Thursday, December 31, 2015

The No-Fault Line, by Gillian


Fault, with it's many meanings, is not a positive word. It's not my fault! It's all your fault, or The Government's fault, or my teacher's fault. Electrical faults can cause plane crashes, brownouts and blackouts. The cry of fault on the tennis court means failure; a missing of the mark. We find fault with other people, and occasionally admit to our own. We fault others for their errors and disclaim responsibilities by proclaiming not to be at fault. And these days we even must have no-fault car insurance. But there are of course the biggest, baddest faults, those gashes in the bedrock which suddenly, or sometimes not so suddenly, jerk into violent movement causing earthquakes and occasionally tsunamis, and the deaths of many hundreds of thousands of people.

I have a major fault in me. Within me. Ok Ok, I've got lots of them, I'm full of failings and faults, but I'm talking of a geologic type of fissure; my very being torn asunder. At a very young age, I couldn't say when, social pressure started to build up stress on the fault line between a straight me and a gay me - my Straight Shale and my Lesbian Limestone. The building stresses finally caused the fault to give way, allowing the Straight Shale to be forced up and over that Lesbian Limestone. It got buried. It disappeared. But of course it was still there, as are all things invisible beneath the surface of the earth or of our psyches.

Shale is not a good foundation rock. It cracks and breaks and splits and crumbles. It slips and slides. With these qualities, it tends to weather and erode away quite rapidly. And my Straight Shale layer was pretty thin to begin with! After forty years or so - happily it was eroding at human speed not that creep of geologic time - it was all but gone.

The fault line was exposed at the surface. And on the other side of it, a mere step away, lay a vast stretch of Lesbian limestone, glittering in the sunshine. I pulled my feet free of that cloying clinging Straight Shale mud and stepped across the fault onto that wide open, welcoming, slab of Lesbian Limestone. Only I prefer to think of that line as a no-fault line. It's not my fault, it's not my parents' fault and it's not a fault at all.

Crossing that line is, to paraphrase Neil Armstrong, but a small, simple, step, for man or woman.  But perhaps, just maybe, as endless numbers of people continue to cross it, it will become, in terms of acceptance and understanding, a giant leap for mankind.

© 20 Apr 2015 

About the Author 

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 28 years.

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

Left and Right, by Will Stanton


When I first prepared this piece, I read it to two acquaintances.  One is a retired accounting teacher, the other is a successful, wealthy oil-and-gas land-man.  Neither one understood it.  They had absolutely no idea what I was talking about.

What I wrote is satire.  It portrays a type of ignorant, irrational, intolerant individuals which often is typical of extreme right-wing, religiosity-minded people.  Many such extremists, for example, reportedly never understood that Steven Colbert merely portrayed an unthinking right-winger as satire; they really were happy to think that he was a rabid conservative.  As with all satire, my piece also expresses my dismay and mystification that so terribly many people display mindless hate.  In doing so, it also expresses my own wish that such intolerance did not exist.  So, here goes.

Letter to the Editor, The Denver Post, from Mrs. Winifred Hash.

Headline: Our Society is Going to Hell in a Hand-basket.

I am outraged, disgusted!  I could just throw up.  While I was in church this morning, Mrs. Hogsbreath revealed that her little girl Suzy's teacher this year is left-handed.  I am horrified.  How in God's name could any school let a left-handed person into the school to teach innocent children?

Everybody knows that left-handed people are evil.  After all, the word “sinister” can mean “left.”  That's why Godless Liberals are called “The Left.”

The principle and superintendent should be fired.  They are just as guilty as those left-handed perverts.  Once they sneak into our schools, they promote their left-handed agenda, trying to convert our little boys and girls into being left-handed.

I've heard those so-called scientists spouting their claims on TV that some people are born left-handed.  I just know that's not true.  I asked Reverend Spittle, and he said that's a lie – a damned lie, and only those adulterous, Hollywood actors and Commie's in Congress believe it.  I should have known I'd hear only lies on Liberal-controlled media.  From now on, I'll stick with Fox where I can hear the truth.

Being left-handed is a down-right choice, and these repulsive people choose to engage in left-handedness, engaging in disgusting practices and flaunting their abnormality on TV; and, if you actually can believe this, I've seen them in parades!  My good friend Mrs. Offal said that the church runs a restorative therapy clinic to cure youngsters, who were led astray, back to normality.  She had to send her teenage son Billy there.  They are praying away his sin.

