in Cape Town. We decided to spend a few days exploring Cape Town on our own before the tour started. So we booked a room at the Holiday Inn in the heart of the city on Market Square.

We arrived there in mid day and, of course, we were quite exhausted from the arduous trip we had just completed, so we checked into our hotel and went directly to our room to relax and turned on the TV to check on the world news. What we saw was a gorgeous, young, black South African woman delivering the news broadcast by making clicking sounds so unfamiliar to us we laughed. For a moment in our sleep deprived state we thought perhaps we had journeyed not to another continent but to another planet. What we were hearing, we later learned, was Xhosa or the click language. Xhosa is one of the official languages of South Africa spoken by 7.5 million people. Later, on the train one of our guides was to give us a good demonstration of the language.

There our adventure did begin. We were determined to tread that narrow line between being street smart and not letting fear-mongering tie us to our hotel room or at the wildest, organized tours. We had perfect weather - not hard to find in South Africa - and walked for endless miles around the city. We rode the cable car to the top of Table Mountain on of those very rare days when the cloud “tablecloth” did not envelope it and the views from the top were superb. We set off one day to visit a museum dedicated to an old “colored” township which had been demolished during the dark days of apartheid, to make room for white folk who wanted the ocean views the area provided. In the event no further development took place, and the hillside lay barren and empty except for endless windblown garbage. Unable to find the museum, we were told that it had moved, and our informant, an old black man, provided us with two young black men who had been sitting idly on the sidewalk, to be our guides. Ever fearful of being “ugly Americans,” we accepted and set off across this endless wasteland. Betsy and I glanced at each other occasionally with looks that said,

“Are we being stupid? Should we be doing this?”

But one of the young men, who spoke reasonable English, chatted on to us about the current unemployment and other post-apartheid problems, and they seemed O.K.

Perhaps the fact that they were not very big, and we had some notion we could take them if it came to a fight, gave us fools’ courage.

Anyway, it turned out we were not fools. They led us straight to the museum and didn’t even ask for money for their time, although we did give them some before they started on their long trek back into the City. They, and that museum and the friendly people we met there, were one of the great highlights of our trip. Sometimes, when it comes to trust, you’ve just got to go with your gut!

We noticed, while on our own in Cape town, that on the street or in a park or anywhere for that matter, except in our own hotel room, we were constantly approached by South Africans with their hands out asking for--well, we imagined, money was what they wanted. We thought it prudent to NOT hand over cash. And I think we had been advised about this. If we had a little bit, probably we had more would be the message and we certainly wanted to avoid sending that message. We hated the ignoring, so we decided to buy tiny packets of dried fruit which we had noticed in some stores. We kept the packets tucked away in pockets the next time we went out and gave them out as people approached asking for.........it turns out they were asking for anything we had to offer and dried fruit was like gold to some. So very grateful they were for a few morsels of fruit. This gratitude so impressed us we wanted to give baskets of fruit rather than tiny packets. But at least we were able to give some sort of response to their supplications.

The streets of Cape Town were full of activity every day. Many people walking about going from here to there, there were always those with their hands out, vendors hawking their wares, crafts, hand made jewelry, clothing, household items, etc. Particularly notable were the groups of young people--usually girls, but not always--performing groups, singing, dancing, sometime simply gyrating to the very lively, upbeat music. The singing was always well practiced, sung in perfect harmony and beautifully. They made choral singing look so easy and they did this while dancing and with no director. We often found ourselves mesmerized by such performances. Of course donations were put into the collection bowl, but talk about working hard for a pittance!

Our escapades on our own in Cape Town were the first indication of what a happy people the South Africans are. This fact impressed us throughout the trip through the country. These people whom one would expect to be full of anger and resentment, many of them struggling to survive from one day to the next, were, at least seemingly, some of the happiest people we had ever seen.

OK OK this is supposed to be about train trip. Yeah, yeah!

After a wonderful time in Cape Town we finally did board the train, and rattled off up the coast of the Indian Ocean.

Have any of you seen, on TV, the travelogue of The Blue Train, another tourist train which winds it’s way across South Africa, as it’s passengers sport dinner jackets and cocktail dresses and sip champagne in their expansive private lounges? Let me disillusion you right now.

The Shongololo ain’t no Blue Train!

Our cabin was tiny, with two very narrow folding bunks huddled on either side of a tiny wash basin, suggesting something out of the shrunken part of Gulliver’s Travels. But it was clean, as was the shower which, far from en suite, was one per each carriage of perhaps a dozen people. Out of 40 or so passengers, there were only two other Americans, who, apparently unprepared, were appalled by the accommodations. However, after the first bout of complaints they gave up, accepted their situation, and ended up being very good sports. The rest of the passengers were a mix of various Europeans, several Aussies, a few from New Zealand and Canada and some miscellaneous, or, as the Brits put it, odds and sods.

The train travels overnight while you sleep. If you’re lucky, that is, as it hurtles round bends accompanied by squealing breaks, only to shudder swiftly to slower speeds while you cling desperately to the strap provided beside your bunk. The previous night, you decide which of several van trips you choose to go on the next day. Maybe a gold mine, wildlife preserve, ostrich farm, museum, shopping, spend the day at the beach or at the winery. Never a dull moment! All the trips were fascinating. You have breakfast, and all the meals were delicious, and then they unload the vans from the flatbeds on which they ride, and off you go on your trip of choice, returning to the train in the evening for dinner and of course exchanges of van stories in the bar.

We loved every minute of it.

The entire trip took place in South Africa and all regions of that country except for one stop in a different country--Swaziland. The Kingdom of Swaziland, a sovereign nation, is an island in the sea of South Africa, completely surrounded by the larger nation with the exception of Mozambique to the East. The Shongololo made one brief stop in Swaziland. When we pulled into the station we were greeted by yet another group of singing, dancing children. These were school children, younger than those we saw in Cape Town, and had been well groomed and trained for this event and they performed with precision. They seemed to be very proud to be able to entertain us and did not expect any reward. Once we filled out the required “arrival forms,” as with all the other stops we were able to depart the train and spend a few hours in the local craft market and a glass recycling shop.

From the vantage point of The Shongololo, which means centipede in Zulu, we were able to get an excellent view of the diverse topography of South Africa. From the coastal towns like Port Elizabeth and Durban through the Drakensberg Mountains to the lush winelands and the Klein Karoo. South Africa is rich in spectacular and diverse scenery. So little time, so many places to see and so many things to do. There is not time or space here to even touch on all the varied adventures and sights offered to us on this trip. But there are two in particular that I must mention.

I do not remember exactly where the ostrich farm was, but we both chose that option on the day it was offered. I may have settled for a day of rest on the train that day had I known I would soon find myself perched upon the back of an ostrich racing around an ostrich corral. At first it was scary but turned out to be good for a lot of laughs--laughs for the spectators. I did not laugh at all until I was allowed to dismount from the bird. They can run like the wind!