After church, my husband Al and I had dinner at our good friend's Joe and Agnes Hollowhead.  Joe was just as outraged as Al and me.  He said that we need to stop that left-handed plague right now, that we need to round up all those perverts and lock them all up in some big pen in the middle of the dessert, away from good, God-fearing Americans.

I know that a lot of people feel the way the Hollowheads and us feel, and it is time we do something about it.  Maybe my letter will help wake people up and stop God's country from going to Hell in a hand-basket.

Yours truly,
Mrs. Winifred Hash 

© 09 August 2015 
  
About the Author 

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

Tuesday, December 29, 2015

Scarves, by Ricky


        I suppose that boys and men who cross-dress, or are drag-queens, or who are comfortable enough to wear women’s clothes in a play or at a costume party, and most girls and women have at one time or another used or wore a scarf as part of their attire.  I am not in one of those categories and have never worn a scarf.

        There are several synonyms for “scarf” listed in the Windows Thesaurus.  Cravat, tie, and handkerchief are three of those.  Of course, I have personally worn a tie many times so I guess one could say that a tie or cravat is a “manly-scarf”.  I have also had a handkerchief on my person, infrequently, when I was much younger and mother would insist.

        According to Wikipedia at some point in history, handkerchiefs began life being a kerchief for either a head covering or the wiping your face or blowing your nose purposes.  To differentiate between the two purposes, the nose type was called a handkerchief and the head covering became the headkerchief.  The latter term I personally have never heard used, so I suspect it is now in the realm of being an archaic word usage.

        If handkerchief is a synonym for scarf, then scarf is a synonym for neckerchief.  I have worn a neckerchief from the age of 13 to 20 as a member of the Boy Scouts.  In my scouting career, my troop had three different neckerchiefs over time: 

Yellow & Black
Blue & Yellow



Purple
  


BSA Camp Winton Staff

      I also wore a plaid neckerchief while on the staff of a BSA summer camp.  






Order of the Arrow

       As a member of the BSA’s honor society, Order of the Arrow, I was given a solid red neckerchief with a large patch on the back.





      I can’t speak for all scouts, but as an adolescent boy, these neckerchiefs meant a lot to me and they still do.  I have many happy memories of that time of my life with activities our troop engaged in as part of the scouting program.

        At that young age, the most common use of a neckerchief is to identify members of one’s own troop from a distance while camping out with many other troops during a scouting competition.  The Scout Handbook also contains the more practical though not commonly needed uses for the neckerchief.  Uses such as a sling for a damaged arm, bandage, tourniquet, sprained or broken ankle support, and signaling.  Wikipedia also lists many uses one hopes scouts will never need, such as: a gag, a blackjack, or a Molotov cocktail wick.

        The neckerchiefs I displayed in this story are a visual stimulus to very happy memories which I have not thought of for decades.  They were located in a large box where I placed things about my life that I want my offspring to know about me.  I hoped I could find these neckerchiefs to show all of you but was not sure they still existed.  Fortunately, I did find them and spent much time remembering before I began to write this story, memories I have yet to write.

I stored the neckerchiefs away about 41-years ago along with the memories.  Now both are back.

© 23 March 2015 

About the Author 
  

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

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

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

My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

Monday, December 28, 2015

Compulsion, by Ray S


Let’s see, where do I start? And for that matter does anyone care?

Answer: Well I do, or I wouldn’t spend the moment to write about it and let you know how my roommate and I had the be-Jesus scared out of our innocent little WASPish souls.

Late springtime in central Florida where our school was lost on some country crossroads. As soon as dinner time was over, everyone returned to their dormitories to do assigned homework and then lights out at 9:30.

“Hey Billy, they said at dinner announcement time that those students who wished to could attend a tent meeting—something called a revival. We just needed to sign up with Mr. Butler. Do you want to go? I don’t know what they do, but they sing all those goofy church songs like Brighten the Corner, In the Garden, and Jesus Loves Me. Stuff we never did when I was home.

It wasn’t a difficult choice to make; we could be excused from homework. So began our big adventure into the world of being born again. Trouble with that idea was that as two fourteen year olds we had never known our moms didn’t already do the job once. Did they leave a part out and these folks could fix it for you? I wondered if they could repair my Ranger two-wheeler; make hair grow on my chest.

The tent was full of people stomping and crying and waving their hands, and some were even dancing—which was not allowed at the school. And it sure was awful hot in that tent.

Billy and I slipped inside, by the rows of chairs with their swinging and swaying occupants, close to the tent wall and tried to disappear. I had never seen people in this state except that time my big brother took me to the movies to see “Reefer Madness.”

The singing stopped and the people sank into their chairs. Then a big man dressed in a white suit, a little black string time with beads of perspiration running down his forehead began shouting something about hellfire and brimstone—whatever that was.

We both started to wonder why we were here and what had we gotten ourselves into. And how could we escape? When several ladies all dressed in flowing white dresses—sort of like angels I guess—passed among the crowd holding out little baskets. Then they all sang a song and swayed a lot.

The big man cried out for all the little ones to come forward to receive the word. We tried to shrink into the tent wall. This was all so different and now we were being compelled to participate in an activity totally foreign to anything we had ever learned.

They made us kneel down and mumbled something. Then we were pushed aside to make room for more lambs being led to whatever. At this point Billy and I found an opening in the crowd and headed for the tent entrance.

Once into the cool evening breeze, heavy with the scent of orange and grapefruit blossoms, our familiar world came into focus and we had escaped from the clutches of hellfire and brimstone. The experience being such that if that is the way Jesus loves you, we politely declined. Stick with God is Love.

In more recent days when we are sometimes blessed with our own reasoning, I acknowledge any number of compulsive actions—some bad and some really great, at least at the time.

But ever since that formative religious compulsion, I have learned to think for myself and find my own direction to “salvation,” if that is on the timetable. All ashore who are going ashore!

© 9 November 2015 

About the Author 


Friday, December 25, 2015

Remembering, by Phillip Hoyle


I remember a religious educator from years ago who sometimes surprised me with his rather creative thoughts. (Of course, I’m still trying to recall his name; perhaps William something.) He once asserted the main resource anyone has in education is memory. He illustrated his perspective by the example of having boxes and boxes, files and files of resources such as books, curriculum designs, manuals, art supplies, costumes, play scripts, musical scores, recordings, movies, and so forth, but if you don’t recall—that is remember—what you have put away, you won’t be able to use them.

I learn more and more about this perspective every day. Just last week I thought I would wear a particular sweater, but when I opened the storage box where I thought it was, the one under the chair in the east alcove of the bedroom, the sweater wasn’t there. I searched the stack of sweaters I’d been wearing, the ones I’ve been stacking in the chair next to the bed but it wasn’t there, not even at the bottom of the stack. I looked through the stack of clothes atop the little chest of drawers in the closet, the one where I keep my sweat shirts and a few other items, but it wasn’t there. Then I recalled another storage box under the bed and pulled it out. There I found three sweaters—one I didn’t even know I owned, but none of the sweaters was the one I thought I was searching for. I chose one of them to wear, but as I write this story I can’t recall the sweater I originally thought I was looking for. Was it brown, red, green, or blue? Bulky knit or smooth? Solid or patterned? Cotton or acrylic? Pullover or cardigan? Button-up or zippered? I have no idea, no memory.

So I conclude my friend was right. Oh I found a resource, but it wasn’t the one I remembered. The problem I face may be one complicated by old age. In sixty five years I’ve worn so many sweaters—ones I liked and wish I still had (of course none would fit, but I’m not talking about that)—so many that now I’m confused enough that I go looking for resources I know but just don’t recall what decade I had that box, or in which church I kept those particular boxes, or now even that there is another box of resources under the bed.

Memories. I have floods of them and at this point sometimes feel overwhelmed by them. So last week, when I got tired of wearing to Storytime my four sweat shirts (two of which appear exactly alike to the casual observer) and my five sweaters (I’m sure I wanted at least to look different than usual on Monday afternoon in case my story seemed too much the same old thing), so I remembered a sweater I guess I don’t even own any more, like the old guy with senile dementia who thinks I’m his childhood lover or the old gal on pain meds who when I visited her in the hospital introduced me to her nephew although she and I were the only ones in the room. And I’m writing this story about memories with the earnest hope I’ll be able to find it in my computer’s word processor when I need to print it out and put it in my backpack with the other resources I carry to our storytellers gathering and remember to put the backpack on my back when I leave the house, pick it up again when I leave my office, not leave it at the restaurant, and able to find the story when the session begins.