Did you know ostrich eggs are strong enough to stand on without breaking. We were given the opportunity to prove it by doing just that before we left the farm.

Since I love swimming in the ocean especially in the surf, when we visited the city of Durbin I had to dig out my” bathing costume,” as they say in south Africa, and spend a day at the beach. The beach, the weather, the Indian Ocean surf--all of it was absolutely blissful. I was paddling around in the water when my bliss was interrupted by a loud, shrill, high-pitched sound very much something I had heard before--oh yes, a life guard’s whistle. When I “woke up” and looked around, I noticed that everyone was running out of the water toward the beach. The whistle kept sounding so it was abundantly clear that there was a reason for leaving the water--the sound of the whistle and the urgency with which people were leaving the water was quite startling, really. Meantime Gill had been sitting in a cafe enjoying a beer, watching the bathers when all this excitement took place. She had no more idea than I did what event had precipitated the hasty exodus so she asked the waiter who calmly explained,”Oh, someone spotted a shark. It happens a lot.” I probably will never swim in the Indian Ocean again. But if I do it will not be blissful ever again. Just scary.

We could go on and on about every single day. They were all great. Good times with wonderful friends we acquired on the trip, especially one Australian couple who came to stay with us in Denver a couple of years later, and we have a standing invitation to visit them. We were certainly the only same-sex couple on the train, but if anyone cared they kept it to themselves.

We were lucky, of course; not all the Shongololo trips went as ours did. The one right before ours was, apparently, something of a disaster. It had poured with rain the entire time, they had been unable to go on several of the scheduled trips due to flooding, and Kruger National Park was closed. The train tracks were slippery and the train derailed at one point. No-one was hurt but it caused serious disruption to the schedule. On top of all this, the British and German passengers were about to start World War Three!

On our trip, the carriages were largely set up by language and we didn’t see a whole lot of the large German contingent, I guess the company had learnt it’s lesson! Not that Brits and Germans inevitably cannot get along, but given that the vast majority of travelers on the Shongololo are our age, and so of World War Two vintage, a little friction is no surprise. We had no problems, although I have to say there was one memorable German lady who could well have precipitated a few quarrels but we were all determined to keep the peace, although the Brits all nicknamed her Hildegard the Horrible Hun.

She was a very big woman with hair dyed something near maroon. She barked tersely at everyone in strident German and strode about everywhere in a way that could only conjure up visions of shining jackboots. The train’s corridors were only one-person wide but she would advance on a group of us heading in the opposite direction, forcing a dozen people to back up so as not to impede her progress. She would also come from her own carriage to ours to use our shower, very much against the unspoken rules, as there was always a long line for the shower at the end of each van trip. But as I say, we were lucky. Everyone just joked about it and didn’t let Horrible Hildegard upset our equanimity. In fact, as we observed the German contingent shaking their heads and tut-tutting over her, she helped us all to bond!

Anyway, Hildegard the Horrible Hun turned out to be the biggest, really the only, negative of the entire trip. Not only was it the best train trip we have ever been on, but it was certainly on of the best trips of any kind of our lives. Sometimes we’re tempted to do it again, but over a lifetime we have at least garnered enough wisdom to know you can never repeat the best things; the best times. We went looking for a little adventure, something different, and we found that and a lot more.

As a postscript, I want to share a very SHORT story with you. We were camping in a fairly remote part of Utah last year, and ran into a young South African woman. We immediately, of course, strted regaling her with our Shongololo experience. She found this to be an extraordinary coincidence, as her childhood nickname had been Shongololo. It’s probably not an earth-shaking coincidence, really, but out in the middle of the Utah desert, it sure seemed that way!

© 8/25/14

About the Authors

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.

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.

Thanksgiving Dinner at the Brown House by Louie

(published in this blog previously on June 20, 2014)

When I was around 11 or 12 years old, I remember having Thanksgiving dinner with my parents and brothers in College Point. It was the mid-1950’s. Dwight Eisenhower was the President. I was a child happy with life, but my parents were very poor. I was too young to understand the inconveniences of poverty. We lived in a two-family house, and the upstairs tenant was a mother and daughter, Edna. They were poorer than we were. Edna got herself invited to our Thanksgiving and enjoyed setting up for the feast.

My parents and especially my mother and grandmother wanted us to remember that once upon a time the Brown family and my maternal grandmother’s family, the Wilcoxes, in the 19th century were enormous affluent, influential families. On the wall were a picture of Abraham Lincoln in an oak oval frame and another of my great grandfather Captain Francis Leicester Brown of the Union Army in an oak oval frame. There was a petty point sampler that read “God bless the family in this household,” completed by me on my 15th birthday, May 10, 1819, Hannah Hopkins Hodge.

In the 17th and 18th centuries my ancestors were prominent Puritan ministers. Even back then there were seemingly endless irreconcilable theological battles going on. On the other hand, my mother warned us that, though we should remember our ancestors, we should not be like her great aunt and become ancestor worshipers. It wasn’t wholesome either.

The meal consisted of turkey, creamed onions, turnips, yams, rather traditional. What made it memorable was the chinaware: Limoges and Haviland plates and platters, a Wedgewood chocolate pitcher, Limoges demitasse espresso coffee cups that were works of art. Crystal goblets for the cider, a magnificent Damask table cloth and napkins. Ornate sterling silverware, Victorian style. Our attic was full of these remnants and memorabilia of an affluent comfortable 19th century past. Corny but beautiful oil paintings, more petit point samplers, lavish gowns with the finest French laces. More Victorian extravagance. Edna from a Catholic family really enjoyed our Thanksgiving dinners. For a day we Browns were again important people though the reference point was to another earlier century. For a day we were ancestor worshipers.

Moral: How do poor people become whole happy well-adjusted people in a hostile social environment? I think poor people learning survival skills is probably more important than measuring one’s personal worth by the balance in our checking accounts and the influence we have in our communities.

Catholic Edna for example is happy. She started out poor. She is still poor, but she has a good understanding of why certain politicians say what they say. She has a spiritual dimension to her belief system. She survives, she is well-adjusted. She also proves that Puritans and Catholics can get along just fine, thank you.

Personally, I am still a “mal-content”. I am dissatisfied with church-sponsored homophobia, and the establishment’s irrational hostility to poor people, but I am on the mend.

Our best teachers in the current environment are Occupy Wall Street and the Radical Faeries. I heard clearly what they have to say. They are convincing. We Americans should object to Wall Street giving orders to our elected leaders about how they should victimize the public for the sake of increasing profits for billionaires. The Radical Faeries in their presentations at the Lesbian and Gay Center in New York City pointed out the need for Lesgay people to develop a spiritual side to their personalities, to revere their sexual orientation rather than skulking around hating ourselves for the convenience of homophobes. We are an international “tribe”. Guess what, there are gay people in Morocco and Australia.

In her personal search to find meaning in life outside of material success, Edna feels that she should boast about her family, her two children. In general, since Lesgay people are banished from traditional families, we have to devise another system that suits our communal interests.

What do we tell Lesbian and gay homeless teenagers who have been tossed out of their fundamentalist parents’ homes because of their sexual orientation? In other words, empower the out-groups. Amen.

© 31 March 2014  

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.

Giving Thanks by Nicholas

(published previously in this blog on June 10, 2014)

It was our first Thanksgiving together in our first flat together in San Francisco. We loved the place up the hill from Parnassus Avenue above Cole Valley. The street was Woodland, named so, we presumed, because it ended in a small forest of eucalyptus that ran up Mt. Sutro in the heart of the city. The rent was a bit steep even then but we fell in love with the redwood shingle house of which we occupied the first floor. We were right at the usual fog line so we could watch the fog roll in from the ocean at the front and see the sun at the back.

Our flat was elegant. Old wood trim, arched front window with beveled glass, neat little kitchen with lots of counter space that was a deep, lustrous purple. I loved those deep purple countertops. That was the first kitchen that I loved to cook in.

Being our first Thanksgiving in our own place, we decided to entertain at home with friends coming over instead of joining Jamie’s family in Menlo Park, an hour south. It was kind of a statement of independence from the family and a statement that holidays were ours. So, we invited a bunch of friends and began planning dinner for eight on Thanksgiving Day. We asked each person or couple to contribute something like an appetizer, a salad, a side dish, dessert, wine. We ordered the turkey and would roast it and make stuffing.

We got a 12 pound bird and studied up on what to do with it. What’s to cooking a turkey, we thought. You throw it in the oven early in the morning, check it now and then, and, voila, dinner was ready. Truth is, this wasn’t the very first turkey I had cooked. A previous boyfriend and I had cooked a turkey one holiday so I thought I knew what I was doing. I should have learned more from that turkey, I mean, the boyfriend.

With the bird in the oven in plenty of time, we thought we were in fine shape to get other things done. Jamie decided to call his mom just to wish her a happy holiday and remind her of what a wonderful time we were having. Mom, being mom, couldn’t leave things alone and had to start asking questions about what was, to her, our cooking experiment. Had we washed the turkey, had we wrapped it in foil or a roasting bag, had we made stuffing, had we gotten the giblets and other parts out of both ends.

Wait a minute, I said, both ends? Turkeys have two ends? I know they do in nature but in the supermarket? I had pulled some extra body parts out of one end, where was this other end and what was supposed to come out of it? Humbled and desperate, we dashed to the oven and yanked the damned bird out of the heat. The cavity was empty, as it was supposed to be. We pried open the other end, having discovered that indeed there was an opening there too. That’s when we realized we were in trouble. The back side, or maybe it was the front, was still frozen solid. I neglected to mention that we had gotten a frozen turkey and had given it what we thought was a proper 2-3 day thawing, but the damn thing was still ice inside.

We threw it back into the oven, cranked up the temp and hoped it would cook. Guests were due to arrive soon. Turkeys are slow birds, especially in the oven. Hours seemed to go by and it was only warm.

Since we’d planned a leisurely meal, we told people to come over early so we could nosh. We did just that. Guests and their dishes arrived to great cheer and our anxious announcement that dinner might be a little later than planned. We did not elaborate.

We opened the wine. We ate the appetizers. We ate the salad. We opened more wine. The turkey was gradually getting warmer, even starting to cook.

Then the second disaster of our elegant holiday feast arrived. The friend assigned to bring a nice dessert showed up late, though that was no problem compared to the one in the oven. “What did you bring for dessert,” we asked. He proudly pulled out a five-pound bag of apples, just apples, like from a tree. He said it would be a healthy dessert. I said, let me show you where the flour, butter and sugar are and you can bake a pie, like now. Or, I gave him a choice, I could put one of his apples in his mouth and throw him into the oven so we could have two turkeys. He opted instead to go out and buy something.

We were just about ready for dessert by then anyway since we had consumed the entire meal including sweet potatoes and vegetables when at long last the fucking turkey was ready to eat.

We did have our lovely Thanksgiving dinner though the order was slightly reversed with the main course last. I’ve never again purchased a frozen turkey but have successfully cooked fresh, never frozen birds to the delight of hungry guests. I do not recommend buying frozen turkeys.

© March 2014

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

Pushing the Buttons by Will Stanton

I try to go swimming several times each week for exercise. I go during what is called “Senior Swim.” I call it “Old Farts Swim,” for the elderly wrecks of humanity who show up there plainly exhibit the ravages of time. I sometimes have wondered what the adolescents from preceding classes during summer think when they view in the locker room these shambling husks of once healthy men. Are they able to foresee their own doom, or can they not relate?

There are some nice people who show up during Senior Swim. There is one particular man and one kind woman that I usually talk with. I often swim back and forth, head out of water, discussing world events or various pleasant topics. I try to avoid negative or disturbing topics.

There is a group of old farts, however, who appear to embody all the worst of the all-too-numerous Neanderthals of our society. Actually, I should not use that word to describe them; that would be denigrating Neanderthals. Because they appear to rely primarily upon the reptilian core of their brains, perhaps I should refer to them as “dinosaurs.”

These old farts appear to be politically and socially delusional. Fact and reality have no value to them and consistently are ignored. They are proud of the fact that their only source of information is Fox Noise, the attack-propaganda outlet for the extreme right-wing. Ironically, they believe that all other news sources are left-wing, socialist propaganda that should not be listened to. They do read books, especially Ann Coulter and Bill O'Reilly.

These old farts also seem to be filled with hate. They use that word a lot. “I hate Jimmy Carter. I hate Ted Kennedy. I hate Obama. I hate Nancy Pelosi,” and on and on. When they choose to orally attack someone or something, that emotion of hate is clearly evident in their voices and facial expressions.

I generally am very tolerant and always civil with people. The cumulative effect of the dinosaurs' harangues, either overheard as I swim by or shared with several of us, can eventually become an irritation. I remain civil, but I sometimes succumb to the desire to “push their buttons.” I have created a persona for myself of being a very conservative thinker who, on occasion, becomes mystified and frustrated by the transgressions of the dinosaur-politicians, media pundits, and fundamentalist preachers who are far too numerous and influential in our nation. Then, I say something to old farts, “in all innocence” and as though I am hoping that I may gain from their responses a glimmer of understanding of why such “good conservatives” would engage in such terrible deeds or why they would say something so hypocritical and ironic in view of what these people have said or done in the past.