Of course, should all that fail—or even if just one cog in the works be forgotten) I could simply rely on my memory to tell this story or some other one I’ve forgotten about until this very moment. I guess my friend was right. The real and essential key to resources is one’s memory.

© 20 November 2012 –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

Thursday, December 24, 2015

Summer Camp, by Lewis


[Foreword:  Some of you may remember my story of June 17th on the topic One Summer Afternoon, wherein I described my frantic and futile attempt to qualify for the camp lake beach reserved for youngsters who could demonstrate their ability to swim.  Had I succeeded in drowning myself in that attempt, I would not have been able to write a second essay on the much-overrated "joys" of summer camp experiences that continued to plague me throughout my tender years.  I submit this in the hope that we can dispense with any and all topics related to camping for the foreseeable future.]

During the summers of my 9th through 13th years, going to camp became a sacrificial ritual imposed upon me by parents who must have been desperate to get me out of a chair in front of the television or out of BB gun range of sparrows unfortunate enough to inhabit the branches of elm trees within three blocks of our house.  The only condition was that I had to be home before the Bermuda grass needed cutting again--a span of between 7 and 10 days.  I felt that I was being punished for being an only child.  They could hardly to afford to send any additional children to camp so there was always a chance, as their hypothetical first-born, I could have had the option of staying home.

My introductory stay at camp was also the longest--10 days.  It was the camp with the lake that I wrote about before.  We slept in cabins with, as I recall, five bunk beds each--two along each side and one across the back wall.  After about four days, I was struck with the worst case of home-sickness I can recall having.  I had made no friends, the food sucked, and I had just the day before almost drowned.  I remember writing a letter to my parents in which I said, word-for-word, "If you love me, you'll come and get me".  I think I might have left a tear stain or two on the paper, as well.

Oh, there were happy experiences at camp, especially as I became more accustomed to being away from home.  I can remember sitting around a big campfire at Boy Scout camp after dark, surrounded by woods while the adults told us ghost stories.  I have seldom been afraid of the dark or ghosts and enjoyed watching a few of the other boys who appeared to squirm uncomfortably or glance over their shoulders apprehensively.  That gave me a sadistic sense of satisfaction.  I can remember a time when a few boys came across what they described as a copperhead in the woods--a sight which sent them running back to the safety of camp.  I fancied snakes and wished wholeheartedly that I had been with them, as I would have tried to capture the snake so I could study it.

One memory lies halfway between those which were painful and those which gave me pleasure.  It occurred during my last Boy Scout camping experience.  I, being one who has always believed that the safest place to be after 10 PM is at home, was resting on my cot in my tent when I heard a commotion outside.  It seems that some of the more brazen boys had pinned another Scout down, removed his pants, and run them up the flagpole--activity for which I knew of no connection to being awarded a merit badge. 

I remember thanking my lucky stars that I was not the unfortunate boy who fell victim to such silliness, as I was precisely where I was supposed to be--safely ensconced in my bunk.  Still, I began to wonder what it would be like to have been among the perpetrators.  It gave me a kind of warm thrill to think about it, but only briefly, for within a few minutes, I heard the breathless giggles of 12-year-old ne'er-do-wells approaching my tent.  They threw back the tent flap and four rambunctious boys rushed in and crowded around my cot.  One was carrying a flashlight.  Two of them held my arms and legs while the third flung the cover back and pulled down my pajama bottoms. Although I could not see, I could almost feel the heat of the flashlight.  I was horrified and titillated at the same time, not knowing which reaction might be betrayed by my very stage-frighted anatomical barometer.  "Please, God," I thought, "don't let them laugh.  And where the hell are the adults?"

As you can probably tell, camp to me was that brief interlude in the middle of summer when I wished I were back in school...well, except for recess, of course.  But that's a subject for another day.

© 19 August 2013 

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn't getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.

Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband's home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

Forgiveness, by Gillian

You all remember that old sexist joke from the seventies?