In short, I actually am trying to get them to think rationally based upon fact and reality. If I were to sound combative in my oral responses, they would explode into anger; so I do not. Because I speak to them with civility, the content of what I'm saying simply mystifies them. For a moment, they have blank stares and no comment. Then, they either go on with what they have been saying without any acknowledgment that something was presented to them for consideration, or they return to the same delusional claim made previously.

For example, one dinosaur stated, as though matter of fact, “Jimmy Carter is the worst president that nation ever had.” Of course, he ignores the facts that Carter is an honest man, continues to do good for the country and did a lot internationally, which won him the Nobel Peace Prize, secretly got six of our diplomat-hostages out of Iran, and would have had all the rest out before the next election if some influential right-wingers had not secretly gone to Iran and offered to sell weapons to the Iranians if they delayed releasing our remaining hostages until moments after Reagan's inauguration. Of course, that was treason and denied Carter a second term, but that is how dinosaur-politicians operate. The response of the farts often is, “I haven't heard that,” which means, “that can't be true.” Still, I was able to do a little bit of button-pushing. Ironically, the dinosaurs speak of Democrat's fictitious efforts to “steal elections,” ironic and hypocritical also in light of what we now know what happened in the 2000 and 2004 presidential elections.

Then one day, one of them related a whole string of national and international accomplishments that he attributed to Nixon. My response was, “That's puzzling. All the historical documents attribute those successes to President Carter.” The dinosaur responded simply with a mystified look and stated, “I thought it was Nixon.“

On another occasion, one dinosaur adamantly asserted that, “America has the number-one healthcare system in the world.” I answered with, “That's curious. Some in-depth studies of healthcare systems throughout the world list the U.S. as number 37th behind Slovenia.” After a moment of confused silence, the dinosaur responded with, “But, we still are number one.” The facts were not accepted, but at least I may have received a little satisfaction from my button-pushing.

Another of the herd of dinosaurs often ejaculated the claim that “Kennedy was a terrible president .” After the umpteenth time that he said that, I “innocently” asked him, “Aren't you pleased that Kennedy gave you and your family another fifty years of life?” Of course, he has no knowledge or what I'm referring to; and if he did, he would deny the facts. That fact that we now know about the Cuban Missile Crisis is that our own military wanted to invade Cuba and, supposedly out of consequential necessity, have a nuclear first-strike against the Soviet Union. The U.S. may well have done so without the intervention of Jack and Robert Kennedy. The Kennedys, instead, solved the crises through political back-channels. The fact from Russia is that Khrushchev's own son revealed that his father told him that he was ready to respond to any U.S. action with a retaliatory nuclear strike had the U.S. attacked Cuba. The dinosaur gave no response. He just turned off his mind and refused to consider that information. Again, my button-pushing probably satisfied only me.

Of course, the dinosaurs believe that Republicans can do no wrong. One of them sternly announced to me, “Republicans never have done anything wrong Only the Democrats have; and it's not just because they are incompetent, it's because they have a conspiracy to destroy our nation!” Isn't interesting that they believe that our nation in divided into two groups of people, good - - meaning Tea Party bloviators, radical Republicans, and right-wing militias, versus evil - - Democrats, socialists, professors, Hollywood, and pot-smoking hippies. Fortunately, I don't appear to them to be in one of those evil groups, although they may hate me behind my back if I have required them to attempt to engage in factual, logical thinking.

The dinosaur’s' blindness and hypocrisy regarding sexual transgressions is mind-boggling. Over the years, a bunch of conservatives have professed to be obedient, God-fearing Christians. They sign the conservative pledge of monogamy and faithfulness, and then have had sex with mistresses, prostitutes, underage girls and boys. Some of those politicians even were sponsors of legislation against the vary acts they have committed. When yet another naughty dinosaur makes the news, I may be attempted again to push the old farts' buttons by “innocently” expressing consternation that an “otherwise good Republican” was caught stalking Congressional pages even though he had written legislation against it; or a homophobe, who wrote anti-gay legislation, was caught having sex with an underage boy. After I have pushed their buttons, they respond with the usual, “I never heard that on Fox.”

Dinosaurs have a third way of responding to unwelcome news by immediately trying to deflect that bad news by pointing out that a Democrat recently had done something terribly wrong, such as being arrested for speeding and given a traffic ticket. For some reason, they don't see the discrepancy between the Republican's immoral and illegal acts such as corrupting the democratic process versus the Democrat's traffic offense.

And finally, the fact that Bill Clinton had extramarital sex warranted his being impeached, whereas the Bush gang lied to the nation, started an unwarranted war that cost the nation thousands of lives and five trillion dollars, put our nation's reputation into the dumpster, violated international treaties by engaging in torture and crimes against humanity, all of which were similar charges against the Nazis at the Nuremberg Trials that resulted in the perpetrators being hanged. Apparently however, the Bush junta's crimes did not warrant impeachment of Bush or bringing criminal charges against the whole evil bunch.

Yes, on occasion, I have succumbed to the temptation of pushing the dinosaurs' buttons. I few times, I have expressed supposed mystification and confusion at the egregious transgressions of that unelected Bush administration and the terrible, continuing consequences to the nation and the world as a whole. The old farts are beginning to muse that the U.S. should never have gone into Iraq and Afghanistan, but usually they respond just by repeating how terrible Jimmy Carter was.

Over the years, I have grown older and perhaps more weary, because I seldom feel the urge or have the energy to push dinosaur buttons. I understand that I never will change them, never be able to encourage them to learn real facts and to practice high quality critical thinking skills. That's a lost cause. Nowadays, my occasional expressions of mystification and consternation may be expressed only to like-minded friends. There is little practical purpose in doing so, however, other than just “venting my spleen.” As the old saying goes, sharing similar observations with friends is like “preaching to the choir.”

© 05 May 2014

About the Author

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

Culture Shock by Ricky

“Culture” is a word that strikes fear into the world's families of bacterium as if they know that shortly following the culturing will be an anti-biotic of the lethal type for all or specific families. A situation quite shocking from the point of view of the bacterium.

“Culture” is a word that creates feelings of loathing in the stereotype masses of the American populace. For some reason they feel that quality music in the form of opera, symphonies, and songs where one can actually hear and understand the lyrics is not of any worth. Thus, they vote to stop government support for these enterprises. As for TV entertainment, the masses do not seem to like a broadcast which does not contain lots of violence, sexual innuendo, or cheap humor.

These same masses will support government support for the things they prefer, for example baseball, football, and soccer stadiums. But worse of all is their tendency to label those who do like quality music, songs, TV, screen play, or drama productions as elitists (at best) or snobs (at worse).

“Culture” is a word that creates feelings of joy or happiness in the stereotypical well-to-do (previously referred to as elitists or snobs). This group also tends to view the “less fortunate others” as undesirables for friendships and as a drain on the public treasury. Thus, they vote to cut social programs that support the poor, as the poor are viewed as lazy and uncouth leeches.

Of course these stereotypical views are not totally accurate and there are those of us who enjoy activities and recreations that fall into both camps. Sadly though, we are a minority.

“Culture Shock” commonly occurs when persons from one background encounter persons from another. An example is when “Johnny-Reb” moves into “Damn Yankee” territory or vice versa; or when a “New Yorker” moves to San Francisco; or when anyone from the east or west coasts moves into the mid-west or America's “heartland” (the “fly-over” parts from which many gay men and women escape and move to either of the coasts).

One example occurred in my own home. My oldest daughter married a man from the Republic of Georgia. After he obtained citizenship here, he arranged to have his parents move to Lakewood and live with me and them. His parents grew up entirely under the authority of the old Soviet Union and its economic and social “values.” Maria grew up on a collective farm and so worked hard as she grew.

One day, my daughter took her mother-in-law to a discount store to buy her a new purse. While trying to decide which of many different styles to buy, Maria began to cry. When asked why by my daughter, she replied that there were too many choices and she could not make a decision. Maria was faced with “culture-of-plenty” shock.

Other “shocking” opportunities occur when military, police, gang, generational, and sexual orientation cultures have values that clash.

I have not experienced culture shock per se. What I am experiencing is culture confusion. Being a closeted gay boy since my young teen years, I lived in the straight world most of my life. When I finally officially “came out,” at age 63, I was gently exposed to the gay “culture” of senior men. Then I learned a little of other sub-groups of gay culture; some of which apparently don't “play well” together, physically or politically.

So just as Maria experienced culture shock trying to adjust from a Soviet life of “little” to an American culture of abundance, So in my case, I am trying to understand all the subtleties of the elusive gay culture. Since I do not generally expose myself to the sub-groups of that culture, I am not likely to ever comprehend them well enough to form a cohesive or unifying understanding.

© 26 November 2012

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

John Burnside--Sweetness Personified by Pat Gourley

I was first introduced to John Burnside in the 1978 classic queer film The Word is Out. John was Harry Hay’s loving companion from 1962 until Harry’s death in 2002 with John to follow him in death in 2008. The documentary is still available in DVD format today and for those not familiar with the movie it is a series of talking head interviews with twenty-six gay men and lesbians that are very brave, raw and captivating in their honest presentation. What struck me the most about the movie was the segment featuring Hay and Burnside. They were interviewed at their place of residence at the time a compound nestled in the San Juan Pueblo in Northern New Mexico. The image of the two of them walking hand-in-hand through a meadow along the banks of the Rio Grande has stuck with me since first seeing it on film thirty-six years ago.

At that time I don’t think I knew that Harry was the founding spirit behind the seminal queer Mattachine Society decades before in Los Angeles. One had to be quite the earnest, independent, gay historian in those days to get to this piece of history. The roots of the modern gay movement just weren’t taught in American history classes much in those days. The film’s images of these two older very political gay men obviously in a loving relationship for years was startling to me and I thought I need to meet these two. Thanks to a powerful lesbian woman named Catherine I knew through the Gay Community Center in Denver at the time I was able to connect with them and the rest is history.

My first impressions of John at my house on Madison Street in the fall of 1978 were that he was the most gentle, fey person I had ever met. His dedication, unwavering support and love for his partner Harry were at all times evident. The meaning of ‘fey’ often conjured up these days I think is effeminate but the definition is really “other worldliness”. This quality seems to best be summed up by his own words. A short bit of poetry from John:

“Hand in hand we walk, as wing tip to wing tip
our spirits roam the universe, finding lovers everywhere.
Sex is music.
Time is not real.
All things are imbued with spirit."

John and Harry were at the time I met them deeply involved in the creation of the phenomenon that would become the “Radical Fairies” along with a couple other souls named Don Kilhefner and Mitch Walker. Planning for the first Radical Fairie gathering in the Arizona desert was already roughly taking shape and would happen the following September in 1979.

John and Harry were an amazing couple. Amazing in how different they seemed yet how wonderfully they melded almost into one. Harry while almost always spouting very right-on analysis of almost any situation could be at times intimidating, combative even and most certainly prickly though a real teddy bear under it all. John on the other hand was always flashing the warmest and most welcoming of smiles that often belied the acute insights he could bring to almost any dialogue on a wide range of subjects. And boy could he talk, often well into the night long after I was able to hear and absorb much and I am sure rudely nodding off in his presence.

For me personally John was often great at taking Harry’s more erudite and dense pronouncements on the state of gay men and their liberation and translating them in very warm and understandable ways. Sort of like taking raw queer theory and serving it up as warm apple cobbler with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on it, mmm good, yes I want more of that, please.

John’s power was on display for me personally on several occasions when Harry would get himself into meltdown mode and John would quietly and skillfully step in and make things all right again. I mean you could not have the father of modern gay liberation be non-functional for too long, he was needed. John knew this and was always available to provide the salve to whatever wound had just been ripped open.

One small example of this comes to mind around the trip the three of us took to Chaco Canyon in the late 1980’s. We were in separate vehicles since they planned to head back to L.A. after we visited Chaco. Their truck broke down along highway 285 just a few miles outside of Denver and this threw Harry into a major non-communicative funk, probably because it was a frequent occurrence for their 20 plus year old Datsun pick-up. John stepped up immediately and had me driving him down to a Napa auto parts store for the fix needed that he had very skillfully diagnosed. This all done by a man without a driver’s license and someone I never in over thirty year had seen behind the wheel, but was always quietly and firmly in control.

I have reams of correspondence much of it hand written from Harry but only a couple of letters from John. One I received just a few short months after meeting them here in Denver and it was John very kindly reaching out to me about a frustrated love affair I was involved in at the time we met. The bottom-line for me was I should have avoided a relationship with a closeted Mormon E.D. doctor with a bad cocaine habit but live and learn. John however approached my torment with loving advice based on his obviously complex and mercurial relationship with Harry and a couple of their New Mexico friends who as he described them were a foursome but without shared sex beyond the two dyads involved.

I won’t quote from the philosophical part of the long hand written letter but rather share a bit of the queer theory he laid on me towards the end of the tome:

“Heterosexual false assumptions are based on taking their beliefs about themselves (mostly false, for them, in truth) as absolutes. We Gays start with a different set of possibilities and the power to deal flexibly with our feelings and hopes. We must not allow ourselves to become frozen when those hopes are frustrated.” John Burnside-March 15, 1979. Sage advice from a great gay Sage.

I seriously doubt the Radical Fairie movement would have come into being without John Burnside’s loving and continual ongoing massage of the message. Not to be too trite here but if Harry brought the ‘radical’ piece to the trip then John certainly brought the ‘fairie’ piece. I’ll end by quoting Bob Dylan: “I like my sugar sweet” and John Burnside was certainly sweetness personified.