New hubby and bride ride off after the wedding down the trail in the horse buggy. The horse is very skittish and rears up, almost upsetting the buggy. "That's one," says new hubby. The horse takes off at a gallop, stops suddenly and almost dumps them both on the ground. "That's two," says new hubby. All goes well for a while, then suddenly the horse bolts off the road and comes to a halt after just missing a tree. New hubby takes up his rifle and shoots the horse. "That's three."

"What on earth did you do a crazy thing like that for?" asks the horrified wife.

"That's one," replies new hubby.

Now there is an unforgiving man! And I have to say, if anyone ever physically abused me, which I'm fortunate enough to say has never happened, that would be one. And I doubt we'd get to three. Not that I would ever shoot anyone; but I'd be gone.

I actually don't like the word forgiveness. It somehow implies that the forgiver is superior to the forgivee. I have never said the words I forgive you to anyone. But maybe that is simply because I have been lucky enough not to have had anything terrible occur for which I needed to consider forgiveness. Nor has anyone said it to me. I perhaps have committed an occasional transgression which required forgiveness by my loved ones, but I knew that I was forgiven by their actions rather than from any words of forgiveness. I am sure that my eventual coming out at middle age required some forgiveness by my family, as it meant I was leaving. Destroying that family in it's current form. For some it took a while, but I now know, again without words, that I am forgiven.

John Ortberg says, "Forgiveness means giving up the right to get even."  To me that is a dreadfully superficial understanding of forgiveness. It is so much more than that.  "Forgiveness," says Desmond Tutu, who certainly had to do plenty of it, "says you are given another chance to make a new beginning." That sounds much closer to the truth to me.

And Bernard Meltzer claims that when you forgive you cannot change the past, but you sure do change the future. You change yours, if in fact no-one else's. You cannot control whether the one you have forgiven changes his or her ways, but you can set yourself free, at least. You can go forward, free of the heavy baggage of anger and resentment engendered by un-forgiveness.

Oprah Winfrey has said, “True forgiveness is when you can say, Thank you for that experience.”

Now that's a hard one. When you find out your spouse has been 'playing away' or indulging in a gambling addiction which lost all the family nest egg, are you really strong enough to say to yourself, with complete sincerity, I am grateful for that experience?

What I am very grateful for is that I have never been put to that test, and firmly believe I never will be.

© 2 March 2015 

About the Author 

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 28 years.

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

Away from Home, by Will Stanton


Two generations ago (or was it two centuries ago?), I was away from home at university in England.  At the same time, my father was in charge of a university-student group in Frankfurt am Main in Germany.  My mother was with him.

During session-breaks during Christmas and summer, I went to join them.  This was long before the “Chunnel” days, so I took a channel ferry from Dover across the rough waters.  Then I took the train to Frankfurt am Main (not to be confused with the eastern Frankfurt am Oder in the federated state of Brandenburg.)  Trains in Europe always have been up-to-date, modern, fast, comfortable, and on-time.  (I wonder why America stopped doing that seventy years ago.)

Once I had arrived in Frankfurt, my parents met me at the station.  They were staying in a typical apartment, theirs on the second floor with a view of the narrow street below.  I enjoyed walking with them the short distance to the many little markets for fresh fruit and vegetables, meats and sausages, and pastries.  I was especially impressed with Frankfurt's famous Christmas markets with their hand-crafted gifts and traditional, beautiful Christmas carols.  I could not help but contrast that with our own commercial shopping malls with piped-in renditions of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.”  For Christmas, my parents gave me a 35 mm. camera.  I strolled all over the inner city, taking color slides.

Frankfurt always has been, and continues to be, one of the most important cities in Germany in regard to almost everything - - - size, culture, business, finance.  Frankfurt even was considered to be an excellent choice for the provisional German capital after the Germans lost 40% of their lands when the Soviets forced-marched twelve million Germans out of their homes in the eastern regions of East and West Prussia, Pomerania, and Silesia, and then took complete control of the central regions surrounding Berlin.   In 1949, however, Konrad Adenauer (the former mayor of Köln who was sacked by the Nazis in 1933) became West Germany's first Chancellor; and he was concerned that Frankfurt was such a good choice that, if and when West and Central Germany ever were reunited, Berlin never again would become the capital.  He, therefore, chose the lesser city of Bonn. 