© July 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.

A Meal to Remember by Phillip Hoyle

One crisp March morning twelve years ago I caught the faint aroma of a meal I will never forget. I was standing over on East 12th Avenue talking with another man who, like me, was waiting for a bus. That first sniff came accompanied with a rather high-pitched, scratchy voice that I thought was cute. With it came a beautiful face with big smiles and startlingly warm eyes. I could feel my hunger mounting with these first glances and a few simple words. Twelve years ago I began seeing Rafael, his presence then like an appetizer promising the delight of an entrée, a dessert, even a feast! Twelve years ago I began living in a relationship that, when most clearly expressed, seemed a protracted meal. And I was one hungry guy.

I had no idea there’d be an outcome to this initial meeting at a bus stop, but I certainly realized more and more about my hungering desire. At the thought of him the aromas of a bakery, of a steak house, of a backyard BBQ, and of a candy shop enticed me. All the flavors seemed delicately balanced. The whole experience that persisted for seven months seemed to me like a Chinese meal in which each bite offered a slightly different combination of vegetables, meats, sauces, and memories. And as I said before, there was beauty in the face of my lover, in the delight I saw in his eyes, in a body language of loving excitement.

When on our third unplanned meeting I touched him, I was afraid. Would I ever again have contact? Would he actually be more than a memory? But the touch intensified my desire as it communicated itself to him. Oh, I was there thinking, laughing, teasing, delighting, feeling. I presented myself openly to him in a way I never before had communicated to anyone. During those few moments, I felt as if my salivary glands were taking over my body, yet I realized there were several more glands at work in my responses to the man I had just touched.

When I finally heard from him again, it was a message on my answering machine. I returned it with an invitation to dinner where he met some of my family and asked if there was wine. I said no, but the two of us would go to a nearby restaurant for wine and dessert.

Eventually we got together—actually starting from that dessert and subsequent evening. And we actually cooked for one another, although he was the major cook. Rafael had heard my stories about Dianne. He said, “Invite her for dinner.” He prepared an Italian meal which we ate with relish. This woman who had spent years living in Europe told him she’d never tasted better cannelloni even in Italy. Rafael always insisted his food tasted good because of the love he put into it.

I fixed breakfast one morning when Rafael was running late: pork chops, an omelet filled with chives and cheese, toast, fresh fruit, juice, and coffee. It tasted good to me, and Rafael said he liked it. The cooking seemed easy enough, so inspired by this small success, I fixed him a French meal and from then on I filled all my cooking attempts with love.

We went to Gumbo’s Restaurant for a birthday party for my friend Frank. Rafael ordered an appetizer of escargot, and we both had entrees and drinks. I didn’t really like the snails all that much—too salty—but I loved the new experiences, especially all the new things I was doing with Rafael. I took Rafael to the Rock Bottom Brewery to celebrate our being together. He ordered lots of food without paying any attention to cost. We ate an appetizer, salads, entrées, beer, dessert, and coffee. Although I was nervous over the expense, we had a good time and appreciated our talkative Okie gay waiter. We enjoyed nice conversation together, Rafael and I, and I knew then I wanted us to have a full and long relationship.

When I got home one September evening, Rafael was sitting on the sofa all nicely dressed up. The dishes were not done. Food was cooking, but it seemed over-cooked. He wanted me to taste his beef molé. After he explained a little bit about how he made the molé, he said we needed some pink wine to go with the dish: White Zinfandel or Rosé. He would show me. While I put the lid on the molé and turned off the heat, Rafael walked around the room talking to himself, a behavior I had never before observed in him. He was speaking in French, not Spanish or English. I got his attention and finally got us out the door. We walked to the liquor store. He seemed fine on the walk although the conversation was disconnected and several times I had to steady him. At the store I kept trying to get him to pick out a wine, but he’d wander off down an aisle looking but not seeming to know what he was doing. Finally he held up a bottle of Pinot Noir that cost $30. I made the decision for another bottle. Finally, back at the house, I set the table and asked him to be seated. I couldn’t believe how good the food tasted. He was the only cook I’ve ever known whose food thrilled me even when it had burned. Still, I was worried when he just kept losing track of what he was doing. His illness seemed to be getting worse.

I met his family when he entered the hospital. Near the end of October I wrote this: “I just saw Rafael. He’s with his mom, who is feeding him. She takes delight in that! I loved the picture of the two of them together. This morning as [his mother] was speaking to her mother on the phone, I heard in her voice many of Rafael’s intimate intonations and expressions. He learned them from his mother.” Perhaps he’d learned cooking from her and perhaps that’s why he was so conscious of adding love to his dishes.

Our whole time living together—from PrideFest weekend into the second week of November when he died—seemed a great feast, a meal to remember, and it featured spicy appetizers, rich entrees, and luscious desserts. Early on in our relationship Rafael said that no one had ever made love to him like I was doing it. He had a great need to be loved with a sense of wild abandon and lots of words. I was pleased to love him wildly and verbally. I had never before experienced such sexual emotions. I felt them because he so obviously enjoyed making love with me. His desire stoked my own. When I looked at him, I wanted to hold and kiss him. I wanted to lie next to him. I wanted to touch him and embrace him. I wanted to have sex in many different ways. I felt like a man I knew who in his childhood had often been hungry and as an adult couldn’t turn down food. I had missed out on male to male love and sex for so many years I just couldn’t get enough of it. Our love feast continued to the end of his too-short life. We washed it all down with great doses of love making and spiced each hour with love. We wallowed like two very excited pigs in a mud puddle snorting, oinking, giggling, rolling around, chasing, laughing, and in general celebrating our love. What a meal to remember.

© Denver, 2014

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

I Used to ... but Now I ... by Nicholas

I used to ride 50 miles in a day on my bicycle. Now I do it in a week—most weeks.

I used to use a telephone like a telephone to talk to people. Now I send text messages and check email. Sometimes I’m even hoping that no one answers my call so I can just leave a message and not actually have to talk, as in carry on a conversation, with a human being.

I used to love working in my garden and I still do but my back says, get real, or I’ll hurt you.

I used to wonder what to call Jamie. Now he’s my husband. I agree, we need some new terminology to avoid all the baggage of husband and wife.

I used to think that I had nothing in common with my parents and would live a much better life because I just knew more about how to live a better life. Now, I think of them as my role models for aging well, knowing when to quit it and when to hit it.

I used to think I was brilliant and would go far in this world. Now, I don’t think I’m so brilliant but I have gone far in this world, to many places I never dreamed of, and I’m still pretty smart.

I used to be closeted, confused and alone. Now I’m not. Well, maybe still confused.

I used to try to keep up with national and world events and politics and give excellent opinions on important matters. Now, it’s all beyond me. If I had a prescription for all the world’s ills, or even any one of them, I would not hesitate to send it out to all concerned parties. But I don’t.

I used to read newspapers regularly. Now there aren’t any.

I used to feel free to have second helpings of dessert. Not anymore.

I used to ask God for help, for strength, for forgiveness. Now I’d just ask for an apology.

I used to seek more freedom. Now, I guess I have it.

© 2014

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

The Idiom Maniac, by EyM

Caught in the storm and down in the doldrums, she thought she had it made in the shade, when like greased lightening he came like a bolt out of the blue. Surely her dry spell would end and he would be the silver lining of her clouds. On cloud nine she threw caution to the wind and began to shoot the breeze. But one look rained on her parade as he was 7 sheets in the wind and looked like the twilight zone. Her thunder was stolen. Right as rain there was a cloud on her horizon. Always chasing rainbows, she hoped this blue sky would brighten up her day. But alas this guy in a fog had a cloud of suspicion over him. So not to give him the cold shoulder, she asked for a rain check .

So much for any port in a storm. She drew a blank. This was no piece of cake. Even though she felt like a basket case, she would have to play it by ear. She hoped her goose was not cooked.

Wouldn't you know it, just then someone started making eyes at her. She wanted to turn on a dime and head for the hills. But she crossed her fingers and listened to the bee in her bonnet. To this knight in shining armor, she said “A little birdie told me you love to cut a rug.” Her match made in heaven replied, “No comprendo English senorita.”

© October 2014

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.

Revelations by Betsy

I have not had very many secrets in my life. Sure, I’ve had my share of the petty little “nothing” secrets that don’t amount to much. And sure, the secret thoughts about the people around me that I don’t like, ugly thoughts that I would be ashamed to admit to having.

As a lesbian I share the one big secret that most glbt people have grown up with. The really big secret that has taken up residence inside my soul and has no intention of leaving. The really big secret that has permeated every cell of my body. The really big secret that I can no longer live with ... or without. After all, this secret is about who I am. So its disclosure was a major revelation by me, about me, and for me.

Interestingly, once I disclosed the secret to myself (that is, my conscious mind) and then those closest to me, it became easier to tell others and I became more comfortable in my new skin.

When my secret first started creeping into my consciousness, I didn’t think I would ever reveal it to anyone. After all, I myself had been resisting the revelation for most of my life. But once I obtained some information about the subject and learned a few things about it, I realized there was no reason to keep it a secret.

After myself, the first recipient of the revelation that I am homosexual was my husband. I know he was braced for some kind of revelation because our lives had been in a total upheaval anyway and I think he was simply waiting for some kind of explanation. The fact that my secret was working its way to my consciousness like a bubble floating from the depths to the surface--this fact had caused some disruption in our lives and in the lives of our children who sensed, as children often do, that there was a secret not being revealed.

The next recipient of the revelation was my oldest child, who at the time was home on a break from college. I remember the two of us walking home on a cold winter’s night in a snowstorm. It seemed relatively easy to make the revelation to her as I think back on it. I wonder if I sensed that years later she would be making the same revelation about herself to me.

I wrote about coming out to my sister in a piece called “Coping with Loved Ones.”

I timed my coming out to my sister, so that she would not be able to say a word after I made the shocking disclosure. Yes, this was how I coped with this difficult situation, ie, coming out to this loved one. We had been together for a few days and the time came for her to go home. We are at the airport at her gate. Her plane is boarding (this was before the high security days). “Last call for flight 6348 to Birmingham,” blared the public address speaker. “Oh, I do have something important to tell you, Marcy. I’m gay.” I said, as she is about to enter the jetway. “Let’s talk soon,” as I wave goodbye. I’m thinking,”Maybe she didn’t even hear me above all the noise.”

I never had to reveal my deeply-buried secret to my parents. My mother died in 1957 right after I graduated from college. At that time my secret had not yet taken the form in my conscious mind. Although I knew good and well what my feelings were I was not yet willing or able to admit to myself what those feelings meant or what they represented. Sounds pretty dumb, doesn’t? But that’s the truth. I had neither enough experience nor knowledge to understand what my feelings meant. So I never came out to my mother.

My father died in the late 1970‘s before I came out to myself. Just before the upheaval in the family took place--the upheaval that led to my revelation.

I have been out for just over 30 years now. I have become quite well practiced in making my revelation to others whether they be friends, family, or complete strangers.

It seems quite natural really. Like revealing to someone that I am, say, left - handed. (which I am not). But no different than something like that. Being gay is not necessarily mentioned unless it is relevant to the conversation. I have found, however, that when we are having a conversation with someone, we are revealing who we are, disclosing more and more about ourselves--what we think, feel, believe--ie, who we are--and who we are includes our sexual orientation. And so the revelation is often made. Happily revealing myself no longer makes me nervous, anxious, trepidatious, or break out in hives. On the contrary my journey has taken me to a place where I feel quite proud to reveal who I am. It is the hundreds of thousands of such revelations that are made every day that help to change attitudes, correct misinformation, and promote understanding and good will.

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.

Being Gay Is ... by Will Stanton

I awoke feeling exuberant, in an especially gay mood for early morning. It was the weekend, and I had no classes to attend. I was free to go where I wanted and to do what I chose, and I already had planned to take a woodland hike. The sun was shining bright and gay, and the temperature just perfect, warm enough to hike without a jacket yet brisk enough not to become overheated.

In cheerful, gay spirits, I quickly finished my breakfast and prepared to meet my hiking companion for the day. Eric W. was a Norwegian exchange student and looked the part, blond and Nordic. The doorbell rang, and I found Eric standing at the door right on-time. He, too, appeared to be in a merry, gay mood.

Taking with us only canteens of water, we started with a lively, gay step up the lane that connected with a steep path that led to the ridge-top. Like most Americans, I spoke no Norwegian whatsoever. Like most Norwegians, Eric spoke good English. Even so, we spoke very little, preferring instead to listen to the sparkling, gay ripple of the nearby stream and the gay, spring songs of the woodland birds. Being early morning, the wooded hills seemed especially keenly alive and gay with a myriad of songs from chickadees, cardinals, wrens, robins, and dozens of other chipper, gay birds. A summer tanager in his flamboyant, gay red feathers landed on a branch close by and viewed us two interlopers with curiosity.

Eric and I reached the crest of the ridge and continued to follow the narrow path among the tall oaks, maples, and buckeyes. Eventually, the path opened up upon a gay, sunny meadow lit by the brilliantly gay blue of the sky. Patches of gayly colored wildflowers lent a joyous, gay feel to the meadow.

We paused for some time on the far tip of the meadow, viewing the green valley below. The warm sun accentuated the glittering, gay ripple of the distant, wandering river dividing the valley.