As for the old city of Frankfurt, for several hundred years, the two square miles of the central region was known world-wide for having the greatest expanse of stereotypically charming, half-timbered houses and shops, so charming that Johanna Spyri, who wrote the popular children's story “Heidi”, chose Frankfurt as the town where Heidi lived.  It was filmed there in 1937, just two years before the start of the war.

Typical half-timbered, pre-war shops and residences.
Unfortunately, the bombing of Frankfurt late during World War II obliterated all of that, along with so much more, including the elegant civic buildings, cathedrals, the university with all of its archives, and many fine houses.  When I explored Frankfurt during Christmas, 1966, I saw a  large manor-house, damaged in the war and still boarded-up.  Apparently, the original owners were missing and never found.  I was very moved viewing the hulking, blackened remains of the huge, former grand opera house.  With so much of Frankfurt to rebuild, the great expense of recreating the building in its original form was beyond the city's means.


Frankfurt, May, 1945
 After the war, Frankfurt chose, unlike many other cities in Germany, to rebuild mostly in the modern style with steel and glass buildings.  Today, the city is referred to as “the German Manhattan” with towering skyscrapers dominating the financial district.  So that the citizens would not be deprived of operas and classical concerts, Frankfurt built a modern hall.

I attended there the seasonal production of “Hänsel und Gretel,” flying witch and all.  One of the most emotional moments that I have experienced came during the “Fourteen Angels” scene.  I noticed near the top of the backdrop, what I thought was, a tiny hole in the scenery with a light shining through it.   In some mysterious way, the stage and lighting designer had  made that light a “star” that increased in size and brightness until it became a conical shaft of brilliant light reaching the children on the stage.  And, through that beam of light descended fourteen “angels” who slowly surrounded the children to guard them in their sleep.  I noticed that this moment, combined with Humperdinck's beautiful “Evening Prayer” and the subsequent orchestral music, had brought tears to some eyes.  

The citizens of Frankfurt, with more recent financial donations, voted to rebuild the destroyed old opera in the exterior's original Baroque style but with a very modern interior.  Some original interior mosaics were reconstructed.  A replica of the iconic Pegasus statue was returned to the roof.  The hall is used for concerts, ballets, conferences, and some operas.  Frankfurt hopes to complete rebuilding the city by 2016, seventy-one years after the war.

The rebuilt Alte Oper.
In my strolls through one of Frankfurt's parks, I found a circle of life-size, human statues, four males and three females, all nude in their youthful beauty.  I can just imagine the indignant outrage some Americans would bring should we attempt to place such statues in our parks.

Frankfurt Statues
I also came across the huge, I.G. Farben office building constructed in the typically bland, 1930 style.  It once housed the offices of that giant chemical-company conglomerate, which notoriously once owned 42.5 percent of the Degesch company, responsible for the production of Zyklon B, used to gas Jews, homosexuals, Gypsies, and anyone else considered by the Nazis to be a threat.  After the war, company officials stood trial for crimes against humanity.  The Americans spared the building in the bombing so that the military and American occupation forces could use it after the war. Then the Marshall Plan was administered from there.  After extensive restoration, it recently became the Western Campus of the University of Frankfurt.

I.G. Farben Building.
The stereotypical notion of Germans is that they are hard-working but rather severe.  I've noticed, however, that they are not immune to the European penchant for Karneval, as proved by their wild partying during Fasching in late December to Lent.  From my witnessing an overabundance of injudiciously thrown fireworks, I would guess that the “Frankfurters” had consumed a lot of beer and wine.

Time flies “when you're having fun,” and two generations have passed since I last was in Frankfurt.  The majority of the population has been born since then.  The city's massive expansion outward and upward would render much of it unrecognizable to me if I were to go back for a visit.  That's not likely, partly because Frankfurt now is about the most expensive city in Germany. 

Fireworks Over Modern Frankfurt 

© 25 July 2015 

About the Author 

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

Monday, December 21, 2015

The Big Bang, by Ricky


In 1966 I was a senior at South Tahoe High School (now the Middle School). One of my classes was Ecology and was team taught by Mr. Harold Mapes and Mr. Al Hildinger.  Mr. Hildinger also taught a lapidary class during the evening adult education program.