Eric took his shirt off, perhaps feeling quite warm in contrast to what he was used to in Norway. I stood behind and watched, he unaware of my licentious, gay attention.

Remembering that moment, I am reminded of a passage from Tennessee William's story “The Resemblance Between a Violin Case and a Coffin,” when the lad observed his seventeen-year-old neighbor standing in the sunshine. “About people you knew in your childhood, it is rarely possible to remember their appearance except as ugly or beautiful, light or dark. I do not remember if Richard was light in the sense of being blond or if the lightness came from a quality in him deeper than hair or skin. Yes, probably both, for he was one of those people who move in the light, provided by practically everything around them. This detail I do remember. He was wearing a white shirt, and through its cloth could be seen the fair skin of his shoulders. And for the first time prematurely, I was aware of skin as an attraction. A thing that might be desirable to touch. This awareness entered my mind, my senses, like the sudden streak of flame that follows a comet.” There are about two dozen synonyms to the word “gay,” but perhaps that quotation is what “being gay” means most of all to many people.

© 29 Sept 2014 

About the Author

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

He Was Bored by Ricky

This is a story filled with physical violence, sadism, masochism, extreme pain, and a bit of courage. So naturally, it will be boring.

Once upon a time, or in other words, this ain’t no shit, there was a small, thin, appropriately proportioned 8-year old boy who lived at the time of this story in Minnesota. In order to save having to write boring descriptions of this kid, just imagine that he looked like an 8-year old me since what he looked like is not important to the story.

As I said previously, once upon a time, there was this boy who was terribly afraid of needles used to give shots. One day he was taken to this office to see a man, he was told was going to help him.

Upon entering the man’s office, he discovered that the man was supposed to be a doctor but not a doctor he had ever heard of before. This doctor was a tooth doctor or a dentist, if you will. The boy was not nervous or afraid of this doctor.

Once seated in a chair which resembled a barber’s chair which the boy was familiar with and so still was not afraid of anything, the world the boy was comfortable living in suddenly began to change.

The once nice and pleasant doctor dentist examined the boy’s teeth and said that he needed to fix one of the teeth today and another two teeth another day. He then produced a syringe with (what appeared to the boy) a mile long needle. Fear fueled by adrenaline filled the boy and he refused to open his mouth to admit the needle. After wasting several minutes pleading in vain with the boy to let him give the boy a shot in his mouth to prevent pain, the sadistic dentist began to use a drill to bore into the sick tooth.

The first time the drill hit the tooth’s nerve a scream of pain filled the room and probably the street outside too. It was a horrible scene to witness, a poor little child being brutalized by a dentist. Nonetheless, the boy persevered and the nasty dentist eventually finished the task and the boy left.

On the next visit, and for the rest of his life, the boy wisely accepted the brief pain of the shot and avoided the trauma of tooth pain, but he still dislikes being in the dentist chair.

© 28 April 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

Death: A Play on a Word by Ray S

Time: Anywhere, now, a pleasant sunny morning
Place: A coffee shop, maybe the Market on Larimer Square, or one of the hundreds of Starbucks, or even in a bistro in Paris.

(He is waiting for an appointment, but has already started on a cup of coffee and a sweet roll of some sort.
He looks up as a very gorgeous woman approaches the table.)

Woman: “Hi, hope I’m not too early or just on time.

He: “No not at all, I just got here a few minutes ago.”

Woman: “Well, sometimes I’m too early, but I’m never too late.”

He: “Please sit down and let me order something for you.”

Woman: “Thank you. I’ll have what you’re having--I always do.”

(He lets that go by, but wanting to break the ice says:)

He: I am an artist, and I must tell you how smart your outfit is. That color looks great on you.

Woman: Again, thank you, but I can tell you’re a little nervous about this meeting. Don’t be, let me put your mind at ease. I’m here to help not hinder.

He: It’s just that I didn’t expect such a really “knock out” beauty for a breakfast meeting.

Woman: “Happy you’re so pleased, I do the best I can--depending on whom I am meeting--you should see me in my Armani.

He: I bet, but do you often dress in men’s outfits?

Woman: Oh sure, just depends on which gender I choose for business purposes--you might say In-the- “T” in what is referred to in your GLBT world.

He: For what it is worth, you’re the best looking woman I’ve ever had the joy of feasting my eyes on, and your gender isn’t my first preference.

Woman: Oh that’s right, well listen honey you should see me when I switch to gay guy instead of lonely les. You see T is optional for me depending on whomever I have an appointment with. Now let’s get down to the business at hand. How are you doing at letting go of almost 90 years’ worth of extraneous stuff--material as well as emotional?
Have you ever started to sort out the good from the bad memories?
I suppose you have heard all the business about “the other side,” the light at the end of the tunnel; and coming back to pay friendly little visits to “those left behind”--that one is really popular around Halloween.

He: Boy! You really can load it on once you get started--and we hardly know each other.

Woman: “Au contraire, Mon Ami, I have been keeping an eye on you since the day you popped out of mummy’s tummy.
The purpose of this little coffee klatch is to clue you into a reality that despite what all the wise men through the ages have passed on to the “true believers,” none of you can be certain about what--if anything within man’s and woman’s experience is happening when you and I get together again. The most important thing for you to take away from this NOW, is not be afraid, and to spend your time in the NOW projecting all of the love for your fellow beings that is humanly possible. By living in the present you probably know there is no time to ponder the unknown. Enough of my little sermonette, would you ask the wait person to bring me another cruller?

He: Well, besides sorting through old photos and year books I have lined up a few really nice memories of folks that have meant an awful lot to me at one time or another. And I plan to pack them into my “old kit bag” and take them with me, that is if you’ll let me. IF not I can leave them at the door along with all the other stuff the airport security guys confiscate.
You certainly have a grasp at telling it like it is, and making it quite an interesting experience along with your charming ways and the color purple of your “dress for success” suit. Glad to see you like our meeting place and the comestibles. Let’s get together again--at your convenience of course and by the way is there a chance that at our next meeting you could be a naked man?

Woman: I like the way you don’t hold back when speaking you innermost thoughts. I’ll see what I can do, although we won’t have much time. The real challenge I am always faced with is dealing with the people that are always trying to steal my time and mission by having wars all over the place--they make me go on overload--what’s a girl--woman or a boy/man? You people have never gotten over the old Cain and Abel myth. What ever happened to “Make Love not War”?
Oh my goodness, look at the time, I’ve really enjoyed our visit and look forward to our next meeting, or should I say “liaison”? Take care and remember our NOWS. They are all we really have. Ta ta!

Stage Action: The man at the cafe table finishes his coffee (2nd cup), and pays the tab and tip. Walks off left stage as the lights on the set dim.
The curtain falls on the end of the second act. There will be a short intermission followed by the third and last act whenever the stage is set!

© 13 Oct 2014

About the Author