Our ecology class was taught in the biology classroom of the science wing of our school.  At the time, the school was laid out like a giant letter “E” with the science wing at the top “arm” of the “E”.  The administrative offices and library were located along the main corridor representing the upright line of the “E” with other classrooms off the other arms of the “E” shape.  The science wing had five classrooms with the biology/ecology classroom at the beginning of the hallway followed by the chemistry classroom, two more classrooms, and at the end of the hall was the physics room.

On one particular spring day near the end of term with graduation rapidly approaching, Mr. Hildinger was teaching our ecology class, as previously indicated, in the biology room.  He was teaching the adult lapidary class in that same room later in the evening and wanted to have his rock-saw moved from the physics classroom at the end of the hall to the biology room and asked for a volunteer to go get it for him.  No one volunteered.  After waiting a few seconds, he told me, “Please go get it.”  I said, “I don't want to.  I'll probably break it.” (I was not having a good day.)  Handing me the key to the room, he said, “Just go get it.”  I left the room to do so.

Upon arriving at the physics room, I used the key to gain entry and immediately saw the rock-saw several feet in front of me.  It was basically an electric motor looking to weigh in at about 30 pounds, attached to a mechanism to hold a rock sample while a diamond tipped circular-saw blade would spin while slowly moving forward and slicing its way through a rock sample.  The result would be a thin slice of rock to be turned into jewelry or other item of display.

The rock-saw was sitting in a large 5 inch deep tray located on the top of a metal cart about 5 feet tall, 20 inches wide, and 3 to 3 ½ feet long.  The cart was supported by 4 spindly metal legs on small wheels with two metal platforms located at the bottom and middle of the cart’s legs to provide stability for the legs and thus the cart itself.  Along with the rock-saw in the 5 inch deep tray at the top of the cart was approximately 3 gallons of kerosene used to cool the saw blade and lubricate the rock sample while it was being cut.

The whole contraption was heavy and did not want to roll very well so I had to push hard to get it moving.  Fortunately, the cart was aligned with its long axis towards the door so I was able to push and pull it out the door into the hallway after draping the power cord up along the rock-saw.  It was not easy to get it out the door because the wheels would not pivot.  I locked the room and prepared to complete the task.

Since I could not get the wheels to pivot, I decided to push the rectangular cart sideways down the hall.  I began by placing my hands on the top tray and gently pushing.  Nothing happened.  I pushed harder.  Still no movement.  I pushed even harder.  Finally, the cart began to move towards the biology room some little distance away.  I passed one classroom.  I passed the second classroom.  I was nearly at the chemistry room door when Murphy's Law teamed up with the laws of physics and gravity.

As I neared the chemistry room door, I failed to notice that the power cord had fallen off the rock-saw down to the floor.  It landed in front of one of the little wheels.  When the wheel made contact with the power cord it stopped turning and the leg it was attached to stopped moving forward causing all the legs to stop moving forward.  However, I was still pushing on the top of the cart which did not stop moving forward.  By the time I noticed, the top of the cart was leaning away from me not very far but beyond the center of gravity and inertia was in control.  I could not hold it and pull it back to upright.

Time slowed down as I watched in horror as the momentum kept the rock-saw and cart top moving to the inevitable conclusion.  In less than three heart beats it hit the floor with a resounding BANG which echoed down the halls, around the corner, and alerted most of the administrative personnel, librarians, and all the classes in the science wing that the chemistry lab had exploded.  Instantly, it seemed, all the students in the science wing classrooms began to empty out into the hall and I was caught like a deer in headlights.  As bad as this was, 3 gallons of kerosene were now flowing down the hall towards the chemistry room.  The floor having been depressed by many years of students walking into the room, the kerosene made a 90-degree right turn and began to flow into the chemistry room.  I could envision a real explosion if kerosene fumes reached a Bunsen burner.

When the mess was finally cleaned up and I helped Mr. Hildinger lift the cart upright and moved it into the biology room, he determined that the rock-saw was okay but the diamond saw blade had been warped by the force of the fall.  It cost him $100 to replace but he never asked me to help out.  This was my own personal experience with an Alexander's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day!

© 21 October 2014

About the Author 


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

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

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

My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.